

### Death is Not the End, Daddy

### By Nate Allen

Copyright 2014

### Teddy/Pillar

### John Doe

I don't remember much before Teddy, but I do remember the laced leggings I found in the backseat of dad's Buick. They weren't mom's. She was already sick by that time. Sick and dying. But, he was out sticking his piece in someone else...

He stuck his piece in me, too. That was the day Teddy came into my life. He wasn't just my faded brown bear anymore. He was Teddy. He understood the pain of watching mom die; he understood the hate growing in me after daddy stuck his piece in me. He helped it grow.

Even before mom died, Teddy told me daddy didn't deserve to live. At her funeral, he cried. The fake! Those tears attracted someone else, who he stuck his piece in later that night.

After mom died, I only had Teddy. He has never spoken in the way a person does. But, he does talk. His voice is constantly in my head. The bear just sits. And when I look into his eyes, I see blood. Lots of it. Blood and pain. I fill with tingles. Teddy says that's as normal as the hatred I still feel for daddy. Sometimes I question it, though. And sometimes, Teddy gives me horrible nosebleeds, where my eyes feel ready to pop.

Teddy told me to come to Payne, North Dakota, and park across the street from the elementary school. He hasn't given me the name of the next child yet. But, he will. He always does. My identity is what Teddy tells me to be. When I question it, he makes the blood I see in my head come out of me. He told me to kill daddy. With mom gone, there was no one else. It was just Teddy. Daddy didn't even say a word to me anymore. He was gone most of the time. And when he was home, he scared me.

Teddy promised me that it would help. I listened. He was only protecting me. Teddy told me when to kill him, and what to use. There was blood. Lots of it.

### Matthew Mills

God is good. It is the only truth I need. It has kept me afloat through my wife's second miscarriage in three years. But, pain is still pain. It's only been a week since she lost the baby.

Sometimes I wonder how Job felt when everything was taken from him. He made it through and came out a better person. The Lord uses pain to mold us—

I worry about my wife. The light has left her eyes. She used to profess her faith. Now it seems like she is drowning, and no matter how much scripture I read, the light doesn't return. I am the pillar of this house. The Lord gave me that job, and I will stand even as everything else crumbles around me.

The devil has filled my head with thoughts of suicide. He tries to convince me that the razors from her shaver will be the death of her. He tells me to leave the bathroom door open when she showers, just in case. And I do, just in case. There is weakness in me. I'm not afraid of the enemy. My victory is through Jesus Christ. But, sometimes I fear her death is in His plan. Anyone who tries to tell me He would never allow that, I refer them to Job. The Lord takes away, sometimes for reasons we can't understand.

My bible is out; the highlighter has already run across a few Proverbs, and a comforting piece in John. I have found quite a few verses that reassure me of my place in Him. I believe I have two sons in heaven.

I cling onto my Marcy. She is eight and a bundle of silly and sweet. I feed her the Lord daily. And His light shines from her in every way. I love her more than I thought possible. She is my little princess, and I try my hardest to make her feel that way, especially now that Janet has shut down...

Something is stirring tonight. I can feel fear trying to slip into my house. It's trying to claw up the back of me, and enter through the front. I have a job to do tonight. My bible is highlighted on mostly every page. If a battle is coming, then I will win, because greater is He that is in me, than he that is in the world. I am the pillar, and I can feel the pieces beginning to crumble. Help me stand tall, Lord. Help me stand tall.

### John Doe

It's cold outside, cold, like the shed when daddy stuck me with his piece. It was all I could see when I grabbed the hunting rifle from his office. As I loaded the gun, I felt _cold_. Teddy wouldn't let me forget the shed. When I thought about stopping, I only heard mom's unanswered cries. She needed him, but he wasn't there. I needed him, but he wasn't there.

There was no hesitance anymore, just the tingle of Teddy coursing through me. I wanted to kill him. And I did, with two bullets to the back of him. He collapsed at the top of the stairs, and his blood ran like water.

Teddy told me that if I followed his direction, nobody would ever look for his body. The first thing he had me do was take his pack of cigarettes from the bedroom. I did. Then he told me to call 911. I asked him why. He didn't answer. He said to leave the body where it was, and wait for the cops to see it. I didn't want to. He said to trust him. I did. The cops came. Teddy told me to tell them what I did. I trusted him. Their eyes became wide and disgusted. They stepped into the house, and saw the body.

"Why'd you do it, John?" they asked quietly.

Teddy told me to touch any part of them. I touched their arms. And immediately, their eyes of disgust became blank, wiped clean of whatever there had been. Without saying another word, they left the house. They never returned.

"I have power, John." Teddy said in the softest whisper, as I turned his eyes toward mine.

I was twelve at the time. My steps were directed of him—they have been ever since. Teddy assures me that people can only see me when he wants me to be seen. But, if I were to lose Teddy, I'd lose my cover. He has promised that.

I stole the Buick I'm sitting in, from someplace in South Dakota. It's old and blue. But, to any outside eyes, it looks empty. It's why I haven't gotten caught. Teddy's covering is strong.

I've taken fourteen children from all across the country. I kill them. Teddy tells me to. He makes me hate the light I see in their eyes. But, I have never once touched them with my piece. I never will.

Teddy tells me about their lives before I take them. And I know it's the truth. It's why they come to the car to begin with, because I know about them: _I'm not a stranger. I'm a family friend_. It's a lie Teddy says will work every time. And it does. He gives me the information with images. When he wants to show me something, he closes my eyes. He shows me small pieces of their lives, things I shouldn't know. It's nothing in depth, but it gives me enough to lure them in.

It's three a.m. Three cars have passed by us. I don't like this town. If I didn't have unwavering faith in the power Teddy has, I would go someplace different. I'm afraid people will know what I have done. Sometimes, it feels like Teddy's covering is being cut into. What is more powerful than Teddy?

### Matthew Mills

I feel watched. The fear trying to claw up me is somewhere behind me in my living room.

"I rebuke you, Satan! Get under my foot in the name of Jesus Christ!" I command.

What always comes after a good hour of feeding my spirit with the Word is quiet. The Lord likes to speak in quiet. He has told me so many things. But, lately he has remained quiet. It's not a surprise to me though. After Janet miscarried our first baby He didn't say anything to me for three weeks. Maybe it was because part of me didn't want to hear what He had to say. This time I crave it. With everything falling apart around me, I need strength. This is the fifth consecutive night that I have been up past three a.m. The quiet of the house causes my mind to wander into places I don't want it to go.

Tonight I see blood. Flashes of it. Drippings of it on the wall. Hints of it on my fingers. The taste of it in my mouth. It's a vision I think. Or maybe I'm already dreaming. I'm still sitting at the table. The cap is on the highlighter and my bible is closed. The clock's ticking is the loudest it's ever been.

I hear a cry. At first it's distant, and then it grows. It's Marcy. Janet doesn't wake up and run to her call. I imagine she is just lying in bed, eyes wide, counting the spots on our ceiling. I imagine tears are still present in her eyes. Marcy knows it will be daddy and not mommy that will take care of her. She has noticed mommy's sadness. She has asked me about it often. I tell her the truth, that her baby brother is back in heaven, and mommy is sad because of it. Marcy understands I think, at least to a certain extent.

I say a prayer in a fast heavenly tongue. I close my eyes. Blood. It's now flowing freely. I open them again. I can feel the fear follow behind me.

"You have no power, devil!" I repeat. "Get out of my house in the name of Jesus!"

