The Warrior's Beckoning

This occurred during the Civil War era.

  The war is often waged through dark influences that chip away at one’s will. From these dark influences stems possession. A spiritual war rages as the depth of love is tested.

  RIFLE IN HAND, I shadowed their movements. They had my son. I was afraid of what I might find; even before that night, rumors of dark rituals had circulated. I stayed low, moving under the bushes where possible. The captors had finally stopped and had joined a large camp on a flat area before me. As I watched, everything came back to me, memories from earlier in the night when they had taken my son.

  He had been sleeping in his room. We had a large home, two stories and six rooms in total. Just recently, we had taken in a young drifter. Having no money, he performed basic farmhand chores in exchange for room and board. My wife and my daughter seemed to be at peace with him, and that was good enough for me.

  One night he woke me. “I am so sorry, sir. I should not have stayed here. I have endangered you, not protected you as I had hoped,” he said frantically.

  “What is it?” I asked, puzzled. The look in his eyes was terror and resignation. “They are coming for me,” he replied.

  “Who?” I asked. Lightning ripped across the sky, and the wind blew the doors open. A window shattered. In that moment, I felt something, some power beyond my understanding. I doubled over, the hair on my body standing straight out. I could not control my breathing, and I could not move. A black cloud loomed over me, laughing and menacing.

  The drifter was nowhere to be seen. Had he been killed? Had he run away at the first sign of the cloud? I had no idea and no time to think about it. “Who…what are you? Stay away from my family!” I cried out. The laughter echoed from everywhere.

  “I already have them,” said the sinister voice. Then I saw them—my wife and my daughter, hand in hand with the dark entity! Small, imp-like shadows stood behind them. My wife gave me a strange look, and I saw that she was no longer herself; there was evil inside her. My daughter was similarly possessed. But my son was in the arms of a cloaked figure, and he was still slumbering, seemingly still safe for the moment.

  Though I feared what would happen if my son awakened, I could not stop myself from crying out, “Nooooooooooo!” The pain was too great.

  The demon vanished. I began to weep, curled in pain on the floor. My family was gone. My wife and daughter were…possessed. My son had been taken by the villainous creature that had appeared and disappeared like smoke. I was alone. Even the drifter had abandoned me.

  When I remembered the drifter, I felt hope stirring deep within. Perhaps he was out there, waiting to help me. My son was not yet possessed. But why? What did they have planned for

  him? Whatever it was, I could not allow it.

  I slung my rifle over my shoulder, tied my ammo pouch around my waist, and slid a knife into my boot. Outside I found an unusual trail…ice. The demon’s path was covered in frost, and I ran to follow it before it could disappear. I moved quickly yet silently until I spotted them ahead, a group of ten shadowy figures, and beyond them the encampment that appeared to include hundreds of others. Were they all demons? I could not tell. From a distance, some of them looked human.

  I lay flat on my belly, hidden under thick scrub. From my vantage point, I watched as they placed my son on an altar, black and lined with skulls. A living fog began to surround him, seemingly trying to absorb him or be absorbed by him. I left my cover and leaped up, rifle at the ready, and started to run toward the altar, several hundred yards away.

  You cannot stop this! I heard the voice distinctly in my mind. Flee!

  Yet I knew that there was a way to stop it. I had to kill my own son to prevent the… whatever it was…from possessing him, too. I ran down a small slope toward the camp, making no effort to conceal myself—yet no one seemed to notice me.

  As I neared the crowd, a clear path through the dark figures opened up between me and the altar, like a parting of the seas. I ran straight through. The air grew colder as I approached, slowing me. When I was just a few feet away, I halted, drew a bead on the figure looming over my son, and fired, striking the wispy figure in a broad area I assumed to be his chest, and the figure fell to the ground, motionless.

  Drawing my bowie knife, I jumped for the altar and drove the blade through my son’s heart. “Daddy!” he said softly. “Thank you.”

  I trembled. Oh, God, what have I done? Did I have a choice?

  The hooded figures closed in on me. My time had passed.

  Reconnaissance