The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster by Frank E. Peretti
“That’s my property!” Harold realized.
“Good night, Harold,” said Dottie, closing the door on him.
Bly ran down the street as flames engulfed the gasoline-soaked front porch and licked up the siding of the little house.
“What are you doing?” he screamed. “I didn’t tell you to burn it down!”
Andy still had the empty gasoline can in his hands and didn’t seem a bit sorry as he said, “Gee, sorry, Harold! I thought—”
Bly grabbed Andy by the neck. “You stupid—”
Then Andy’s buddies were all over Bly. He kicked and wriggled and shook them loose and then stood there with fists clenched, glaring at the grinning Andy in the light and heat of the growing fire. Andy’s shirt was smeared black, and so was Bly’s. He looked at every man standing there. All of them were smeared and stained with the stuff, their chests, their arms, their faces.
“Are you all crazy?” he demanded. “That’s company property! It belonged to me!”
They just laughed at him. Harold Bly on the losing end! Too much!
“Somebody call the fire department!” Bly shouted, nearly hysterical. Then he realized that most of them were the fire department.
Just then, Carl Ingfeldt’s wife came running down the street pushing a brand new lawn mower, the wheels rumbling loudly over the asphalt.
They all cheered. “All right!” “Nice catch!” “Go, baby, go!”
She was followed by her children, each carrying a new toy with the price tag still attached. She and the children were followed by a limping, bleeding Henry Gorst. “Margaret! Stop! Those aren’t yours! Please!”
“Henry!” Bly cried in shock.
Henry Gorst only glared at him. “Look what you’ve done!”
Bly ran toward the center of town in time to see neighbors, friends, and even people he’d never met running into Henry Gorst’s hardware store and back out with anything and everything they could carry.
He shouted, he hollered, he protested.
They laughed, they smiled, they kept stealing.
STEVE HAD floated down the river until he saw the old road, then run down the road until he feared detection, then blazed his way along the river bank until he was close to town. He’d finally finished the whole trip in the river again, floating when it was deep enough and crawling when it was too shallow. Now he stood in the waist-deep water just under the bridge that connected the four-way stop with the big Hyde Mining Company complex. He was completely, thoroughly wet and cold enough to be blue but so pumped with adrenaline he didn’t notice. He was listening to the shouting, the shooting, the screams and jeers. He could see the glow of fire reflected from the face of the company building. The town was going nuts, and no doubt some people were being hurt, maybe even killed. The dragon, though physically in the mountains, was present everywhere in this place right now.
He knew his behavior was going to defy all evolutionary explanation. His actions would not be those of any avowed rationalist college professor. As for the rules of self-preservation, he was about to defy them. But he’d spent the whole trip down the river from Saddlehorse thinking about it, and now he intended to do something distinctly and oddly human: He intended to stick around, risk his life, and complete Levi Cobb’s plan.
He waded to the concrete bulkhead, reached up to the ledge, found some footholds, and clambered up out of the river to a graveled alley that ran behind a row of houses. He kept low and got moving. The water in his shoes squished between his toes, but he gave it no mind.
The action in town seemed concentrated around the four-way stop: he heard shouting, screeching tires, breaking glass. He headed south, ducking past the small houses and closed businesses until he found the street that would take him up the hill into the older part of town, the quieter part where the old church was still standing.
He felt as though he were still in the woods, stealing and stalking about to preserve his own life. Only this time the hiding places were of stone, steel, and concrete. Part animal, part commando, his nerves primed and his muscles taut, he stole from old car to oil-drum fence to concrete retaining wall, hearing, seeing, sensing.
He came to the main street and peered around the corner of a windowless grocery store. A house was going up in flames, and no one was doing a thing about it. People were scurrying like ants, each loaded down with something stolen. Prone bodies lay in the street, ignored and unaided. Some teenagers were out breaking windows, and some men were firing guns at buildings, cars, and road signs.