For some reason the Lord seems completely absent from here tonight. I feel exposed. I feel vulnerable. I feel scared. He never leaves me. It's what the Word promises. Why does it feel like He's left me?

I open Marcy's door. Her tummy hurts. I can see it in her eyes. The pale streaks of sickness mark her face. I walk over to her. Her eyes light up the best they can. Just seeing me helps. She has been getting almost nightly tummy aches since her brother bled out of Janet a little less than a week ago. Maybe she understands much more than I realize.

"Daddy," her voice still sounds sleepy, with both the beginning and ending of the word fading out.

"Yeah, sweets," I say. The nickname makes her smile. She feels loved; at least I hope she does.

"I can't find my Freddy the teddy."

I look for him. He's wedged under the bed. She doesn't yet know about the little sheets of scripture I have rolled up and stuffed into his stuffing. The Lord gave me that idea one night. She was afraid, so I wrote 2nd Timothy 1:7 on a small sheet of paper: _Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and a sound mind._ I place him in her arms.

I ask her if she wants something to drink to settle her upset stomach. She shakes her head, and lays back down. I rub her back and tell her that I love her. And I do.

She says it back to me with _sleepy_ continuing to fill her words.

### John Doe

Sometimes when Teddy is quiet, like he is tonight, I sit and ponder. I ask myself why I take children. The only answer I can ever come up with is that Teddy tells me to. I ask myself why I put a plastic bag over their heads, and wait for their muffled screams to become quiet. I get the same answer: Teddy tells me to. And now I ask myself why I am waiting to take another. Fear fills me. I think Teddy is awake. The bear has never moved, but he is always watching me. He is in the seat next to me, as brown and faded as when I was a boy.

"Why do you question this?" he is in my head, awake and angry. I don't want to look over. I'm terrified. "Everything I've done for you. The freedom I have given you! The covering I have provided!"

My eyes hurt. I can feel the wet of a nosebleed running down my lips. I can taste the blood filling the gaps in between my teeth.

My hands are now controlled, brought from my sides to the ten and two of the steering wheel. I can only squeeze until it feels like my fingers are going to break.

"I'm so-sorry." I say with what little power I have. "For-forgive me." he does, but not before making me dig my sharp and dirty thumb nail deep into my cheek. I can feel the wet of new blood. He tells me to take a lick. I don't want to, but do.

And now he becomes quiet again. I ask again. What is more powerful than Teddy?

### Matthew Mills

Marcy is sleeping now. Her cheek is still moist from the long kiss I gave. The streaks of sickness have faded from her face. I might keep her home from school, since she only has a few hours left to sleep. I'll decide when the time comes.

When I close my eyes, I still see blood. This isn't a dream. And I have had visions before. This is something different. The stirring has become a presence. I'm the weakest I have been in quite some time, and the attack is strong tonight. The Lord hasn't forsaken me. There is a reason for me not being able to feel Him. I just don't know what it is.

I grab the doorknob and turn. The hallway is freezing. My skin grows bumps and I step out into the open hallway. The lights flicker and then die. I search for any words of scripture to bind up this presence. They are lost, as if I know none whatsoever. I can see the outline of the furniture, and something walking past it. It's small in size, wearing a dress.

"Hello," I'm able to say, though my voice is shaking.

"Death is not the end, daddy." the lights come back on. Marcy stands before me, drenched in blood. The blonde of her hair now looks orange. Her face is pale. She is many feet away, and I can't begin to walk forward.

I try to say, _what happened to you?_ But my words are stuck in my throat. She begins to walk toward the stairs that lead to our entryway. I don't want her to go. The Lord is absent from this house, and I feel the devil waiting to take her away. I hear him call her in a voice that sends absolute terror toward me. She smiles at me with eyes that are already gone, and then runs toward it.

I scream, and then feel a soft hand rub against my arm. My eyes are open, but I can't move. Marcy is looking at me, with Freddy the teddy snug in her arms.

"Bad dream, daddy?" she asks.

The sun is slicing through her window. My head is lying on the pink blanket on her bed, and my legs are tucked under my backside on the floor. I must have fallen asleep. I can feel warmth again. The Lord is with me. But, He wasn't in that dream. There wasn't a hint of Him. I was completely controlled.

"Feel better, sweets?" I'm able to ask without tremors.

She just smiles at me. Her blue eyes look green with the way the light is in this room. There is no sickness on her. And the image of her covered in blood has begun to fade from my mind.

"Do you want me to keep you home from school?" I ask, more than willing. After that dream, I want to keep her home.

But, she says no. She says that she can't get a perfect record if I keep her home. My little A student. I'm proud of her, but worried. The dream's images are fading, but the impact is growing. Death is not the end, daddy? Who said it was, sweetie?

### John Doe

Most of the trees are bare, but some still have leaves of changed color. The sun is hitting the town just right that it looks like something out of a picture. The children will soon empty out of their homes, and run to this small elementary school. I doubt any age older than eleven or twelve attends here. This town has a thousand people at the most—lots of children for Teddy to choose from. He's already given me something. M. M is her nickname. It's all I have so far. Once I see her, I'll know. Teddy will tell me.

The mark on my cheek has dried. And the blood in my mouth has stained against my teeth. My hygiene is only existent when by rest stops on the highway. I swipe a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small bottle of shampoo from a gas station. I cut my own hair from time to time. Right now it is long strands of grease hanging across my scarred forehead. It's black, as is the hair growing over my lip and under my chin.

I am ugly. Teddy says this in other words. He talks about my disproportionate face, the Indian corn that my teeth have become, and the smell that surrounds me. I only have three outfits in my wardrobe. They are bunched up in the back seat, in a plastic bag alongside a new teddy bear. The new bear is a darker brown than Teddy. And its eyes are blue.

I am dressed in faded blue jeans and a thrift store trench coat. It's layered and warm, but I am still cold. The Buick is off for now. My breath looks like smoke. The blood that came from my nose has now crusted inside of it. I hate the cold. My ears are sure to be as red as my cheeks by now. Teddy looks cold, too. The tips of his fur are now frosted.

My head still aches from the nosebleed Teddy gave me. It feels like pounding behind both eyes, and somewhere deep inside my brain. My thoughts aren't deep, but they are covered with worry. I'm just waiting for the kids to arrive. This is the quietest Teddy has been in some time. It almost feels like he isn't here at all.

"Matthew is the name of her father." Teddy is speaking again. "He supervises the factory in the town. Tell her you are an employee. She'll listen to that. Call her M. Everyone close to her calls her M, except her father. He likes the name Marcy."

Teddy quiets. My eyes close. I can't open them. This is familiar. The pounding in my head has become swirling. It feels like the beginning of a dream, though it's still different. I see only an image, instead of a scene. She is small in size, with blonde hair tied into unbraided pigtails by two little blue bows. Her eyes are blue too. Light sits in them. Teddy hates the light. He especially hates the kids that have it. She does, more so than anyone before her. It must be why he chose her. It must be.

### Matthew Mills

Marcy is bathing. I used my finger to test the temperature. She likes it hot, just like me.

I am standing at the top of the stairs that lead down to the entryway. Words of scripture are filling my head, and I say them in a tone of command. This is my house. But, ten minutes ago, it wasn't. Ten minutes ago this was a house controlled by the devil, with God completely absent. I know it was a dream, but it continues to feel stronger than that. I am not able to look down at the entryway without thinking about the voice that called for my Marcy. I'm not able to close my eyes without seeing hers already gone. And that almost gleeful smile that she gave before she ran down to the devil's call has turned my skin cold.

