The Devil in Pew Number Seven Part 2

In July 1969, the call came. Sensing an inner prompting from G.o.d to reenter the "harvest fields," as he was fond of calling them, Daddy wasted no time resigning from his job and made plans to reenter the ministry. Part of his transition back into the pulpit required Daddy to attend a series of meetings in Montgomery, Alabama. Without hesitation, thrilled at the chance to help the lost dedicate their lives to the Lord, Momma packed their bags, frying pan, and coffeepot for the trip.

That's when the unexpected happened.

Momma became ill. Not just sick as if she had a head cold. Day after day, she struggled to get out of bed as if shackled to the mattress. Morning would give way to noon, and she'd still be trying to pull herself out from under the covers. When she did manage to emerge, she stumbled through the motions of getting ready to face the day.

She wasn't depressed. Far from it.

Her husband had a new fire in his eyes as he reported the details of his various meetings. As far as they could tell, they were in the center of G.o.d's will doing exactly what they should be doing. Depression had nothing to do with the queasy, nauseated feeling rocking her emotional boat. The evidence seemed to point in one direction.

With a mixture of faith and apprehension, Momma asked Daddy to take her to see a physician as soon as he could clear his schedule. When the doctor returned with her results, he was all smiles. G.o.d had given her another chance to be a mother.

She would finally fill that empty place in her soul.

With me.

During the early weeks of her pregnancy, after the nausea had pa.s.sed, Momma felt impressed upon her spirit to visit friends in North Carolina while she could still travel. An extended road trip might seem crazy-if not borderline irresponsible-since she had just lost a baby. But she was neither insane nor reckless. I can only imagine that Momma must have had a powerful indication from the Holy Spirit to undertake such a journey while pregnant.

Although Daddy didn't feel the same tug in his heart, he listened to his bride, trusting that she would have prayed about such an important decision. They traveled to the charming town of Lumberton, North Carolina. A popular rest area for tourists, Lumberton is situated halfway between Florida and New York. The Lumber River, a scenic blackwater river, cuts a whimsical path through the town, adding to its laid-back appeal.

However, Daddy and Momma were not tourists seeking a haven of rest. To be sure, they would have appreciated the local beauty. And, given Daddy's love of fis.h.i.+ng, it's easy to imagine they made some time to cast their lines in the Lumber River. But they had had their season of rest and now were anxious to be fishers of men.

While in Lumberton, Daddy was invited to bring the morning sermon at a local church. His topic was "Seek Those Things Above." Upon hearing the pa.s.sion with which Daddy preached his message, the ministers suggested he sow some seeds of faith in the outlying communities of North Carolina. To my daddy's way of seeing things, I'm sure the idea of planting the seeds of truth among the area's farmers had a certain ring about it. Eager to serve, he agreed to their proposal, and three revivals were scheduled.

Their first a.s.signment was to conduct a series of revival services at the Free Welcome Holiness Church, a small independent church eight miles south of Whiteville, North Carolina. Armed only with their Bibles and the conviction that G.o.d had opened this door, Daddy and Momma pointed their car south toward Whiteville, a thirty-minute ride.

With fewer than four thousand residents, Whiteville wasn't exactly a large town. It really wasn't much larger than a whistle-stop. But at least it was a town, complete with a city hall, bank, grocery store, doctor's office, gas station, hardware store, motel, and restaurant. As Daddy and Momma continued south, the signs of city life quickly fell away as the two-lane stretch of blacktop took them deeper into the spa.r.s.ely populated outlying area, closer toward whatever awaited them in Sellerstown.

As Daddy and Momma were quick to discover, while there was was a street called Sellerstown Road, technically speaking there wasn't a a street called Sellerstown Road, technically speaking there wasn't a city city of Sellerstown-at least not in any official sense of the word. Unlike Whiteville, Sellerstown was little more than a tract of farmland and residential dwellings. No banks, no businesses, no city hall. Just acres of farmland. In spite of the fact that Sellerstown is unincorporated and not noted as a town on any map, the locals had been calling their community by that name for four generations. of Sellerstown-at least not in any official sense of the word. Unlike Whiteville, Sellerstown was little more than a tract of farmland and residential dwellings. No banks, no businesses, no city hall. Just acres of farmland. In spite of the fact that Sellerstown is unincorporated and not noted as a town on any map, the locals had been calling their community by that name for four generations.

They still do.

More than a hundred years ago, four Sellers brothers moved to this beautiful stretch of wide-open country. With an eye on farming, three of the brothers purchased all the land on either side of the two-mile road that would ultimately be named after them. A thousand acres or so became home to their extended family tree, where the Sellers clan promptly put down deep roots in the rich, virgin soil.

