Minister

By John Michaelson

David Grimes has returned to his ministry after having suffered a devastating personal tragedy. Soon after, the son of a member of his congregation is missing. In the Minister's effort to comfort and console the mother, he becomes entwined in a mystery of horrendous proportion. Still struggling with his own tragedy and now caught up in another, far reaching one, the Minister begins to question his faith until its foundation begins to crumble beneath him. As he comes to terms with the battle within him he finds himself confronting a demonic attack designed to destroy him and steal his soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Michaelson
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301551255

John Michaelson

A native New Yorker, I now live in Southern California. I am retired. In addition to writing I enjoy drawing (primarily pen and ink) and photography. Saglek is my first full length novel. I began writing it while I still had vivid memories of that year on the rock. That was a long time ago. It stands alone as the single manuscript which I felt compelled to write. It began as a cathartic process to release those demons that haunted me after my time there. But it became a labor of love and drew me into it such that I can now relive it with more fond memories. As a person grows older there are so many experiences of life we leave behind only to recall with the sadly unattainable desire to revisit. How pleasantly ironic that in this work I have regained the vividness by which I can revisit that event which had such an enormous impact on me.. I write not only to entertain a reader, but to engage the reader in thought. I want you to feel a personal emotional attachment to the work. To that regard, my chosen genre is horror. There is a line in Saglek which states that whenever a person is confronted with the unknown, they may challenge it or avoid it. But the one thing they cannot do is ignore it. And in it they will see a reflection of themselves. That is my goal. I want to present readers with an experience that will lead them to see themselves in it.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It had been a difficult day for David Grimes. Since he'd come back every day was a difficult day. But this had been one of the most difficult. He'd hoped that when he was finally home and could sit that he'd be able to relax. But he remained restless. His body was tense. The final bars of Mozart's Piano Concerto 23 faded into the darkness of the room. It was late and he was tired. But he knew he couldn’t sleep. It would take at least one more glass of Pinot Noir before he could anticipate the refuge of that escape. Besides, sleep only brought with it the prospect of the dreaded nightmare. Perhaps some more Mozart might help. He reached across the small end table for the knob on the compact stereo.

The telephone rang.

Hello? Pastor Grimes? The voice sounded uncertain and troubled.

Yes, David answered. He recognized the voice and knew why she was calling.

Pastor, this is Marsha Albright. I know it’s late, but… There was silence. But, she repeated in a failing attempt to maintain her composure. Her voice was trembling.

It’s all right, Marsha. I know about Nicholas. Please, go on. I’m listening, he said softly with heartfelt empathy.

It’s been three days and I haven’t heard anything. The police told me they would keep me informed. But I’m at my wits end and I don’t know where else to turn. Her voice cracked with emotion.

I understand, David tried to reassure her, so desperately wanting to put his arm around her to comfort her. He would willingly carry the burden for any of his flock if he could.

Brother Morgan suggested I should call.

Yes, of course. I’m glad you did.

Oh, Pastor. I know you’ve gone through so much yourself. And I’m so sorry to trouble you with this. But I just don’t know what to do.

I know. You need to talk about it, Marsha, he consoled her. There was silence as he reflected. I’m expected at the Conference Office in the morning, he explained. I can stop by when I return. But it probably won’t be until mid or late afternoon before I can get there.

Oh, thank you. Thank you. Whenever you get here will be just fine, she responded, her relief pouring from her like the air escaping a balloon.

Good night, Marsha, the Pastor intoned with the fervency of a prayer. He placed the handset in its cradle and sat motionless, staring into the darkness of the room. He forgot about Mozart. Sitting in the dark, sipping his wine, he grew increasingly angry with himself. Since returning to his duties he’d felt guilty about his self-absorption. He’d returned at his own initiative. Nobody forced him to come back. He thought he was strong enough, that the return to his ministry would be effective therapy. But he had begun to believe that his concern was more with himself than with his congregation. This day he had totally avoided any activity regarding his church members. He had convinced himself the stress was too great. It had been a day of self absorbed indulgence. Marsha should not have had to call him. He should have been there for her long before she felt the need to ask for his help. It disturbed him to realize her concern over bothering him as he dealt with his circumstances - while he remained absorbed in his own sorrow.