A thought has come to me. _2nd Timothy 1:7._ It's the verse I pray over Marcy. The Lord is telling me to use it over myself. As I say it, the fear begins to dissipate. I'm told to say it again. I do. This time it's louder. The soft tremble in my hand has stopped. My cold skin has begun to warm. I don't feel watched, as I did. But, I still feel a hint of fear.

The clock in the kitchen is almost as loud as it was last night. I can hear Marcy splashing, while humming happily. I think it is _Jesus Loves Me_ , but I can't be sure. My feet feel heavy. I walk past the closed bathroom door and towards our bedroom.

_Anoint Marcy_ , the thought has just come to me. _Grab the bottle from your dresser drawer and anoint her_.

"Matthew!" Janet is calling me in a voice that sounds far too awake for this time of morning. I open the door. She is sitting at the edge of the bed. Her eyes are as red as they were the day that our baby bled out of her. She has been crying, maybe all night. But, I didn't hear it.

"How are you doing, honey?" I ask, trying to avoid looking at the red of her eyes.

She just shrugs. Her brown hair is matted with dried tears; her face is the picture of sadness. She sniffles once and then a second time.

"There is a reason for this. God has a plan."

"Don't start." her arms push at me before I ever reach her side. She wants distance. I back away. I try not to get angry. I want to yell at her. I want to curse. The Lord helps me hold my tongue.

"We have Marcy, sweetheart." I say softly. "She wants her mommy back. And you are the best mommy she could have."

I've always been able to fish a smile out of Janet, even at her saddest. This morning is no exception.

### John Doe

The tingle of Teddy fills me. The first child is walking toward the school. He is a fat boy, fat like I used to be. I hate him. He reminds me of myself. He reminds me of the day daddy stuck his piece in me.

My eyes close. I can feel the anger building. I search for the image of daddy dead on the stairway. It doesn't come. All that I can feel is his piece against me; all I can see is the dark shed where it happened. I don't want to be here. Take me away, Teddy. Please, take me away!

### Matthew Mills

I helped Marcy with her hair while cooking breakfast. I haven't always been a multi-tasker. But, when you live with women, you learn quickly. She wanted her pigtails unbraided this morning. I tied them with her favorite blue bows, and now she is sitting across from me, chewing on a piece of bacon.

"Thanks for the breakfast, daddy."

"Did you thank Jesus?" I ask.

"I forgot," she puts down her piece of bacon, folds her hands, and we say one together: _Dear Jesus, thank you for this day. Thank you for this food. I love you, Jesus._ _Amen._ I grew up saying that one.

Marcy looks at me with a smile, and then at her mom. Janet smiles back at her. Little hints of light still sit in her eyes. Meet her where she's at Lord. Only You can.

_Anoint her_ ; this is my second reminder from the Lord. He has been quiet otherwise.

I say yes quietly and stand up. The lights are on, but they don't need to be. Sun breaks through our living room windows in strips; in the dining room it is a glorious pouring, that lights both my girls' faces. Janet looks alive again. But, the sadness still sits with her, like a weight she wears. I can fish out the smiles. They can even look very joyous. But, the smile is a deceiver; the eyes are the truth-keeper. My mom used to tell me that. I have passed it on to Marcy. She likes the rhyme of it, as do I.

Walking back down the hall, I can't help but think about the blood I saw last night. Not just on my Marcy, but the flashes of it. I can't help but wonder why. Since early last night I have felt unease in my spirit. Something dark is trying to come against me—against my family.

_Anoint her, Matthew_! The quiet of the Lord's command has become loud, as if He is right behind me. I feel urgency. I feel fear creeping into my house, and waiting at the entryway. And for some reason, I feel like 2nd Timothy 1:7 will only keep it out for so long.

Darkness is coming. Or maybe it has already arrived. There is a reason that I have been up late the last several nights. During that time I have grieved the son I won't see until I die, but mostly I have been deep in scripture. Deep to a point where sometimes hours pass, and my highlighter has run over verses I don't even remember lining.

I've arrived at my bedroom. I'm cold, but I don't know why.

_Death is not the end, daddy_ , Marcy's voice is as loud as the Lord's was. I turn. No one is there. I can somewhat hear Marcy going over the highlights of the last week with Janet in the dining room. Though, it's fading.

I open the door. It feels like eyes are watching me from everywhere. I say 2nd Timothy 1:7, once, twice, three times. They fade, but don't disappear. I flick the switch. The lights don't come on. I feel like the scared boy I used to be. My hands are shaking again. And my comfort in the Lord is back by my girls. I feel completely alone, walking into darkness without a light. It is only my bedroom. Why does it feel like a dungeon?

_Don't be afraid. I am with you_. The warmth of the Lord's words let me walk into the middle of my room. I feel sick. The breakfast in my stomach feels ready to come back up. I feel dizzy, too. My dresser is still a few feet away, by the bedroom window. The heavy black sheets Janet has hung won't let even a hint of light in. It might as well be night time. It's far too dark for day. Janet has been letting the flavors of her sadness soak into this room, and now it feels heavy.

My hands grasp hold of the dresser drawer. I pull it open. The tingle of fear trickles down me, and stabs into my feet. I can't move.

_Take control!_ The Lord commands. I do, and the fear weighing me down begins to disappear. I grab the small bottle from under my folded white t-shirts and walk back toward the hall. Knocking is coming from all around me. Something wants in. It immediately makes me think of the thing that called my Marcy.

"Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but one of power, love, and a sound mind. I rebuke you, Satan, in the name of Jesus." I say as I walk past my bed. The light of the hall is brighter than I remember; the dark of the room is blacker.

I slip back out to the hall, and close the door behind me. I hear the same knocking. This time it's louder. This time there's distant laughing. But, I am warm. The Lord is my Shepherd. The color of this oil is almost like my cologne: bronze. I look at it, and then back. My door is open. I closed it.

"Leave," I whisper, trying not to alarm my girls. The door slams closed. It causes a flash of images to splash on me. I see Marcy blood soaked; I see shadows of dark things growing around her.

I run out to the dining room, and begin to pray over her. She doesn't ask why. Maybe she feels something is here, too.

### John Doe

Teddy saved me from daddy. As soon as I saw him walking toward me, he let my eyes open. The fat boy is gone. Three more children have followed behind and are now somewhere in the school. Cars have lined up on both sides of the street. They drop the kids and go. It is a few minutes after seven thirty in the morning. I haven't seen little M yet.

Other eyes have looked into mine. This is not just an empty and idling Buick to outside eyes anymore. The covering I have been under for the last twenty six years has been cut into. They now see the man with no identity. After Teddy wiped the cops clean of their memories, I became non-existent. I became a ghost that appeared when the time was right, when Teddy told me to.

Under Teddy's covering, the children have been easy to lure. I give each one of them a teddy bear. I paint the color of their eyes on the bear's. It never fails. Teddy is right about that. They are gullible. Just like me, when daddy told me that he needed help in the shed. He told me it was just between me and him. _A little project_ , he said. I came. His project was me. But, Teddy saw an end to that. Teddy saved me. He continues to save me. But, like any good master, he keeps me in line.

I grab Teddy from the seat next to me, and look into the red of his eyes. They used to scare me. Now I find comfort in them. The red moves in swirls. Teddy is alive. He has been alive since I was twelve. I'm now thirty eight, but I look much older. Fifty. Maybe higher. The bags beneath my coal colored eyes don't go away. I sleep enough to function. But, it's never sound.