There, they built their homes and raised corn, tobacco, and soybeans. For better or worse, they lived, worked, played, and fought together. With a few rare exceptions, everyone in Sellerstown was related to one another in some way. Which is why at times, shotguns in hand, they watched out for one another. The Sellers kin are true salt-of-the-earth people . . . although some were saltier than others.

Willie Sellers1 comes to mind. comes to mind.2 * * *

For ten years, Willie Sellers ran a service station. His was an explosive personality, dynamite looking for a reason to detonate. He possessed both a volatile temper and a short fuse. Willie was the kind of hothead you didn't want to cross. His legendary anger would flare up at the slightest provocation.

What's more, Willie was obsessed with the thought that someone might swipe a pack of cigarettes or a stick of gum without paying. He patrolled his turf with an eagle's eye. No one would take advantage of him, not if he could help it. If a stranger walked in seeking directions, Willie got straight to the point, having no use for small talk. Chitchatting was for women. a.s.sisting the customer took a backseat to running a tight s.h.i.+p.

If there was one thing that made Willie madder than a hornet's nest when poked by a stick, it was hired help that didn't show up to work. Such was the case one Sat.u.r.day morning in the mid-1960s. Left alone to pump gas, fill kerosene cans, and run the register, Willie ran back and forth, in and out of the store, like a headless chicken. Midmorning, with more business than he could juggle, Willie called his cousin E. J. Sellers and asked if he could lend a hand. E. J. would pump the gas while Willie watched the store.

Glad to help, E. J. arrived and got busy, although Willie remained in a sour mood, his forehead perpetually snarled in a knot. As E.J. tells it, three youth in their midtwenties rolled to a stop at the pumps. Who they were or where they were going was no business of his. Minding his own affairs, E. J. ga.s.sed the car and washed the winds.h.i.+eld, applying enough elbow grease to adequately scrub away all visible bug remains. With that done, the driver stepped out of the car, entered the building, and paid his bill.

On the way out, however, he took a quart of oil from the display case between the pumps without paying for it. At the time, a quart of oil cost all of twenty-five cents. Still, money was money, and E. J. wasn't about to let the guy off the hook. When he asked for payment for the oil, the driver denied taking it. Words were exchanged, but neither the oil nor the payment was handed over.

E. J. went inside and told Willie what had transpired. The news was more than Willie could handle, the final straw in an otherwise horrendous day, at least from Willie's heated point of view. He raced to the back room of the store, grabbed a pistol from the shelf as if arming for battle, then sprinted outside to confront the driver as he opened his car door.

Willie barked so loud, anyone within a block would have heard him: "Hey, you! Did you take that quart of oil? You owe me!"

The driver turned and stood his ground. "I didn't take no oil, and I ain't paying for oil I didn't take."

"I'm warning you," Willie yelled. "Pay me for that or else-"

The driver told Willie to back off-only in making his point he used a string of profanity as colorful as the shades of red on Willie's face, which was about as smart as pouring gasoline on a bonfire. The young man hopped in his car and started the engine to leave. E.J. watched in stunned silence as Willie raised his gun and shot the driver-and, in the heat of the moment, one of the other pa.s.sengers as well, for reasons E. J. still doesn't understand.

Never in a thousand years did E. J. think his cousin would actually pull the trigger. He knew Willie could lose his cool, especially if he had been drinking. But Willie hadn't touched a drink all day. He was just at the boiling point when the heat was turned up. If E. J. had had any inkling that his cousin was capable of taking a man's life, he would have kept the incident to himself and gladly paid for the oil out of his own earnings.

The pa.s.senger who had been shot lived.

The driver, however, died.

The law was called, and Willie Sellers was arrested. His family was quick to raise the $100,000 bail money, and Willie was released. When the tragic incident went to trial, E. J. was called to testify. If E.J. was shocked by the senseless murder, he was dumbfounded when the jury returned a "not guilty" verdict.

Less than thirty minutes after leaving Whiteville, Daddy and Momma spotted Sellerstown Road, a side street branching off to the right. Tucked in the shadow of the Route 701 Service Center-a one-story, two-pump gas, snack, and repair station-it would have been easy for them to miss the turnoff. Considering the events soon to take place on Sellerstown Road, it might have been better ifthey had.

They slowed, then turned right.

Watts Farm Supply, immediately on the left-hand side of the street, greeted them. As the only game in town, the store provided the necessary nuts and bolts to keep the farming community running smoothly. Parked behind this white, cinder block building, a modest collection of trucks, tractors, and trailers in various stages of disrepair sprouted from the field like turnips. The neglected and forgotten a.s.sortment of clutter stood in stark contrast to the otherwise serene country setting they had enjoyed since leaving Whiteville.