They’ve all lost it, he thought. Like Charlie, like Tracy, like all the others.
That could only mean the dragon was on its way to collect.
So where did that put him? Through all the running, climbing, and crawling he’d done, he’d managed to get black stuff on just about every part of himself, and swimming in the river had removed only some of it. He rubbed his fingers over his chest. His shirt had been saturated with it before, but right now there didn’t seem to be anything fresh. If he could just stay ahead of that beast, if he could just keep hating it . .
Okay, God. It’s Your show now. You call it.
He made a mad dash across the Hyde River Road and up the hill beyond, unnoticed.
THE CARLSON house was burning down to a blackened skeleton, the hardware store was nearly empty, the homes of the evicted had been picked clean, but the appetites of the town had not diminished. The two-pump Chevron station offered little, but across the street, Charlie’s Tavern and Mercantile, recently renovated, fully stocked, and newly reopened for business, called to the crowds like an irresistible promised land.
Andy Schuller was the first to burst into Charlie’s. “Beer! Free beer! We’ve earned it!”
Paul Myers and Carl Ingfeldt were right behind him in full agreement. Paul hollered to Carl, “Carl, man the pumps!”
Carl leapt over the bar and started pulling the handles, setting the suds in motion and leaving black handprints on everything.
The cowbell over the door rang nonstop as the place filled up. Beer, whiskey, and wine couldn’t flow fast enough. Bottles flew across the room to waiting hands, bottle tops twisted, corks popped, and foam sprayed. The cash register rang as it gave away money, folks spat on the floor because it wasn’t allowed, and somewhere under all the noise, Harold Bly screamed while nobody listened.
SMOOTHLY, SILENTLY, black as night, cold as the river in which it slithered and swam, the creature slipped into the raucous, noisily preoccupied town, passing under the bridge, low in the water like a crocodile, hearing the sounds, sniffing the stench of its own handiwork. It lowered its three good feet into the rocky river bed and halted just past the bridge.
STEVE FOUND the church door unlocked. He opened it, stepped through into the dark foyer, and closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. He didn’t look for the light switch. Lights would attract attention. He needed time, quiet, and privacy.
The church had a warm and intimate little sanctuary with short, rustic pews, a carpeted center aisle, a sturdy pulpit of varnished planks, and a large, stained-glass window above the choir loft. Steve hurried up to the front, looked around for a place that would be appropriate, and finally knelt in front of the platform. He realized his shoes and knees were going to leave muddy circles on the carpet, but that was unimportant at the moment.
Now to pray. Except . . . was there a proper way to do it? Well, he was kneeling, and maybe he’d fold his hands; he’d seen that done.
Should he close his eyes too? No way, not tonight.
He began. At least, he tried to begin. But no words came to mind.
Get on with it, Steve, there’s a dragon out there!
“Lord God,” he blurted out loud, his eyes looking about warily, “as You know, I am not a religious person. I’ve seldom if ever entered a church. But I’m a believer now. I believe what Levi said. I’m willing to accept Your existence and the rightness of Your commandments, Your truth, the Ten Commandments, and whatever else there
“So Lord God, having established that, I also need to admit, to confess, that—” He hesitated, then continued. “I admit, Lord, that—I have not lived my life in such a way that would be totally pleasing to You. I’m sure You’re aware of that.”
Behind him, the church door opened silently then closed again.
He was trying to get this task completed as quickly as possible but as thoroughly as required. “Lord, I’m a—well, I’m a sinner. It’s that simple. I admit it. I’ve got this black stuff all over me; I’m being hunted by a tenacious monster—” He stopped. He was talking to God; he’d have to be honest again. “Okay, I’m a very proud man, very self-serving, I suppose—and, uh, quite individualistic, sort of the center of my universe. So consequently, I’ve violated your moral laws. I’ve not been honest and faithful in my relationships, and I’ve caused someone else to not be honest and faithful in hers. I’ve—”
Oh, brother! Emotion at a time like this? His voice quavered, and his eyes filled with tears. He pushed ahead. “Lord God, Levi asked me how many other Tracys there have been. Well, I’ve only truly loved one woman, and that was Jennifer. But I failed her— and so I lost her. I didn’t deserve her.”