"Teddy," I ask.

The red swirling reminds me of the way water moves when a finger sticks the surface and spins around. But, there is no answer.

"Why can they see me, Teddy?" my voice is hoarse. I ask it twice. This time, it's louder than the last.

I can't hear him in my head. I can't feel the tingle of him. I look back into his eyes. Where are your red swirls, Teddy?

### Matthew Mills

I'm taking Marcy to school. Usually she walks, since you can actually see the school from our house. But, the stirring has only gotten stronger. When I close my eyes, I see red swirls. I hear her haunting voice from last night; I hear the devil's growl.

My hand is clasping Marcy's. We are walking, both bundled up. It is cold for November, but I have seen much colder.

Before I left, I anointed Janet, too. She didn't receive it nearly as well. She called my sensitivity in the spirit _crazy_. That's what she calls it now. That's what she calls me. I rubbed the oil on her forehead and prayed in tongues. She looked at me like I was _crazy_. Almost laughing at me, she closed herself back in our bedroom, after I told her to avoid it. I don't like this Janet. She isn't my wife.

But, Marcy is my daughter. And I love her so much. I see all of the wonderful of Janet in her; I see my nose, eyes, and ears. She is beautiful, much like her mother. Though, I don't want to think about Janet right now. It makes me angry. It makes me wonder if she can handle this second miscarriage.

_You'll find her dead. Better hurry home!_ The devil's words are striking all the weak spots. I am stretched thin this morning. My strength in the Lord feels weak. I imagine Janet dead on our bedroom floor, both with my eyes open and closed. I look at Marcy. I see flashes of her from the haunting state she was in last night.

"These are not my thoughts. I send them to the captivity of Jesus Christ in the name of Jesus Christ." I whisper.

The images don't fade, but disappear completely. I take a deep breath, and then a second. I feel relief. I feel peace. Marcy and I are standing outside of her school. I give her a big hug. I have to kneel down. Her little arms wrap around me. A soft and sweet, _I_ _love you, daddy_ comes from her. And then she runs up to the door and goes inside. Daddy loves you too, sweetie.

### John Doe

Matthew Mills is blonde like his daughter. He is standing on the sidewalk. M went inside a few minutes ago.

"We are going to show Matthew my power." the tingle of Teddy is back. The red swirls in his eyes seem even livelier.

"What do you mean, Teddy?" I ask.

"Take her, and then go back to the shed."

"I don't like the shed."

"Listen, John!" the tingle of Teddy has frozen me. "Matthew Mills tore the covering. He has power, too. But, he will see what power is. He will see what I can do." Teddy's whisper is terrifying. He's angry. I don't like when Teddy is angry. That's how I get the scars on my face. Self inflicted, but forced. He makes my nails dig deep, like earlier this morning, but more severe. He likes the dripping of blood. I am a servant to Teddy. He would not accept any other way.

I haven't been back to the shed since I killed the last child. It's where everything is. It's where one teddy bear for each child victim sits next to the other. There are fourteen altogether. But, after little M, there will be fifteen. It's where my daddy's cigarette pack is. Teddy loves the shed. It's where he keeps his trophies.

Matthew Mills is walking back the way he came. His eyes are focused on the sky. He hasn't looked at me once. I will wait for him to leave completely. He came from one of the houses down the street. I think it was the big white one at the end.

"Go inside. Go to the principal's office, and have Marcy paged. They won't suspect a thing, John. Just trust in me."

"I do, Teddy."

### Matthew Mills

I feel weightless. The school is a block behind me. When I close my eyes, I see nothing. Janet's sadness doesn't weigh heavily on my mind, nor does Marcy's safety.

Sometimes I'm still unable to completely swallow all that I have. I turned thirty just a couple of months ago. And what I have is what some people three times my age have never gotten to experience: true happiness. Janet and I will get through this, just like we got through the first miscarriage. And we will come out stronger. There is a reason for what's happened. Lord, make it clear to her. Make it clear to me.

### John Doe

Matthew is far enough down the street that I would look like a blur if even seen. I tuck my left hand away in my trench coat pocket as I step out of the Buick. Teddy is in my right hand. I'm holding his left arm firmly.

I can feel that I am without identity again. Teddy's power seems stronger than before. I open the door to the school. The school bell is loud. It sounds more like a buzzer. A few children scurry past me, toward their classes. I step up three steps. There is a lunch room left of me, and a hall of classrooms right of me. The principal's office is maybe two hundred feet down the main hall.

A well dressed man walks past. He doesn't notice me. Teddy's power is strong.

With many of the other children, I would wait in my car. I would prove that I wasn't a stranger by telling them something strangers wouldn't know. They would get in. And then away we would go. But, with M, Teddy wants me to take her while under supervision. He wants to prove his power.

I can see a white haired woman at the desk through the office window. She looks up and sees me. Teddy's covering is down. I open the door.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"Can you page Marcy Mills?" I ask. Teddy tells me to smile. I do.

"What for?"

"Put me on the desk. Have my eyes meet hers." Teddy commands. I do. "Ask again."

I ask the same thing. This time her reply is a groggy nod of the head.

She grabs the intercom and speaks. "Can Marcy Mills come to the principal's office immediately?"

We wait. The clock ticks quietly, though it seems to get louder. The woman is tapping on her keyboard again, almost methodically. I hook my head around the desk to see that she has written the words _my dead husband burns_ , over and over again. There is no emotion in her eyes.

The door opens behind me, and little M looks up at me.

"Ms. Brands? What's the matter?" she asks.

"Something happened at your home. This man is going to bring you there." she doesn't look up from typing.

"Who is he?" she surveys me with a bit of a scowl.

"I'm a friend of your dad's. Well, I work with him." I pause and smile. "He always talks about you, M. You are the world to him."

Her eyes brighten as the lie slips from my mouth convincingly.

"What happened?" she asks, her scowl now a curious gaze.

"I don't know. I'll let him tell you. Get your coat and backpack."

M looks at Ms. Brands, who hasn't looked away from her computer once since Teddy's eyes met hers. "Is this going to count against my record, Ms. Brands?"

"No." the pecking of the keys is almost louder than Ms. Brand's reply. "It will be fine, M."

As M opens the door and walks to her locker, I hook my head around the desk and look at the screen once more. The words _so will I_ have now been added in between the first set: _My dead husband burns. So will I. My dead husband burns. So will I_. Over and over again.

I grab Teddy from the desk, and tuck him under my arm. M's locker is down the hall. She is grabbing her primarily pink backpack, and wrapping herself back in her coat and scarf. I open the door, leaving the sound of methodical typing to haunt Ms. Brands. Soon she will know what happened. By then it will be too late. She won't remember my face, or the interaction we had.

"So you work with my dad?" she sounds so adult.

"Yeah," I answer as she closes her locker and follows along.

"What's your name?" For a moment, the light in her eyes spill onto me. For a moment, I forget about Teddy. For a moment, I consider bringing her home.

"John,"

"That's a nice name. John. It fits you well." she smiles. "My dad always picks good people."

The tingle of Teddy pours into me. I am filling with anger. My hands start to shake. My eyes feel wide. I smile to comfort her... to comfort me. It seems to work, she smiles back. But, I feel sick. Why am I fighting? With the other children, I would let the tingle of Teddy fill me with all the needed ingredients. I would drive them someplace far away and suffocate them quickly. And then the tingle of Teddy would leave me. I haven't fought it before. Teddy will punish me for this.