Sleep came even more slowly this night. And when it did, it was interrupted by remembrances of self-loathing.

He woke with a start as a high-pitched voice screeched from the next-door apartment. Eric, you forgot your lunch, a mother called after her son. A door slammed somewhere further down the hallway. David looked at the clock sitting on the end table, beside the stereo. Only two hours remained until the Conference Pastors’ meeting in Trenton.

He didn’t want to get to the conference too early. He knew he’d be the object of everyone’s attention and the focus of their questions; a most discomforting prospect. Still, this was pushing it. It was at minimum a ninety minute drive across the state from Asbury Park to the office, leaving little time to get ready and be on his way.

His eyes drifted across the dingy gray green walls of the small apartment. The only light was that which penetrated the distant kitchen window. The apartment looked so gloomy in this early morning light. His glance fell upon the juice glass on the end table beside him. A reddish film lined its interior. Beside it was a near-empty bottle of wine. Was this what his world had been reduced too: a tiny apartment with a chair which also served as a bed beside a small table holding the only conveniences he required?

His conversation with Marsha Albright came back to him. He felt weak, defeated, and full of contempt for what he had allowed himself to become. If anyone knew he’d been drinking, he’d be defrocked he thought. The irony struck him that a non-ordained minister couldn’t possibly be defrocked. He smiled sardonically. The worst they could do would be to fire him.

Returning to the business of a new day, he quickly showered, shaved, dressed and got out the door. He raced down the stairs and onto the street. His car was parked at the curb, half a block from his apartment.

Over the years he’d become quite accustomed to driving throughout New Jersey with its richly diversified scenery and quaint small towns. But to this day the stretch which he now traversed along Interstate 195 remained one that he least enjoyed. It was a long, straight roadway over a flat and densely treed, but featureless terrain bisecting the middle of the state. He’d always passed his driving time listening to tapes; either musical, or of spiritual discourses. They were always a rich diversion, especially along this boring roadway. Today however, he was otherwise occupied. The monotonous terrain did not bore him this day as thoughts and images gathered like a storm, crowding his consciousness. He forgot the tedium of the drive.

Amidst swirling guilt and depression he decided, almost as an afterthought, that somewhere out in this isolation he would look for a store where he could inconspicuously buy some wine. He had little left and it was too great a risk for a Seventh-day Adventist minister to get caught coming out of a liquor store in a populated area where he might be recognized.

Once more he grew angry with himself. Eighteen months ago he wouldn’t have thought he’d ever touch alcohol again. It’d been years since he’d had a drink. Now, he couldn’t face the horrors of the night without it. He detested this indulgence. How could he expect to be a spiritual advisor to others when he couldn’t handle his own problems? To be so selfish while neglecting his flock was contemptible. Yet he knew that on the way home he would search, if need be, from Allentown to Howell for an out of the way liquor store.

It was exactly 10 o’clock when he pulled into the parking lot at the Conference Office. It was late and only a few spaces remained open. The lot was long and narrow with a single row of parking spaces along either side. David quickly pulled into the nearest slot, jumped from his car and hastily ran toward the building’s main entrance. He felt the gaze of some of his peers who were watching from overlooking second story office windows. He quickened his pace. He raced through the door and up the marble stairs to the second floor auditorium. Taking the steps two at a time, his rubber-soled shoes squeaked as each foot came down on the hard, smoothly polished surface. Embarrassed by his late and noisy entrance, he was, nevertheless, just in time to follow the last of the men into the auditorium.

He tugged on his neck tie to straighten it. Other than for Church services and events such as this, he never dressed so formally. He felt much more comfortable in the loose fitting clothes he typically wore. His suit and tie pulled against his body. He felt very conspicuous with his ill fitting dress clothes and noisy rubber soled shoes. He ran his hand through his heavy, thick black hair and smoothed it into place.

