to be later than that. His digital watch said 3:20. The kitchen clock must have run out of batteries. He told himself to find some later, get it started again, but right now, feeding himself was imperative. His stomach growled as if he hadn't eaten in days. He took a can of chicken noodle soup down from the pantry and opened it with a rusted can opener. Soup for the soul , he mused. It smelled okay, not spoiled. The stove lit on the first click with a whiff of sulfur.
Isn't sulfur the same as brimstone?
Owen peeked out the window as he placed the pot on the burner and stirred. By now, the Blessed Trinity Missionaries were likely all dried off and holy-rolling it back to their respective homes, comforted in the belief that they'd spared a young soul from eternal damnation, though likely irked that they hadn't been able to convert the stranger next door.
Tomorrow, he'd go back down to the water, but not to pray. The diving gear was calling to him; despite what he'd told Brother Woodrow, he was eager to go under, out in the main lake. But already he was exhausted. Tonight, all he could hope for was some mindless cable TV, or a decent book to read among the ones lining the wall.
Anything but the Bible.
CHAPTER 5
The Book of Revelations
1
OWEN DREAMED OF HIS SISTER.
She wore the flowing white nightgown, its hem soaked by the dark waters of Chapel Lake. Owen watched her from where he sat in a wooden rowboat. Between them, a black silhouette split the surface of the water: the cross of the church beneath the lake. Shallow waves rippled around it, catching glints of moonlight. Standing before the steeple was the man who walked on water, the Shepherd, holding out his arms to them in welcome.
Lori reached out toward Owen, mouthing her soundless plea. Without an oar, his desperate efforts to reach her were no match for the current steadily drawing him away. Worse, the boat was taking on water from a hole in the bottom, which was rising alarmingly fast. Owen searched for something to bail the water, and found nothing but a rusty old can with no bottom.
The boat was going down. He jumped out into the water, splashing against the current toward his sister, the steeple between them, the cross looming above him, eclipsing the sun. He clutched at its slimy wooden shingles. Waves struck his face. He spat, blinked water from his eyes, and began climbing to the cross, hugging it—
Lori was gone, and so was her ghost.
As the realization struck him, a bony hand burst from the water and clutched his ankle, its gray, chicken-skin flesh, cold and slimy; and as more hands broke the surface to drag Owen down to their watery grave, the words from the religious tract came back to him: The dead are in deep anguish, those beneath the waters and all that live in them…
He awoke to his own voice, shouting: " Abaddon! "
Rattled, he tried to get his bearings as his heartbeat began to slow. Dark. Cool. The bed stood lengthwise between an open doorway and a small, dim window, not the large, bright windows of his condo, and had a wardrobe at the foot of it (filled with unfashionable women's attire from an earlier era, he recalled). For a moment, he thought he must be at his mother's, but the smell of old wood and musty bed coverings, along with a slight fishy odor, brought everything back. He'd trudged upstairs to the single bed at Fisherman's Wharf after a short evening of mindless TV with fuzzy reception, and had fallen asleep almost immediately.
I saw Lori! he marveled, sitting up in the dark. He wanted to go back to sleep right away, to return to what he'd been dreaming before the things below the water had grabbed him, to see her again. She might have been dead in the real world, but in his dreams she was still very much alive. Trying to tell me something—but what?
He got up, stepping in a wet spot on the carpet, further evidence of cracks in the roof, and trudged down the hall to the small bathroom to urinate. When he
Isn't sulfur the same as brimstone?
Owen peeked out the window as he placed the pot on the burner and stirred. By now, the Blessed Trinity Missionaries were likely all dried off and holy-rolling it back to their respective homes, comforted in the belief that they'd spared a young soul from eternal damnation, though likely irked that they hadn't been able to convert the stranger next door.
Tomorrow, he'd go back down to the water, but not to pray. The diving gear was calling to him; despite what he'd told Brother Woodrow, he was eager to go under, out in the main lake. But already he was exhausted. Tonight, all he could hope for was some mindless cable TV, or a decent book to read among the ones lining the wall.
Anything but the Bible.
CHAPTER 5
The Book of Revelations
1
OWEN DREAMED OF HIS SISTER.
She wore the flowing white nightgown, its hem soaked by the dark waters of Chapel Lake. Owen watched her from where he sat in a wooden rowboat. Between them, a black silhouette split the surface of the water: the cross of the church beneath the lake. Shallow waves rippled around it, catching glints of moonlight. Standing before the steeple was the man who walked on water, the Shepherd, holding out his arms to them in welcome.
Lori reached out toward Owen, mouthing her soundless plea. Without an oar, his desperate efforts to reach her were no match for the current steadily drawing him away. Worse, the boat was taking on water from a hole in the bottom, which was rising alarmingly fast. Owen searched for something to bail the water, and found nothing but a rusty old can with no bottom.
The boat was going down. He jumped out into the water, splashing against the current toward his sister, the steeple between them, the cross looming above him, eclipsing the sun. He clutched at its slimy wooden shingles. Waves struck his face. He spat, blinked water from his eyes, and began climbing to the cross, hugging it—
Lori was gone, and so was her ghost.
As the realization struck him, a bony hand burst from the water and clutched his ankle, its gray, chicken-skin flesh, cold and slimy; and as more hands broke the surface to drag Owen down to their watery grave, the words from the religious tract came back to him: The dead are in deep anguish, those beneath the waters and all that live in them…
He awoke to his own voice, shouting: " Abaddon! "
Rattled, he tried to get his bearings as his heartbeat began to slow. Dark. Cool. The bed stood lengthwise between an open doorway and a small, dim window, not the large, bright windows of his condo, and had a wardrobe at the foot of it (filled with unfashionable women's attire from an earlier era, he recalled). For a moment, he thought he must be at his mother's, but the smell of old wood and musty bed coverings, along with a slight fishy odor, brought everything back. He'd trudged upstairs to the single bed at Fisherman's Wharf after a short evening of mindless TV with fuzzy reception, and had fallen asleep almost immediately.
I saw Lori! he marveled, sitting up in the dark. He wanted to go back to sleep right away, to return to what he'd been dreaming before the things below the water had grabbed him, to see her again. She might have been dead in the real world, but in his dreams she was still very much alive. Trying to tell me something—but what?
He got up, stepping in a wet spot on the carpet, further evidence of cracks in the roof, and trudged down the hall to the small bathroom to urinate. When he
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