Aside from this disheveled patch of land, to the naked eye there was nothing ominous about the Sellerstown community. No dark, sinister clouds lying low like a shroud in the sky. No sudden heaviness in the air. No uneasy feeling, premonition of impending doom, or even a lone black vulture circling overhead, keeping watch in antic.i.p.ation of death.

My parents didn't have the slightest reason to turn back. They didn't know about Willie Sellers, who settled disputes with a gun. Besides, they had a host of reasons for pressing on. They had been called, they had their marching orders, and now they were headed to Sellerstown to do the Lord's work. It would be up to G.o.d to reap a harvest of souls.

As they had done before the start of every revival, once they arrived in Sellerstown, my parents planned to meet their local contact, survey the hall where the revival services would be held, and then find a place to stay for the duration of the meetings. They knew a member of the congregation might provide accommodations in his home. Plan B usually meant setting up housekeeping in a nearby, inexpensive motel-though they soon discovered Sellerstown had none.

Although I can't say for sure, they probably drove toward their destination with the windows rolled down. It was, after all, a typical sunbaked day in Sellerstown. The mid-eighty-degree temperatures were the by-product of an August sun standing high and proud in the sky as if it were about to receive an award. Without air conditioning in their 1964 Plymouth, a brown sedan which had seen better days, it's safe to say they would have invited the token breeze to bring somerelief.

Within a minute of turning onto Sellerstown Road, they pa.s.sed Mount Pilgrim Missionary Baptist Church, a humble white, cinder block structure, no larger than a four-car garage, planted like a cemetery headstone in a small plot. A clutch of tall trees surrounded the property like sentries, with just enough of a clearing to permit parking on the gra.s.sy side yard.

This, they would learn, was where the black folk attended, with room for no more than forty or fifty wors.h.i.+pers. Most of the members worked as hired help on the local farms in this agricultural community.

As the church took its place in their rearview mirror, they smelled, then saw, a tobacco barn fifty paces from the road. A gentle wind filled the air with the sweet, almost fruity scent of drying tobacco and a hint of freshly turned earth. As picturesque as a page torn out of Southern Living Southern Living, rows of perfectly planted cornstalks, too numerous to count, awaited their turn for harvest in the unhurried patchwork of farmland beyond the barn.

Behind a trailer at the far end of the field, laundry pinned to clotheslines swayed as the grayish white lengths of rope drooped under their loads. Directly across the street on the right-hand side of Sellerstown Road, a second church appeared: the Free Welcome Holiness Church. The modest one-story, redbrick building, accented with six windows, backed up to cornfields and felt instantly inviting, even though the white front doors remained closed.

Adjacent to the church stood a newly constructed, almost-completed parsonage. Daddy had been informed that the church had been without a pastor for some months and the sheep were scattering without a shepherd. Perhaps the congregation, twelve women and one man, thought building a residence for the minister would attract a new candidate to fill the pulpit. Whatever their motivation, building the homestead certainly was a giant step of faith for such a small church family to undertake.

My hunch is that Daddy, having served in the Navy and out of habit, might have cruised the length of Sellerstown Road, conducting an informal reconnaissance of the area before stopping inside the church. A preliminary survey would give him a better feel for his audience during Sunday's revival. It was just as likely to prompt a few local metaphors with which to ill.u.s.trate his message.

If so, Daddy and Momma would have counted an a.s.sortment of prefabricated single-wide and double-wide mobile homes restingonstacks of cinder blocks; ranch-style homes, some made of brick, others sporting clapboard siding; three barns with sagging rooflines; and a number of weathered feed shelters peppering the landscape.

When they ultimately arrived back at the church, they were greeted by Rev. Lonzie Sellers and his wife, Alma. Although formally retired, Rev. Sellers had offered his preaching services until a proper replacement could be found. True to form, Rev. and Mrs. Sellers gladly opened their home to my parents with all the Southern hospitality you might expect from a couple who freely gave their lives in the service of others.

With open arms and bottomless pitchers of sweet tea, Daddy and Momma were introduced to the quiet Sellerstown community, a place where everyone was made to feel like family-a task made easy because most were were family. And, while I was present for Daddy's debut, being family. And, while I was present for Daddy's debut, being in utero in utero has its limitations. Without the ability to hear or see the wors.h.i.+p service, this much I know from those who weren't confined to their mother's womb: Daddy and Momma were a hit. has its limitations. Without the ability to hear or see the wors.h.i.+p service, this much I know from those who weren't confined to their mother's womb: Daddy and Momma were a hit.