Folding chairs filled the room. Loosely organized in a semblance of rows, they formed an arc around the center-stage podium. There were easily twice as many seats as there were occupants and, as the last of the two dozen men took a chair, David sought one towards the back. He didn’t want to appear unsociable, but wished to avoid the attention of the other men. Regardless, a number of his peers inevitably turned to him and leaned over to welcome him.

Hey, David! Welcome back.

Praise God, you’re looking well.

We’ve missed you, lad.

He appreciated their sincerity and felt the warmth of their greeting. But he deemed himself completely unworthy of their respect. He was faltering and it was just a matter of time before they too recognized it.

How long are you back, now? asked Ken Potter, the man who’d replaced David after he took his leave from the Woodbury church.

Three weeks, David replied.

Three weeks! Ken repeated with a degree of amazement. Was it that he had lasted three weeks? Or that he had come back at all?

David could only nod with equal amazement.

Over the next hour and a half he sat quietly, listening to the hopes and aspirations of men eager to stimulate their congregations to great Christian endeavors. There were plans for revival meetings, community outreach, youth activities, even hopes for developing new congregations. He had not even introduced himself to all the members of his new church and consequently felt that he had little, if anything, to discuss at the meeting.

His silence did not go unnoticed. Hank Burgess, the Conference President, had presided over the meeting. When it concluded he approached David and asked if the Pastor would remain present until after he’d attended to some urgent Conference business. He’d like to visit with David for a few minutes.

David could not say no to Hank. As Conference President, he was the man to whom David reported. More importantly, the two went back a long way. Hank had been directly responsible for David becoming a minister. Over the years they remained close friends, and Hank had lent him a healing hand throughout his current ordeal.

The Conference Office was an elongated, two-story office building running perpendicular to the street. At the street end, a bookstore occupied the ground floor with the auditorium above it on the second story. It was here that the building’s main entrance opened into the Store and the telltale stairway rising to the second floor auditorium. David now reversed his steps, quietly descending the stairway to the store below where he waited for Hank to complete his business.

Browsing amongst books dealing with Biblical prophecy and the various vegetarian foods that were a staple in most Adventist homes, periodically he’d tentatively look down the beige painted cement block hallway to Hank’s first floor office at the far end of the building.

David. Hank’s bellowing voice echoed down the long corridor. Their eyes made contact and David trotted to the office with a quickened and squishy pace over the linoleum tiled floor. Hank, a formidable man with the look of a weatherworn Mid-western farmer, stood waiting outside his office door. Come on in, Hank boomed, inviting him in with a pat on the back. The President had a forceful presence. He stood at least a full head taller than his protégé. He had huge hands and arms of steel. David jolted as he felt the big hand come down on his shoulder.

He propelled past Hank without a word and took a seat on a dark vinyl sofa under a double wide window along the far, outside wall overlooking the parking lot below. Hank followed and sat down beside him, turning sideways to face him. He saw the weariness in the eyes; the tiredness etched in their corners and the heaviness of hanging lids. A few grey hairs now appeared at the sides of David’s temples where before there had been none. He had lost weight since he’s entered the sanatorium and his face looked drawn, exaggerating more so the toll that had been taken on him.

There were no unnecessary greetings, polite exchanges, nor words of cordial sociability between the two men. They both appreciated the gravity of their visit and the intimacy of their bond made any such expression redundant and seemingly banal.

Hank had originally moved to New Jersey from Kansas at the invitation of the then Conference President. The President had learned of him after Hank gained a reputation as a very successful preacher while conducting tent meetings throughout Kansas and Oklahoma. After having served as New Jersey Conference Evangelist for more than a decade, he was unanimously elected as Conference President. He knew the grueling pace of revival meetings and prophecy seminars, and the long and patient effort necessary to win baptisms. He appreciated the dedication it took to do that work. When he, in turn, learned of the success of an amazing new Literature Evangelist named David Grimes he took notice, understanding the effort involved in that work as well. Later, after he had served as President for a few years he created a new function for this LE. Over time David’s powerful preaching potential was recognized as he’d been invited to preach at various churches around the state, continuously gathering recognition for his own prowess. When a pastoral vacancy occurred at a smaller church, Hank convinced the Board of Directors to offer the position to this man who was to become his protégé. For his part, David felt an affinity for the powerful, no nonsense, tell-it-like-it-is style of Elder Burgess’ preaching. He welcomed Hank as a mentor.