This could take all night, and he didn’t have all night. “Lord, I do apologize for hurrying through this, but the dragon could be on its way here right now, and I have a lot to do. So let me get to the bottom line if I may. Lord God, if I’m to prevail against that dragon tonight—” His hand went to his heart. “—I need to win a victory here first. So, Lord, I’m bringing it to you. All the sin. Every evil thing that’s inside me. The—the dragon that’s living in there, whatever it is, however it works. And I’m asking you, Lord, to take it away. Please. Unhook me. Set me free.”
He looked up through the window as if God was looking down. “Jesus, forgive me. Please forgive me.”
“Steve,” came a quiet voice behind him. He spun around, startled.
It was Reverend Ron Woods, sitting in the front pew, in the dark. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Steve stood. “That’s okay.”
“I was standing at my window, and I saw you go into the church. I thought I could be of some help.”
How nice. Bad timing, though. “Well, Reverend, I may not have time right now.”
“But I heard you asking for forgiveness.” Steve noticed that Woods’s eyes seemed strangely vacant. “Steve, you don’t need forgiveness. If anything, you need to forgive yourself.”
A counseling session on a night like this? “I’m sure we can talk about this later.”
Woods got to his feet. “Steve, listen to me. This town is coming apart because of guilt. We don’t need any more of it around here. You don’t need it.”
Steve tried to push past him. “And that’s why I’m getting rid of it!”
Woods blocked his path. “But I’m trying to tell you, you don’t have it to begin with! Steve, guilt is a relative term. It’s something we foist on ourselves.”
“What?”
“Why do you think those people down there are looting and fighting and destroying? It’s because they’ve been deprived for so long and they can’t feel good about themselves!”
Steve began to smell an all-too-familiar stench, and he could discern a haunting tone in Woods’s voice. “Reverend, I don’t think that’s the reason.”
The Reverend just kept going. “Of course it is. That’s what I kept trying to tell Levi, bless his heart. People act guilty because they feel guilty, so it’s not what you do; it’s how you feel about yourself. If you’re true to yourself, if you love yourself, you won’t hurt others.”
Steve absolutely had to get going. “Reverend, listen, I’ve been—I’ve been totally devoted to myself, okay? I’ve been absolutely nuts about myself. But let me tell you, I’ve hurt other people a lot!”
“And now you feel guilty, right? Well, I used to feel guilty, did you know that? I was bitter, and I was envious of other ministers who were successful. But now I know, there is no guilt after all. It’s all in your head.”
Steve noticed the Reverend’s hand had remained over his heart. He reached over and pulled the hand away. The black slime stretched in strings from Woods’s fingers to his chest. “Not quite, Reverend. Not quite.”
Woods just looked down at himself dumbly. “You don’t need forgiveness from God. You can change yourself. There’s no right or wrong except what we make up for ourselves.”
Now, with horror, Steve could see it plainly. “You’re hooked . . .”
“Just feel good about yourself, that’s all.”
“You’re hooked and you’re losing it.”
Woods looked at Steve, his eyes glimmering in the dark and a smile widening on his face. “Steve, there isn’t any dragon. That’s just a superstition, a tool some people use to manipulate others.”
Enough of this! Steve edged toward the door. “I have to go.”
Woods blocked his way. “You don’t have to go. Please, stay and talk awhile.”
“Sorry.”
Woods’s blackened hand shot out like a trap and locked onto Steve’s arm. “Please! Stay! It would be time well spent.”
Steve tried to pull away. The Reverend hung on. “Reverend, I’ve got things to do. Now let go.”
But Woods would not relax his grip. “Don’t worry about the dragon. Really, there is no such thing.”