Actually, that's an understatement.

They were offered the job virtually on the spot.

The prospect was appealing. My parents had mutual feelings for these new friends. Having been captivated by those whom they met, longing to put down roots and establish a routine for their growing family, my parents felt that Rev. Sellers's overture had all the appeal of an ice cream sundae without the calories. As appetizing as the offer was, over the course of several days, my parents made the decision a matter of prayer.

After all, their extended family lived more than seven hundred miles away. They would soon have a child, and they'd want their baby to know his or her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. And yet delighted over the warm reception offered by these dear brothers and sisters, they accepted the job. Happy to pa.s.s the duties of pastor to my daddy, Rev. Sellers invited them to stay in his home until the parsonage was ready.

Daddy was quick to utilize his carpentry skills, nailing sheets of walnut paneling to the living room walls and applying the final coats of paint throughout the parsonage. Likewise, Momma, making several polite suggestions, put her final touches on what would soon be her residence. Among other things, she had a baby coming and wanted the nursery to have plenty of shelving in the closet.

On Thanksgiving Day 1969, Robert and Ramona Nichols moved into their new home. The church threw a housewarming party that was open to the entire Sellerstown community. A fresh turkey, shot, plucked, and roasted, took center stage on the kitchen table. Homemade dishes arranged around the turkey filled the house with an inviting aroma as delicious as the fellows.h.i.+p they shared with their new neighbors.

Momma mingled with the women as Daddy studied the faces, memorizing the names as best he could. Moving from guest to guest, he identified those who currently attended, had once attended, or ought to be attending the church. He knew there was a reason why the congregation had dwindled to about a dozen regulars, and he planned to do everything in his power to make everyone feel welcome under his leaders.h.i.+p.

Of course, he knew little about the personal histories of the guests from this tightly knit community now making his acquaintance. For that matter, he wasn't a mind reader, nor could he see into the future. There was no way he could tell that one visitor in particular would soon betray him with the zeal of Judas.

Chapter 4

The Devil's in PewNumber Seven.

I yelled.

My eyes were pinched shut against a light as harsh as a solar flare. They stung as if sprayed with salt water. From head to toe, my skin tingled as if a blast of arctic air had swept over me. Chilled to the bone, I couldn't explain the traumatic change in temperature. My body s.h.i.+vered, trembling like a leaf in the wind. And, although I was suddenly cold, my lungs burned with each breath.

In vain, I cried out.

My legs, kicking without regard for the hands that attempted to hold me down, were no match for the masked faces surrounding me. I could not make sense of their m.u.f.fled voices. Out of control, powerless to hold my head up, I was carried away against my will. With fingers curled into a ball of fury, face as red as Mars, I howled so loudly the wail could be heard down the hall.

Like all of humanity before me, I entered the world staging a protest.

On April 26, 1970, precisely at the stroke of midnight, I was born Rebecca Lorraine Nichols at the Southeastern General Hospital in Lumberton. After the nurses cleaned off my body, weighed, measured, and then wrapped me in a pink blanket, I was presented to my mother. I cannot pretend to imagine the feelings soaring through her heart like an eagle caught in an updraft as she cradled all 8 pounds, 9 1/2 ounces of me for the first time.

Drawing me to herself, inhaling the fresh scent of my newborn skin, Momma whispered a prayer of grat.i.tude. Her arms were embracing a living miracle, and she, more than any of the nurses and visitors doting on me in the crowded hospital room, could fully appreciate the depth of that fact.

I was an answer to her countless prayers.

A dream fulfilled.

A hope granted.

Now that I had arrived, Momma would be my provider, my protector, my friend. And she, no doubt, had big plans to teach me how to sing and play an instrument when I was of age. In due time, she'd teach me about purity, modesty, conversational etiquette, boys, and especially the G.o.d who loved her baby. Throughout my life, she wouldn't permit a day to go by without saying, "I love you, Becky."

