Invisible Terror Collection Part 5

"Get them off! There's millions of them!" She reached for his hands, trying to stop him, but he knocked her aside, continuing to slap and hit and shout and writhe.

Ryan joined their side. "It's okay, Scotty."

"Get them off!" Scott was starting to cry, tears streaming down his face.

"It's okay. We'll get them - just come with me." Ryan slipped his arm under Scott's shoulder and raised him to his feet.

"Get them off! Get them off!"

"It's okay. We're going to get you out of here." Becka rose to follow Ryan, but as she turned she felt something cold and damp brush against her skin. She spun around to the window beside where Scott had hit the wall. In the dust a design had started to form ... all by itself. Becka felt herself growing colder.

But she would not turn away. As she watched, she began to realize it wasn't a design that was forming. It was letters. Words.

Someone or something was writing on the dust of the win-dowpane. The letters formed slowly, but they did not stop until the message was finished. It read: Ayudame! Por favor, Rebecca, ayudame!

Becka's Spanish was rusty, but not that rusty. She knew what it said: Help me! Please, Rebecca, help me!

10:58 p.m.

The group had barely entered the car before Scott tried to cover his fear with a Ghostbusters joke. "I think I've been slimed," he said, gingerly testing his bruised ribs. But the humor fell flat.

Maybe it was because his voice still had a slight tremble. Or maybe it was because of the tension that filled each member of the group.

Without a word, Ryan fired up the Mustang, and they started for home.

"I don't get it." Krissi finally broke the silence. "You kept shouting about flies."

"That's 'cause there were thousands of them, they were all over me - I was crawling with them."

"And yet we didn't see a thing," Julie said. "How weird."

"When did they leave?" Philip asked. "When did they all disappear?"

Scott looked down at his arms and chest just to make sure they had. "I don't know," he answered more quietly. "I guess - I guess by the time we got outside ... definitely by the time we got off the property."

More silence as all of the kids fell into their own thoughts ...

and fears.

Rebecca's mind reeled. First, because of Scott's defeat. Weren't they supposed to have authority through Christ over this sort of stuff? And second, because of the writing on the window.

It had been in Spanish. Juanita's language.

Becka looked around the car, wondering if she should tell the others. No, that type of information would only support their theory that this was not some sort of demon, but that it was actually the little girl's ghost.

As they pulled up to the front of Becka and Scott's house, Ryan finally spoke. His voice was earnest. "I don't think you should be a part of that seance tomorrow, Beck." Rebecca looked at him. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "But if you decide to go ... then we should all go along with you." More silence. Slowly each member of the group started to nod. Philip cleared his throat and said what each was thinking.

"Ryan's right. That ghost thing definitely has it in for you two. And if we're there with you ..." He hesitated.

"There's safety in numbers," Ryan finished.

"Oh, really," Scott quipped, still ma.s.saging his chest. "I hadn't noticed."

Becka looked at them. They were friends. Good friends. And she appreciated them now more than ever. "Thanks, guys." She tried to smile. "I'll let you know."

She opened the car door. After they said good night and the car pulled away, Scott and Becka headed for the front porch.

Becka opened the screen door. It gave its customary groan. And then she saw it - the front door was not completely shut. The thing always stuck, and if you didn't give it an extra pull, it always stayed ajar.

"Scotty ..." Her voice grew thin and wavery as she pointed to the door.

Scott saw it too.

"I'm sure I closed it," Becka said in a half-whisper. "I always give it an extra yank."

Scott swallowed. "Me too."

They traded looks. Steeling himself with determination, Scott reached for the k.n.o.b. He turned it and gave a push. It squeaked as it unstuck.

There was no other sound.

Scott entered the darkened living room, slowly, cautiously.

Becka was right behind. He headed toward the nearest lamp.

It was eight feet away, but it could have been eight miles. Why hadn't they left a light on before they'd gone? Then again, that had always been Mom's department. Across the room, over by the kitchen, Becka noticed the tiny red light blinking on the telephone answering machine. There were two messages.

She watched the outline of Scott's body b.u.mping into furniture and stumbling over clothes and stuff they'd left in the middle of the room (another disadvantage of not having Mom around). He made progress toward the lamp, but far too slowly.

Then, from the hallway, Becka heard a faint snarl. At first she thought it was her imagination. She strained, listening harder.

There it was again.

"Scott ..."

Before he could answer, there was sudden, animal-like clawing. Whatever it was, it had decided to make its move. It raced down the hallway, digging into the carpet, heading directly for them.

"Get that light!" Becka screamed. She could see nothing in the dark, but heard the thing tear into the room and bear down toward her. She hunched over, bracing for impact.

Suddenly the room was flooded with light as Scott clicked on the lamp to reveal - "Muttly!" they cried in unison.

The animal leaped at Becka's legs and began bouncing and jumping all over her feet. It had been hours since he'd had any company, and the puppy was all squirming body and wagging tail. Becka stooped down and patted him. "h.e.l.lo, boy, good dog, easy now, easy ..."

Scott had already started for the kitchen. "Check it out," he said, pointing to the table. "It's a note." He snapped on the kitchen light, and Becka moved in for a better look. It was a note with a key on it.

Dear Becka and Scott: Just swung by to see how everything's going. Here's the key your mom left. Hope you can make it to youth group tomorrow. Call if you need anything.

Love, Susan There was a notable sigh from both brother and sister. Susan was the youth worker from church. She must have dropped off the key, then left without knowing she had to yank the door shut.