### Matthew Mills

I got home a few minutes ago. I am standing in the entryway. The light in my house paints across the ceiling in a way I rarely see. I am usually three hours into a twelve hour shift by this time. I am one of the supervisors at the town's only factory. It pays the bills enough so that Janet can do what she loves. She paints and draws. Her work has sold but not often. Whether or not it sells doesn't really matter. I provide, so she can do what she loves. After all, the only job I've ever really wanted was to be a family man. And I have that. I pray for a son of my own, but if it's not in the Lord's plan, it's not in His plan. My steps are directed of Him.

I rarely see the morning sun in my house, except in the summer, when it comes up early. I don't know what to do with my time. Come Monday I will be back at work. I used six of my vacation days so that I could be here for Janet. If I'm honest with myself, I haven't been here for her. I have avoided her. I can't stand to see her faith shriveling. The Lord has pulled us through a lot. And there is a lot of light in my life.

There's a lot of light in her life...

But, maybe that's not for me to decide. A walk with the Lord is personal. And maybe hers isn't nearly as sound as mine.

The light bathes me as I walk upstairs. I feel safe. My eyes are heavy. Sleep has escaped me since the miscarriage. But, for the first time since, I feel if I were to close my eyes, I would fall into a deep sleep. The couch in the living room is comfortable enough. A bright coating of light is blanketing the surface, and a fleece throw is on the arm. I take off my jacket, and throw it on Marcy's rocking chair. It used to be mine, made by my dad's own hands. But, dad's gone now. Cancer. Years ago.

### John Doe

Little M is in the backseat. Teddy is in the passenger's. He hates her, more than anyone before her. He noticed my hesitance. There can be no hesitance! Not with her. The tingle of Teddy has become the fingers of Teddy. I can feel him prodding around in my head. I can feel his whispers becoming loud commands. He's telling me to kill her here. I can't. Her smile lights me up. It makes me think of the days before daddy and his piece against me. The days of my mother... she was lovely. Her name was Anna Christine Doe, but before marrying daddy, her name was Anna Christine Hill. Back then, the light was bright in my life. But, then she got sick. And everything changed...

Little M makes me think of the before. Her kindness makes me think of my mother. Even her eyes remind me of hers: blue and beautiful.

"Mr. John," she says in that quiet, kind voice.

"Yes, M." I answer.

"Why haven't you brought me home yet?"

We have been sitting for a few minutes. My lips want to say _run_ , but Teddy grabs control and forms a simple lie: _just warming up the car, M. I'll bring you home soon_.

I pulled her out of school for urgent reasons. At least, that's what I told her. But, I'm not being urgent. And she can see that. Yet, she isn't running. She is sitting and waiting.

There is no good in me. It died long ago, just like daddy. Teddy has cemented a truth into my life that one girl's smile can't change, no matter how bright it makes me feel inside.

I put the Buick into drive. We pull up to and then past her house. And as I expect her to, she says, "Mr. John. Where are we going?"

I'm sorry, Little M. Teddy told me to.

### Matthew Mills

I thought my eyes would close. They did, but then they opened again. I'm tired. I know that much. Food doesn't settle well. And the taste has all become _blah_. It's all the symptoms of _tired_ , yet no matter what I do, I can't sleep.

My mind has become an active machine, always calculating, always running at its fullest speed. I have always been a deep thinker. But, this is different. It feels like if I were to let my mind slow down, I'd drop into a place of despair. The Lord is my shepherd. I am his sheep, and I'm nearing a dark valley. I've seen darkness before. But, I've never felt like this.

Maybe Janet is someone I can't help right now. Maybe the weight of her hurt on my shoulders would cause my knees to buckle. Maybe the Lord knows this. And maybe that's why I can hardly be near her since the miscarriage.

... Or maybe that's what I tell myself, so I don't feel guilty for failing as her husband.

I sigh, once and then a second time. I'm sitting instead of lying down. My hand runs through my hair. I sigh a third time.

From beneath me, I feel vibration. My phone must have fallen out of my pocket, and is now wedged between the cushions. I fish it out: _3 Missed Calls_.

It's the school, all three times. There are two voicemails. My stomach is a mess of knots and sick stirring. The operator tells me of messages ready to expire. I re-save, and then she says, _playing first unheard message_.

There is silence and then this: "Mr. Mills, Marcy is missing. Please call us back at the number provided." It's very professional.

The second message isn't: "Mr. Mills, Marcy is missing. Ms. Brands remembers nothing about it. Please come down to the school."

I close the phone before hearing the operator again. The first message was professional. It was direct and under control. But, the second message says they know nothing about where my Marcy is. The sick feeling in my stomach has now become a pit.

### John Doe

M continues to ask me where we are going. I haven't given an answer. I continue to avoid her eyes in the rearview, and Teddy's in my own mind.

"Mr. John?" the fear I expect to fill her voice isn't there. "Jesus wants me to tell you," she pauses. "He wants me to tell you the light isn't gone."

Teddy has what feels like a thousand needles stabbing into my spine. His fingers seem countless. They prod the deepest parts of my brain, pulling the reigns free and grabbing control. I pull the car to a stop at the side of the highway. My hands reach for an empty plastic bag. But, it isn't me. It's Teddy. I can't stop my hands. The edges of the bag curl back. I watch. It's all I can do. I turn back to wrap it over her head. She is sleeping.

Thirty seconds ago, she was talking. Now she's sleeping. Or is she? I don't hear the breaths anymore. And her skin looks white.

Teddy's voice is loud, outside of my head now. It slips from the vents. It comes from my own mouth. He is furious. He turns the bag back toward me, and wraps it over my head. I should be terrified, but I'm not. I am a man who has nothing to offer, nothing to give. And Teddy has the power to kill me now. Do it, Teddy! Do it!

The plastic is covering my mouth, suctioning over my nostrils. I can't breathe. If I even could pull the bag away, I wouldn't. This is right. Teddy has always told me of my defects. Everyone I've ever met has. The only people who are nice to me are children, and I kill them.

No. What's happening? The bag is loosening. I can breathe. I was beginning to see black, but now the color of this world is becoming sharply vivid again. I used to love the color. Back when mommy would tell me about a place better than this world, I imagined beautiful things.

Now nothing is beautiful.

### Matthew Mills

Why can't I move? My eyes haven't blinked, or if they have, I don't remember it happening. I've been staring at the wall in front of me. Marcy's life hasn't flashed in front of my eyes. I haven't seen her as the little bundle I brought home from the hospital, or the wonderful memories that followed. But, in my heart, I know that she's already gone.

The reality of that hasn't sunk in. It will though. And when it does, I don't know what man will come out. I want to believe that the man of faith I have been for years can look past the pain and into the eyes of my Savior. I know the Lord has this in control. Yet, no matter how much I say it, the anger is still building inside of me. The man of faith is fighting against the grieving father, while the man of anger, the man of profanity is slipping out of me. I can hear the string of words I haven't used in years coming from my mouth. I'm whispering it, almost soft enough that it's not being spoken at all. Deep inside it makes me feel guilty, but at the surface, it's all I can say.

I close my eyes. I can only feel this pain rising from someplace in my stomach, and pressing against my throat. It's squeezing out of me. And with it comes even longer strings of language. I finally move. It's my hand. I sway it in front of my face, and then close it into a fist. I look at it without blinking. It blurs as I slam it into my own face. Immediately, I can feel my right eye bubble with pressure. It's already swelling. But, the pain is still stuck in my chest. The language is getting louder. I'm nearly yelling it, or at least it seems that way. I slam my fist into my face again. The pain isn't transferring to my swelling eye. It's staying in my chest, making the _sick_ inside of me want to come back up. I slam my fist into my face a third time. This time I hear a crack, and blood spills from my nose almost immediately. The pain hasn't transferred. Instead, it's only built in my chest to a point where my heart feels ready to give out.