You were quiet today, Hank said.

I didn’t have anything to contribute.

As long as I’ve known you, you’ve always had something to contribute.

I haven’t even met all the members of my church yet, David explained with thinly disguised frustration.

Is everything alright? Is there something I should know about? Hank asked with concern, sensing the agitation of his friend.

David shook his head.

You’ve been back three weeks. How’s it going? Hank pressed.

I’m afraid I might’ve come back too soon, David reluctantly admitted. I’m not blaming you, Hank. I know it was my decision, he was quick to add.

I am as responsible as anyone. Hank was equally quick to correct him. It was more than a year, David. Any longer and I doubt I could have gotten you back into a church, Hank reminded him.

I appreciate all you did. Honestly, I do.

You do excellent work. If we lose you, everybody loses, Hank concluded with a deliberate, calculated pragmatic spin. You hold me in too high esteem, David replied, humbled by such a compliment. But that’s not true.

Why not? Over the years you’ve been very effective. You’ve always won the support of your members. And . . .

I can’t focus anymore, he interrupted, cutting off the President with an attitude conveying both annoyance and disgust.

I know you better than that, Hank insisted. How about the nightmares? Are they as bad as they had been? He knew David was struggling and he was trying to understand why.

No. David lied.

Promise me you’ll keep in touch. I haven’t heard from you since you took over the Asbury church. You must keep me informed if I’m to help you through this. And don’t worry about your members. If any of them were offended, I’m sure I’d have heard about it by now.

That reminds me. How well do you know Marsha Albright? David asked.

I know her very well. Marsha’s been a church member for most of her life. Her husband and she were very active before he died fifteen years ago. He was a local businessman and a leader in both the church and community until he had a heart attack. He left her with a lot of money and a young son to care for. She took a much lower profile after Leo’s death, but she’s always been a good church member.

She called me last night. Her son has been missing since last Sabbath. She’s worried sick.

Nicholas? Missing? That’s odd. He’s always seemed a good kid.

He’s twenty four years old, the Pastor pointed out.

Is he? Where does the time go? Hank responded.

I promised Marsha I’d visit with her when I get back today.

Hank turned his ahead away to look out the window. A light breeze gently shook loose autumnal leaves from the trees surrounding the parking lot. Leaves floated down to paint the tops of parked cars and dot the ground like clinging, colorfully cut red and orange blotches adorning the paved lot. David, I know you need to get involved. And it’ll help to get your mind off your own problems. But be careful. This could be more than you’re ready for, he warned with quiet but stern caution.

Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing, David laughed it off. But then, Hank didn’t know about the drinking. David couldn’t dare tell him about that.

Let’s pray about it, Hank earnestly suggested.

First Hank, then David prayed as they each sought guidance, wisdom and strength for the other. They prayed that Nicholas Albright would be found, safe and well.

I‘ll keep in touch, David reassured his friend. They hugged and patted each other soundly on the back. David departed, thankful for such a good friend.

He parked his car a few doors down from the Albright house. It was a peaceful street of quiet beauty with its gingerbread-like houses. The colors of autumn abounded. Each house was safely tucked behind the confines of a white picket fence, surrounded by greenery and punctuated by the trunks of large oak trees. The Albright house was typical of so many older homes in Asbury Park. It was a large two-story frame building with a wooden porch and situated on a large well-manicured lot. The house was painted pale green with darker ornamental scroll trim.

Obviously such a well cared for residence required a high degree of maintenance. David remembered Hank had told him that Mr. Albright had left his wife a sizable estate. It struck him however that this was an exceedingly large house for just two people.