I’ve danced to this tune before, Steve thought, and forcefully yanked his arm away.
Woods clamped onto his arm again! “There is no dragon!!”
The stained-glass window exploded in a shower of glass, and Steve saw the golden eyes, the gleaming teeth, and the groping, silver claws. He yanked himself loose and dashed down the center aisle.
Oof! Steve hit the ground with a thud. Woods had tackled him, bringing him down.
Steve kicked and twisted, trying to get free. Woods hung on like a wild man, his blackened hands streaking Steve’s clothing.
The dragon’s neck flowed through the window as the golden retinas once again locked on their target. The left paw came through the opening and crunched a pew in the choir loft; the right stump groped and thumped against the window frame, trying to fit through.
Steve got one leg loose, kicked Woods in the head, and broke free. He got to his feet and could hear the dragon inhaling as he reached the rear of the sanctuary.
“Yaaaa!” With a maniacal cry, Woods leapt on Steve from behind, arms and legs clamping around him.
CRASH! The dragon smashed the pulpit aside with its flailing head as it continued to work itself through the opening, shaking the whole building. The right leg stump came through the window and slammed into the choir loft. The dragon raised its head until it crunched into the ceiling, the horns splintering a rafter.
Woods himself was like a wild beast, growling, grunting, teeth bared, trying to wrestle Steve backward, trying to pull him toward those jaws and claws and teeth. Steve kicked and punched, trying to knock Woods loose. He was losing.
Steve finally lurched sideways, slamming the pastor’s head against the end of a pew. With a cry of pain, Woods dropped away, grabbed for Steve’s leg, and missed.
The dragon’s head pitched forward, the jaws opened.
Steve dashed through the foyer and out the front door just as yellow flames exploded out the side windows of the church. A wall of fire blew the front doors open and rolled down the front steps.
Steve ran, feeling the rolling wave of heat at his heels, seeing light like a sunrise washing over the buildings ahead of him. He could hear the church coming apart. He looked back.
The dragon had burned a hole through the church roof. Now the head appeared, slashing and biting, ducking under and then lurching up and back, the horns hooking and ripping out the rafters. Burning boards and shingles were flying everywhere.
Then the roof, the brand-new roof, ignited like a torch, and a flurry of sparks and embers shot
Steve raced down the hill, heading for Levi Cobb’s garage. That thing would be out of the church building any moment and looking for him, flames blasting and fangs ready. Whatever Levi had planned, now was the time to figure it out.
“Okay, Lord,” Steve huffed as he fled down the street, “it’s all Yours!”
Twenty-Two
FREE
CHARLIE’S was a beehive gone mad, with people helping themselves to beer and wine, playing video games on stolen quarters, and frying burgers on the grill. A number of men and women had forgotten who was married to whom. They were dancing, flirting, and laughing. One drunken couple banged into a wall, and an elk head came down off its bracket; the elk started dancing on the legs of a drunken man.
The black stuff—the slime— was everywhere. From shirts and blouses it went to hands, and from hands it went to other hands and to faces and to objects. It was on the floor, causing people to slip. It was on doorknobs, on handles, on chair backs, chair seats, tabletops. It got passed around on the sides of beer bottles and edges of plates. It went down hungry mouths with the potato chips, the french fries, the microwaved sandwiches.
It was all over the knob on the door that led to the mercantile, and Carl was getting frustrated, trying to get the knob to turn.
“Hey!” he hollered. “Someone help me over here.”
That knob wouldn’t turn, however. Not because of the slime but because it was locked—by Harold Bly, the owner.
But Carl wanted in, as did Andy. Then more and more of the folks in the tavern decided they wanted in, and before long there was a crash as the mercantile’s front window came out, an advance party climbed in, and the door was swung open from the inside.
There was so much good stuff to steal in that mercantile that it was impossible to carry it all away. But some people had thought ahead: They had cars and trucks outside, ready to load up.