I try to take a deep breath, but it catches on the pain. I can't relieve it. I pound my fist against the wooden coffee table. Pain jumps to my hand, though it doesn't relieve. I'm gasping, but can't catch my breath. I inhale heavily, still unable to release. The air is slipping from my nostrils, but I'm still suffocating. I inhale again and again, but there is no release.

It's building to a point where my head feels ready to burst. I make a fist with my other hand. I want to slam it into the other side of my face. I want the pain in my chest to transfer to my swollen eye and nose. But, it won't. It hasn't. It wants to stay deep inside. It's the pain of tears building, but I can't cry for her. If I do, then everything will move ahead. The reality of never getting to see my little girl again will crush me. Everything will crumble.

My anger has become aimless. I scream. I don't know what I'm saying. I only know it's loud. I may still be cursing. All I hear is a deafening ring. I can feel the pressure relieving. I can feel the tears pouring out of me. My little girl is gone. The pain of backed up tears has become something much sharper, a pain I can't begin to describe.

### Perspective/Drifting

### John Doe

M is dead. I checked all places of pulse. There is none. Her face is the opposite of terrified. Mine is flushed of whatever life there was, but hers, hers is filled with peace. Teddy tried to kill me. The bag was over my head, and I was beginning to fade away. And then he pulled it off.

But, Teddy is quiet now. He spoke from the car vents. Furious. Final. He was going to kill me. I could hear it in his voice. The immediate anger that M's final words brought out of Teddy is something I've never seen before.

Many of the other children would cry. Terror would fill their eyes. They would struggle and scratch. They would bite, fighting in any way possible to get away from me. For every kill, Teddy has been in control of these hands. And I've watched from the only place that is still mine: the eyes. I have watched the bag wrap around their head loosely, and as they fought, form to the shape of their faces. It didn't matter what the child looked like, when under the bag they all took the same nameless form. Their face became hollow indents, as their hands would grab for anything, first desperately, and then nothing whatsoever.

Teddy would step out of me. My body would become mine again. An air of joy would cloud around Teddy. It would linger in me, until it finally faded away. I would have to dispose of the body. That was my task. Teddy didn't help with that. He did the killing. I did everything else...

... Except with M. She is still the sweet, blonde haired Marcy Mills. She isn't a nameless form like the rest. The bag never took her away. Teddy never took her away. Maybe that's why he almost took me instead. There was no joy when Teddy stepped out of me this time. No air around him. No fading streaks of it in me. And now I can't feel him at all.

Somehow, I don't miss Teddy. The weight of him has lifted. M's final words fill my head. Without Teddy to stop them, they pour in: _Jesus wants me to tell you the light isn't gone_. I hear it in her voice. I close my eyes. There are no blotches of blood. There is no daddy waiting to stick me with his piece. There is just light.

### Matthew Mills

I don't know how long I screamed... or when I stopped. I don't know when Janet kneeled down next to me. The pain that unhooked from my chest fell into the center of me and shocked my body with violent shivers. Now I can feel nothing whatsoever. Even Janet's fingers feel alien to my own.

She has asked me why my eye is a swollen socket. I haven't answered. It doesn't even feel like I am here. Her kisses against my cheek only feel wrong. But, I let them move to my lips. I kiss back. My eyes close. Marcy blood soaked at the top of the steps is all I can see. Her already-gone eyes haunt me.

I open my eyes again. Janet is kissing my swollen eye, and now the tip of my nose. I look into her eyes. My wife is staring back at me, not the _unrecognizable_. And she is as sweet and caring as ever. It pulls me back to this reality.

"It's going to be okay, Matthew." she says.

"Marcy is missing." it falls out of me unintentionally. I can't unsay it.

Her eyes don't change. No hint of fear sits in them. She just looks at me and says it again, "It's going to be okay."

### John Doe

The light was white and warm. It wrapped around me. And then it faded. Now my hand is clasping my mother's. We are sitting on a park bench. There is a colorful sky above me, and green grass beneath me. On the horizon, I can see a city that spreads across endlessly.

"Where am I?" I ask.

"You don't get to stay my sweet boy," she smiles. The lines of age still trace across her face, yet somehow she seems without age. "But, you get to see heaven from here: the city without end. The Lord made this spot just for me. He knows that one of my favorite memories with you was watching the sunset from the bench in the park. We used to live outside of a city. You would sit on my lap and coo. The setting sun always made me think of heaven. I would tell you how much Jesus loves you. That hasn't changed, my sweet boy. The light isn't gone."

She's fading. Her voice. Her face. Her warmth. I can hear the traffic on the highway zipping past. My eyes open to find my hand is holding my own.

### Matthew Mills

_It's going to be okay_. They are the only words Janet has said about the situation. When I try to describe the absolute certainty I have that our daughter is gone, she doesn't try to reason it away. She doesn't grasp desperately for hope of finding Marcy alive again. Her eyes say that she has already accepted the news that still makes me feel bottomless. When I close my eyes, I think about the razors in my shaver. I think about locking myself away and slowly bleeding—I now think about what I know: the Word. The Lord has promised to never give us more than we can handle. It's a promise He saw through when my dad died long ago.

The wreck I was then became the man I still am. At least I have to believe that's the man I still am. I have to believe that God has a plan for taking away my unborn son a week ago, and now, taking my daughter today. It's all I have left.

Janet's eyes have been staring at my swollen face since she said those words.

"You hit yourself, didn't you?" she asks, seeming to already know the answer.

I look at her with a slow, extended blink, saying nothing.

"Did it help?"

I shrug. The question is something I can't answer. It gave me something to hit. And as the swelling decreases, and the bruising increases, so will the pain. Maybe it did help. It'll give me a distraction. It'll make me feel grounded in my body, instead of hovering despondently.

I look at Janet. There is some part of me that wants to scream at her. I want to yell, "When the baby died, you were a basket case! Your daughter's gone and you're calm?!" But, I don't. That's the angry, envious part of me. That's the part that wishes I could feel the same. I can see the Lord's light in her. I am jealous and guilty for the way I feel.

"It's going to be okay." she says it again. She pauses, and I see her bottom lip begin to quiver. "I-I was lying in bed, sobbing. I cried out to Jesus that I couldn't take anymore. I wanted it t-to end today, Matthew. I thought about the pi-pills in the bathroom cabinet. I thought about the ra-razors in my shaver. I thought about fi-filling the tub with just enough water that I could slip beneath it and drown looking u-up at the ceiling. And then I heard the deepest voice tell me to stand. I did. In the darkness of the room, I saw a wall of light appear. It almost looked like a door. It was pure light. White. Warm. I never wanted it to end. And then hands came from it, just far enough out that I could clasp the fingers. There were holes in His wrists. The light shone through them. The only words I heard were, 'It's going to be okay.' And then it disappeared. So sweetheart, it's going to be okay."

### John Doe

The way it feels to leave mom's side is the way it felt to watch her die when I was a boy: one minute she is there, the next she is gone. Only when I was a boy, I still believed in something as beautiful as the endless city on the horizon.

But, just like the way mom faded from memory years ago, the visit with her on the park bench is already slipping away. The reality of the day is back in the front of my mind. The plastic bag that nearly killed me is now a crumpled ball in my hand. It somehow seems right that M is dead in the backseat. She brought the idea of light back into the darkness of me. And for a brief time, I saw something beautiful. I saw a light.