Despite the idyllic setting, his stomach was churning. It was a sensation he hadn’t experienced since those early years when he sold books. Back then, he would often stop and sit in his car within sight of a home he was about to visit. He’d simply observe it for a moment before approaching. It was neither apprehension nor anxiety, but rather anticipation of the unknown that stimulated this familiar tingling of his innards. For almost fourteen years he made a living by selling Bibles, prophecy books, health care books and children’s bible stories. He found himself invited into the homes of saints and sinners, believers and blasphemers where, among people he’d never otherwise have an opportunity to meet, he bore witness to his joy in Christianity. He, in turn, was witness to the contradiction that is humanity, and the struggle it endures. And he came to understood that innocence is not a virtue, but an excuse, waiting to be betrayed. He had seen the face of evil and the shadows wherein it lurks.

He exited his car and crossed the tree-lined street, reminding himself as he climbed the porch steps and approached the front door that with all he’d experienced over the past twenty years, he’d never dealt with circumstances quite like these. He pressed the bell wondering what lay in wait for him on the other side of the portal before him.

Marsha Albright opened the door.

On the afternoon following his first service at the Asbury Park church, the members provided a potluck dinner, a conglomeration of recipes cherished and prepared by the well intentioned, if not always capable cooks among the church members. The meal was served in the Church basement hall, the intention being to welcome their new Pastor into the congregation. It was there that he first met Marsha and Nicholas as he politely nibbled on someone’s potato and corn casserole. He took notice of the refined dignity and grace with which she presented herself. She was quite attractive, easily the most attractive woman among all those gathered, including those who were half her age. David was impressed with the image she projected to the extent that he wished he took more concern for his own appearance.

It was obvious that Nicholas would be her son. He was an attractive, fashionable and healthy looking young man who kept himself in top physical condition. The three of them conversed briefly as the new Pastor attempted to circulate and introduce himself to the members of his congregation. Despite the brevity of their exchange, he could not mistake the troubled distance between mother and child. Over the next two weeks he noticed Marsha attending services without her son.

Pastor Grimes, she reacted with polite surprise. Thank you for coming.

I’m sorry I’m so late. I was unavoidably detained, he apologized.

Oh, that’s quite all right. I’m just so thankful that you’re here, she explained with a painful smile, the corners of her mouth struggling to shape themselves appropriately.

He again noticed how attractive she was. She was thin with an athletic body. She probably plays a lot of golf and tennis, he incorrectly decided. Both were terribly boring pastimes as far as he was concerned. He thought her to be perhaps fifty years old, just a few years younger than him. Her face was strong, with somewhat sharp angles, not to be confused with a stern countenance, but possessing a definite strength that was not to be taken lightly. Her eyes conveyed the wisdom of experience. She wore little makeup, as was in keeping with a popular though lax Adventist dictate. She was well dressed in a thin wool, brown turtleneck sweater and yellow, orange and brown plaid skirt, appropriate fashion for the season. Her moderately short blonde hair appeared to his untrained eye to be stylishly and expensively coifed. But it was her moist and reddened eyes and the soiled handkerchief in her hand that were the immediate focus of his attention.

Please, come in, she said gesturing for him to enter as she swung the door open wider.

He took a few steps and, surveying the interior of the house from the large foyer, heard the door shut behind him. The house was silent, its silence accented by the ticking of an unseen Grandfather clock. The rooms immediately visible to him were immaculate and tastefully appointed.

Marsha directed him with a wave of her hand and guided him into a large Living Room where a richly textured red and gold oriental carpet in the center of the room lay surrounded by a delicate ensemble of magnificently preserved Victorian furniture. Though there was a strongly masculine aura about the room, it was highlighted by beautifully arranged displays of silk flowers. Their colors of the season adorned the spaciousness of the room and provided a pronounced touch of femininity. The massive and ornately carved Grandfather clock which persistently sounded its presence stood as if on guard in a corner by the wall separating the foyer from the Living Room.

The light of a low, autumnal sun flooded into the room with a warm orange brilliance. David’s rubber soled shoes squeaked embarrassingly as he crossed the dark, highly glossed hardwood floor. He quickly chose a burgundy wing chair, positioning himself to avoid the direct brightness of the sun while mindful of its glare on Mrs. Albright.