"I guess you might say we're a little wound up," Scott said wearily.

Becka agreed.

Scott crossed to the fridge (as he always did when he got home), and Becka headed for the answering machine (as she always did when she got home). She pressed Play.

"Hi, guys, it's Mom. Beck, I had the weirdest dream about you last night. Kinda spooky. I'll have to tell you when I get back. Aunt Bernice's funeral is tomorrow. I should make it home by noon, Sat.u.r.day. Don't forget the leftover ca.s.serole in the fridge, and Beck, please, please make sure Scotty's wearing clean Ts.h.i.+rts. Love you guys. Bye. " BEEP.

Scott gave a sniff under his arms. "It's good for a few more days," he called. He stuck his head back into the fridge and resumed his search-and-devour mission.

The second message began.

"h.e.l.lo ... this is Priscilla Bantini - from the Bookshop." Becka froze.

"Juanita, or her spirit, told me what happened tonight. She wants me to say how sorry she is. You snuck up on her and frightened her, that's all. Please call me at your earliest convenience. " BEEP.

"Frightened her!" Scott exclaimed. "We frightened her??"

"I don't get it," Becka sighed as she shed her jacket. It was time to say what had been rattling in her head the past twenty-four hours. "Maybe Ryan is right; maybe we can't trust the Bible in every instance."

"Whoa, hold the phone," Scott said as he pulled his head out of the fridge. "What are you talking about?" Becka flung her jacket across the room to the growing pile of clothes on the sofa. "Figure it out. We're Chris tians, right?"

"Right."

"We're supposed to have authority over demons, right?"

"Right."

"Well, no offense, little brother, but you weren't exactly the conquering hero this evening."

Scott said nothing as he closed the refrigerator and crossed to the table. In his hands were a carton of milk, a jar of dill pickles, and some dijon mustard. Not exactly a gourmet meal, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice.

He pulled a pickle from the jar and dipped it into the mustard.

Becka watched, trying not to retch as he crammed half of it into his mouth. She could tell he was as troubled as she was; he just expressed it differently ... by becoming a human garbage disposal.

She turned and headed for the stairs. But just before she arrived, she heard a very quiet and very heartfelt "I'm sorry, Beck."

She slowed to a stop and looked at him.

He continued softly, slowly, "I let you down ... I let us both down. I'm sorry."

Becka's heart went out to him. "It's not your fault." She shrugged. "Things just aren't making sense anymore." He continued to look down, and she went on, "The Bible says there are no ghosts, yet we run into ghosts. It says to put on G.o.d's armor, to use his s.h.i.+eld and sword to beat demons. We do and we get clobbered."

"But we've won before," Scott said, looking up at her.

Becka nodded. "Not this time. This time ... everything's going haywire." She paused a moment as they both thought through the evening. "Listen," she finally said, "you don't mind if I use the computer to talk to Z, do you?"

"I don't know that you'll get him," Scott answered as he wolfed down the second half of his mustard-covered pickle. "I doubt he'll be online, but you're welcome to try." Becka nodded and started up the stairs. Everything was unraveling: her confidence, her little brother's strength, her faith in the Bible. Then, of course, there was tomorrow night ... the infamous seance. Should she go? Was tonight a warning that they should prepare harder?

Or was it an omen of an even darker encounter, a showdown that would lead to even greater defeat?

Chapter 5.

11:33 p.m.

It had taken Becka twenty minutes to log on to the computer chat room. It would have taken two minutes, but Rebecca's computer skills were as bad as Scott's eating habits. After five or six attempts, she finally got online. And to her surprise, Z was there waiting.

Good evening, Rebecca. This is our fi rst time alone, isn't it?

Rebecca swallowed back her nervousness and typed: Hi.

How was your evening?

She caught her breath. Did Z know about their visit to the house? Or was he just fis.h.i.+ng? She thought about asking, then decided to skirt the issue and move on.

I know this isn't your area of expertise, but is there a way, I mean, what real proof do we have that the Bible is 100% true 100% of the time?

There was a pause. A moment later the following verse appeared: "All Scripture is inspired by G.o.d ..." 2 Tim othy 3:16 (New Living Translation).

You mean people got all worked up and inspired by G.o.d so they started writing a bunch of - No. In the original language inspired means "G.o.d-breathed." So all Scripture is breathed by G.o.d.

Becka thought a moment, then typed: But just because the Bible says it's true ... Just because something says it's true, doesn't mean it's true.

There is other evidence. Jesus believed the Bible was accurate. He quoted from it frequently. In fact, when he fought Satan in the wilderness, that was all he used.

Think about it - a battle between the most evil force in the universe and the Savior of the universe. They could choose any weapons they wanted, but instead of swords or guns or nuclear bombs, they used what both knew to be the most powerful force in the universe ... G.o.d's Holy Word.

Becka nodded. He had a good point. She typed back: Everybody says it was written so long ago ...

That is correct. But in all of history there is no other book that has been proven to be so completely reliable.

Again and again historians and archaeologists uncover other historical writings and ancient artifacts that prove the Bible's accuracy.

Becka stared at the screen. She was relieved. Yet, how could the Bible be so accurate when everything she had experienced in the past twenty-four hours seemed to prove it was so wrong? She looked up as the final set of words appeared: It is late. I must sign off, but you must promise me one thing.

What's that?

Whatever your decision may be regarding tomorrow night, promise me you will be very careful. There is far more danger than meets the eye.