But, everything has returned to what it was. I am not the boy mom left years and years ago. I am a killer. I have lured each child to a death Teddy planned long before they entered the car. I am the one who stuck their dead skin with a needle, withdrew their blood into a vial, and placed it inside of their teddy bears propped on the shed shelf. I am the one that buried them within walking distance of the shed, under the deck of my old house.

Even if that brief moment of time on the bench was real, I deserve punishment. Sometimes late at night, my head fills with the images of parents pleading for whoever has their child to let them _come home_. Teddy likes to watch them give their press conferences on the TV. He likes to see them hurt. And when he likes it, some part of me does too.

I don't deserve somewhere better than this world. She does. She deserves the view of absolute beauty. She deserves the warmth that wraps around you. She deserves that happiness. I deserve torment. Maybe that's why Teddy is in my life. Maybe he's here to keep me from happiness, because I deserve every pain he inflicts on me. I deserve much more.

The very mention of light made Teddy want to kill me. And now I know why. Come back to me, Teddy. M said the light isn't gone. But, it is. It has to be. Because I deserve everything you do to me. You aren't my friend, Teddy. You are my punishment.

### Matthew Mills

A year before my dad died, I was given a dream of his resurrection. Ridiculous or not, I believed it to be true. At the funeral, I stared at the casket, waiting for God to breathe life back into him. Despite all of my relatives' tears, I did nothing but stare. I believed God had the power to bring him back, to show Himself in the way He did back when Jesus walked the earth. But, my dad didn't resurrect. The preacher said his words. The casket lowered. And the dirt was reapplied. God died too, for a very long time.

He never promised an easy walk. He promised to give us the strength to endure. He has to have a reason for taking my little girl. I can't lose my faith. It's all I have. But, the pain is sharper than I've ever experienced.

Janet grabs a hold of my hand and says the same thing again. This time, I believe it.

### John Doe

I'm not on the shoulder of the highway anymore. I'm going seventy in a sixty-five. It's a long drive to the shed. And soon M will join the other fourteen beneath the deck of my childhood home.

Teddy is quiet, but I can feel his presence next to me. I am not searching for any form of comfort. Teddy will no longer provide me company. He will tell me what to do, and I will do it. No hesitation. No questions asked. And that will be what my life returns to. And many more children will join M and the others.

The radio just turned on. I didn't touch it.

"In a stunner, the Twins beat the Yankees, building to a nail biting twelfth in—

The station changes: "Hallelujah and glory to the Lo—

It changes again: "Welcome to Talk Radio. It's our open hour. Call in about what you want to discuss. Aliens. Sex. Violence. All three." the man chuckles. "First caller, you are on Talk Radio."

"I was reading about curses." it's a woman.

"And what did you discover?" the man asks.

"I discovered that you can kill someone with one. Okay, I already knew that. But, how easy it can be, I didn't know that."

"How easy is it?"

"Let's just say I prayed darkness on you. At first, nothing would happen. You would maybe have a few strange dreams, nothing more. But, soon enough that darkness would start to grow in you. You would see blood when your eyes closed. It would belong to nobody at first. And then soon it would belong to your wife, and son. Those strange dreams would become strange activities that you didn't remember doing. And then one morning, you would wake up to find the blood you saw when you closed your eyes, is now on the floor. It would all come back to you, as you remembered killing both your wife and son. And then you'd kill yourself too."

"I don't have a wife and son."

"Imagine you did."

"Well, that's interesting caller. Any experience on it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you taken a life?"

"No, but how easy it would be."

The radio shuts off as fast as it came on.

### Matthew Mills

The screen on my cell shows a buzzing phone. I answer this time. The voice on the other end is trying to hide panic, but it's all I can hear.

"Mr. Mills?" she says.

"I got your messages." surprisingly, there is no quiver to my voice. It's calm and collected.

"I'm so sorry—"

"I know." I interrupt.

"Ms. Brands remembers nothing. But, she called Marcy down to the office. We heard it on the intercom. Minutes later, Marcy was gone. Maybe you can come down and talk to her?"

"Sure," I can hear the tone of my voice. It's flat and blank. "I'll be down soon."

The lady on the other end wants to say sorry again. I can hear it in the way she is breathing, and the long pauses between any sounds whatsoever. Instead, she says nothing. And the call ends.

I look up from hanging my head, to see Janet smiling at me from the kitchen. In her hands, she has a dish towel wrapping crushed ice. She walks toward me, kneels again, and applies it gently to my swollen eye.

With my good eye, I look at Janet, and then past her. The picture of Marcy framed on our wall seems brighter than the rest. I remember taking that picture. We were having a picnic. Marcy wanted to feel _giant_. She remained standing, as I took the picture while lying down, catching the sky behind her. It was what I called Ant Vision.

Janet follows my gaze, to look as well. She crawls next to me and nuzzles close. And then we lay down completely, remembering when Marcy got to be _giant_...

### John Doe

Teddy is here, yet he isn't. I can think about things I never could before. The blood doesn't come from me as it once did. His voice doesn't fill my head until control slips from my fingers into his.

But, all I can think about is what I heard on the radio: curses, and how easy it would be to kill someone with one. Those thoughts feel like Teddy.

A different thought just came to mind. This thought doesn't feel like Teddy. It feels like something that Teddy would bleed me dry for thinking. Yet, I'm thinking it, and nothing is happening: If Teddy was gone, would I still take children? How can the answer be so easy? It shouldn't be, but it is. If Teddy was gone, I wouldn't take children. But, the question is irrelevant, because the real truth is, if Teddy was gone, I would be too. There is no other reason for me. He has been with me for as long as I can remember, keeping me hidden, keeping me in the shadows.

The shed is where those shadows lie, covering a secret that Teddy has kept hidden. And his power has spread out from the property, slowly emptying the surrounding town. Minea, Minnesota used to be a town like Payne, North Dakota: not big, but active. Now, it's empty.

### Matthew Mills

The sun pours onto my face as soon as I step from the house. It feels clean, close to the way it felt to be baptized in the Spirit.

Janet's fingers in between mine feel as intimate as when we make love; that, I can't begin to describe.

I told her she could stay home. I told her she didn't have to come down to the school with me. She wants to.

We pass our two vehicles, walking the same path I walked with Marcy only hours ago. I'm hiding my swollen eye behind sunglasses; my nose is badly bruised, but not broken as far as Janet can tell.

"Does it hurt?" she asks.

"I'll be okay." I'm not sure what hurt she's referring to. The inner pain is nearly unbearable; the outer pain is keeping the first from taking me to my knees and keeping me there.

"We'll be okay." Every time she smiles, I look for hints of sadness. I shouldn't, but I do. And all I can see is faith fully surfaced. This visit to the school is going to be much harder for me than it will be for her. She just touched Jesus' hands. She just heard Him say, "It's going to be okay." Her eyes aren't set in the limitations of this world anymore. I imagine those five words are all she is hearing, over and over again. And they will carry her through whatever we hear at the school, and whatever we return to at home.

I'm walking with her, but the clean feeling has become sadness. Her fingers aren't in between mine anymore. She's only holding my hand. I close my eyes and imagine Marcy in place of her. Every time I think about making it through the days without seeing my little girl, I think about how her voice will never call for me again, how I will never get to hug her, or tell her that I love her. And now, I think about how Janet's five words seem more meant for her than me.