She followed and sat on the edge of a gold trimmed blue couch, gingerly positioning herself with a restlessness that could not be calmed. The orange tones of the setting sun reflecting off her hair with a brilliant radiance exaggerated the nervous energy of her posture.

Her lips quivered as she slowly raised a handkerchief to her face. "I was just remembering when Nicholas was a small boy. It was February. We went down to the boardwalk. I took a thermos of hot chocolate. We walked along the boardwalk and Leo and I watched as he raced ahead and waited for us to catch up to him. Then he’d race ahead again. We laughed and laughed. We walked the length of the boardwalk, until we sat down on a bench overlooking the ocean. We drank our chocolate as we watched the breakers crash against the shore. Nicholas ran down onto the beach and chased the seagulls; chasing one until it flew away, then turning to chase another.

After Leo died, Nicholas would wait for him to come home every night. When Leo didn’t appear, he’d search the house for him before giving up. So many nights he went to bed crying for his daddy. Now I fear I’ve lost them both, she cried, bursting into tears.

David trembled. The swelling in his throat made it impossible to speak. He found himself ill equipped to deal with this.

Marsha wiped her cheeks and leaned forward. With a penetrating intensity, she searched his eyes. Please, tell me Pastor Grimes, she pleaded, how were you able to deal with it?

His mind raced. Years of experience provided him with what he felt was no more than appropriate phraseology. He would rather remain silent than offer empty reassurances. He knew he must tell her the truth.

I didn’t . . . I couldn’t, he whispered with a soft stammer. A weak and raspy voice revealed the pain he’d kept wrapped for so long. All I can tell you is that it will consume you if you let it. With a shake of the head he warned, You mustn’t let that happen. You mustn’t let it consume you.

But you survived. It didn’t consume you. Did it? she insisted.

A tear swelled in his eye.

She stretched forward and placed a hand upon his knee. Would you care for some herbal tea? I think we both could use it, she offered with a weak, nervous little laugh and a pat on his knee.

Yes. Thank you, he replied. He noticed a hint of perfume as she rose from her seat. His eyes followed her as she turned and exited the room.

A nearby mantel and three mahogany tables along a dark green wall held numerous photographs, large and small, all beautifully framed in wood and metal. They appeared to be mostly family pictures of Marsha, Nicholas, and her late husband Leo. Wishing a closer viewing but reluctant to seem overly familiar, David arose and lightly stepped across the creaking floor. He grimaced with the first squeak of his shoes.

What you see is every photograph I own. I had them all framed so that they are always with me as a constant reminder of all the good times we shared, she called from the kitchen.

He picked up a small photo of Leo holding Nicholas at arms’ length high above his head as they shared a smile of love and trust. Nicholas appeared to be no more than seven years old. Another revealed a pensive Leo sitting on a boardwalk bench, apparently looking out over the Atlantic Ocean. He was still a young man, but already the toll of life weighed heavily upon his face. Not so for Marsha. She was absolutely radiant in every photo he examined, especially those depicting all three of them captured in some shared family activity.

Marsha returned to the room carrying a large silver service tray.

You know, you mustn’t give up hope, David counseled her, returning a photograph to its place and returning to his seat.

It struck her as sounding so terribly mundane. Oh come now, Pastor. I would expect that of others. But certainly not from you, she said, setting the tray down on a mahogany table in front of the couch. I must tell you, this has shaken my faith, she admitted, busying herself with pouring the tea. I’ve always been concerned that Nicholas refused to be baptized. Over the past few years, especially since he graduated from college, he has drifted even further away from the ‘Truth.’ He used to tell me that he blamed God for taking his Father away from us. Now I find myself blaming God for taking Nicholas away from me.

She poured each of them a cup of tea and offered the Minister cream and sugar.

David shook his head adamantly. I’ve seen too much in this world to let anything shake my faith, he emphatically warned. But as quickly as he responded, he caught himself in the line of thought that had, from time to time, gotten him in trouble with the Conference’s Board of Directors. He was, so the typical complaint went, too militant. His heart went out to this grieving woman at the moment of her greatest vulnerability. He wished her no additional