Even before I was born, she took the time to communicate her love for me, crafting a tender note placed inside my baby book. Putting pen to paper, she captured these reflections: A Letter to Our Little DarlingYour mommy is writing a letter because you haven't arrived yet. Your Daddy and I are looking forward to seeing you for the first time just two weeks from today. Daddy is like a little boy at Christmas waiting for Santa Claus to bring him a big present. Only Santa won't bring you because you are being sent from Heaven. We prayed for you and Jesus heard us and is sending you to add more happiness to our lives.We have wanted you so much for a little over six years now. But, G.o.d has a timetable and we had to wait until He was ready to send you. Our Heavenly Father always knows what's best for us. Your Daddy prays that you will be a good-spirited baby, and your mommy prays that you will be healthy.You are coming from Heaven and I pray too that after your life is fulfilled on this earth that you will return from whence you came. Our greatest desire is that your name won't only be written in this book, but that it will be written down in the Lamb's Book of Life, the great record book in Heaven.May G.o.d Bless Our Little Angel The joy Momma and Daddy experienced over my birth was shared by the entire church family. I was welcomed into the world as if I were one of their own kin. These dear friends showered gifts and homemade meals, like a heavy downpour, upon our home. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out of the parsonage, seeking a peek at the miracle baby or dropping by to lend a hand as needed.

My parents couldn't have been happier.

Life was good. Very good.

At least for the first eighteen months of my life.

And then the telephone rang.

A jarring clang clang ripped through the night air. An unseen hammer in the belly of the phone beat against a metal bell with repeated blows as if prodded by a hot poker. Unlike modern phones, this one didn't have a selection of personalized ringer tones to customize the sound of an incoming call. No playful rendition of Tchaikovsky's ripped through the night air. An unseen hammer in the belly of the phone beat against a metal bell with repeated blows as if prodded by a hot poker. Unlike modern phones, this one didn't have a selection of personalized ringer tones to customize the sound of an incoming call. No playful rendition of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture 1812 Overture, Beethoven's Fifth Symphony Fifth Symphony, or Fur Elise Fur Elise. Not even a few bars of a favorite pop tune. The black rotary-dial telephone had a single, raspy voice delivered in one of two volumes: dull loud or loud.

A second ring pierced the silence.

This unsophisticated, low-tech communication device, the great-grandfather of the iPhone, didn't offer Internet access, caller ID, or even a mute feature. At the time, phone customers who loathed being awakened in the middle of the night had to invest some degree of effort to preserve the peace. By design, simply unplugging a phone from the wall wasn't an option for the simple fact that most phones were hardwired to a wall jack.

For a quiet night, it was necessary to remove the receiver from the cradle, creating a perpetually busy signal for would-be callers. Then, uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the three-inch-round earpiece was necessary to avoid the shrill warning tone furnished by the phone company within thirty seconds of inactivity.

With rare exceptions, his role as pastor prevented my daddy from ever taking the phone off the hook anyway-even with a baby. Daddy knew his role as a leading figure in the community meant expecting the unexpected. Day or night, a paris.h.i.+oner might call for prayer, comfort, a listening ear, parenting advice, conflict resolution, or a request to visit a patient at the hospital. If so, he had to be ready to meet the need.

Without a full-time church receptionist to contact, some people would even telephone the parsonage seeking details regarding an upcoming churchwide picnic, fish fry, or hunting trip. In some respects, a country pastor was as "on call" around the clock as was the country doctor.

It just went with the territory.

The high-pitch jangle beckoned for a third time.

There was nothing unusual about receiving this particular late-night call, at least not at first. Although readying himself for bed, Daddy was prepared to grab his Bible and head out the door should someone be in need of a visitation. Even at this late hour, sleep could wait if necessary. Daddy lifted the receiver, placed it to his ear, and offered a friendly greeting.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Without identifying himself, the anonymous man proceeded to deliver a threat to our family.

Daddy waited, eyebrow raised, listening for more. No response.

The phone went dead.

Daddy rested the receiver in the cradle. Could the call have been a prank? A couple of kids fooling around, getting their kicks after dark by startling random people? Maybe. However, the voice didn't have the high pitch of youth. If not a young person making mischief with a juvenile stunt, who could it be? What kind of man would place a threatening call under the cover of darkness?

The people he had met during his first year in Sellerstown weren't mean-spirited. Quite the opposite. They'd be quick to give the s.h.i.+rt off their backs, bring a home-cooked meal, or lend a hand if needed. The Sellerstown he had experienced was a place where neighbors helped their neighbors.

If someone had a disagreement with him, why not just face him in the daylight, man-to-man, to air out their differences? That was the way it was usually done in Sellerstown. Receiving a telephone threat suggested he had been contacted by a disturbed individual with deep psychological issues.

Then again, Daddy might not have been quick to dismiss the possibility that the call was just a harmless prank. Daddy was, after all, married to a practical joker who didn't miss an opportunity to play a prank, even on her own husband, like the time months before when Daddy planned an early morning hunting trip with several men from church.

The men had gathered at the parsonage with their gear just as the timid sun was peeking over the horizon. Right before they set out into the woods, Momma offered the men gla.s.ses of sweet tea, which they gladly guzzled.