### John Doe

Before mom died, Minea was a town I actively participated in. I was in the elementary T-ball program, even though I was the slowest of the kids. They called me _heavy hitter_ , _fat boy_ , and _John Doe the slow_. It was funny to them. Dad came to the games and cheered me on. I'm just remembering that now.

Teddy has kept me fixated on the day daddy stuck me with his piece in the shed. It's all I've been able to remember. It's all I have thought about when thinking back to the days of my childhood. Until now, I've only seen him the way he was after the shed. But now, for some reason I am remembering before the shed. Before his piece. Before Teddy.

The roar of the road is quiet. The hum of this Buick is nearly non-existent. No matter how much I listen, Teddy isn't in my thoughts.

All I can think about—all I can see—are the T-ball days:

"Go get 'em, John!" dad said. He wasn't heavy set like I was. He was tall and thin, and cleanly shaven. Handsome was the word my mom used. I just now remember that as well. I must have only been six, maybe seven at the time. To remember any of this after twenty six years of only remembering the day in the shed, I somehow feel alive, more alive than I have in twenty six years.

### Matthew Mills

All I can wonder as I walk toward the office is this: If I fall, will I get back up? Janet fell and nearly gave up because of it. Had The Lord not visited, she would probably be in the act of ending her life right now. But, He did visit. He helped her back up, and now she is walking with me.

_It's going to be okay_. They are not Janet's words. They are The Lord's. They are a promise. I have to take it as that. If I don't, I will fall, and I will stay down. Faith is all I have left. It's not an exaggeration. It's a statement stripped to its barest truth.

The feeling of being human doesn't change with this realization. There is no elevating above this. Pain shapes us. It will shape me. Lord, help me see Your plan, because I don't.

"I love you, handsome husband of mine." Janet says. Her eyes glisten with the same personality I fell in love with.

"You haven't said that you love me since the miscarriage." I answer quietly. "I wasn't sure if you still did."

"Of course I do. I was ashamed. I was broken into so many pieces. I failed. It was all I could feel. And I was even failing as M's mom." something has grown in her eyes: sadness, or something close to it. "I know that Jesus came to me. I know that He told me, 'It's going to be okay.' But, I was so hurt, I neglected her. I could have had one more week with my daughter, my little M. And now she is gone."

Why is comfort the only thing I feel from seeing Janet's sadness? If I'm completely honest with myself, I envied her. Deep inside, her indifference to the situation made me feel like my wife was already gone. But, I was wrong. Her eyes are set in this very moment, in this very reality. Jesus didn't numb her of what we have to face. He picked her back up, and let five words be His promise. Now, it's about faith. Now, it's about letting His promise keep us afloat.

Grief is tumultuous. It's a sea with waves that keep tossing and thrashing. The only thing that keeps you from sinking is whatever piece is left from the already sunken ship. And you drift. Days become weeks. Weeks become months. Months become years. You stay in the present moment, because the future is too big. All you have is that little piece of the ship. You cling onto it. If you let go, you drown. If you give in, you die. I have lived this. But, there's something this metaphor on grief doesn't include: the Holy Hands that lift you back up to the surface even when you let go.

We are at the office doors now. I can see two women through the glass windows. They see me too. Their eyes seem to dart away from mine. Janet opens the door. Our hands stay together as we enter.

"Hi, Janet," one of the women say. She is the younger of the two. The other is an old face of layered wrinkles.

"Hello," Janet replies.

"And you are Matthew?" she asks.

"Yes," I answer.

"I'm Mrs. Fig. I'm the Principal." she pauses. "First of all, we have already made the authorities aware of Marcy's disappearance. I want to apologize to you both. I don't even know how this happened. Marcy was in class. Ms. Brands paged her down to the office. And then—" she stops whatever she was about to say. "Ms. Brands is going to tell you what she remembers."

The face of wrinkles moves. I can now see that her hair is a tight white pony tail.

"I can remember talking to her. I don't remember what she asked me. I don't remember what I said. I just remember seeing her."

"Was she with anyone?" Janet asks.

Ms. Brand's eyes fill with confusion, like asking a patient with dementia to remember their social security number.

"Uh," she says, now blankly staring past us.

"Ms. Brands?" the Principal is sharply authoritative.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember."

"Go home, Ms. Brands. We'll decide what actions to take tomorrow."

Without another word, she gets up and leaves. Her eyes don't meet mine. She just leaves, eyes still completely lost.

### John Doe

The closer I get to the shed, the more everything about it returns. It begins with daddy. It always has. Not the man I am remembering, but the man he has been to me for the past twenty six years. It begins with how I helped Teddy become as strong as he is, because when it all started, he couldn't shield me from their eyes. He couldn't keep me hidden. He instructed me on how to grow that power in him, and that covering over me. And I listened.

"It begins with his blood." he told me after the cops left. "Use the leftover needles in your mom's bag. Withdraw a sample of his blood from the floor, and inject it into his cigarette box. Leave it out and on display in the shed. There is power in the blood, John."

I did what he told me to do. The pack is still on display. It's the first thing I see whenever I go back. And then I see the teddy bears on the highest shelf, with eyes painted to match the child they belong to.

Even as I think about the shed, memories of before continue to spill in. He was a happy, hopeful man. You could see it in his eyes. He carried it like a badge. He loved my mom with all he had. You could see that too. And he loved me.

The shed has always been a place for keeping things hidden. If Teddy were talking to me right now, I know he would say that this time is different. There was something about Matthew that weakened him. This isn't just another visit to bury M. He wants Matthew dead like her. He wants to showcase his power. Just like with dad twenty six years ago, he wants me to help.

I don't know why Teddy hasn't said a word to me since nearly killing me. The radio program had the feel of Teddy, but it was distant. He wasn't in the deepest parts of my brain, fighting for control. He was on the outside. The only thing that has changed since he nearly killed me is the light I saw, the light I don't deserve.

Is that your weakness, Teddy? Light? I saw it in Matthew and it was the brightest I have ever seen in M. If what she said is true, Teddy, the light isn't gone from me. Not completely. And now you can't control me like you did. You can't keep me from remembering dad before the shed. Every trip has been to bury things, but this time, Teddy, I'm going to dig something up. I'm going to find the reason dad changed. He had love once. Where did it go? I think you know, Teddy. I think you know.

### Matthew Mills

After Ms. Brands left, Mrs. Fig stuttered through a badly rehearsed speech. Words like _don't worry_ and _keep the faith_ were peppered throughout. Janet and I left her office with the same fake handshake we met her with. I have learned nothing about what happened to Marcy. The words I was told inspired nothing in me. No false hope. No new insight. Nothing.

We are both walking slowly. My eyes glance at Marcy's empty locker. Janet's fall on it and stare.

"Everything is going to be okay, sweetie." I don't know why I am saying this. By the way her eyes look at me, she doesn't either.

I have had faith in every aspect of my life, from marrying Janet young, to trusting the Lord in the loss of my first and now second son. But, every time I try to wrap my head around the reality of Marcy's death—I feel like I am floating away. Janet's hand is holding mine, but her closeness is fading.

Grief is a vast sea. I was on land. But now, I am drifting away. There is only one truth I know for certain. I will not be able to drift for years like I did when losing my dad. Right now, I won't even make it weeks, maybe not even days.

Janet's pace has suddenly quickened. She is pulling me with her. Marcy's locker blends in with the rest; the doors are only feet away. We break through. The sunlight doesn't have the same clean feeling it did when I left the house. Now my face is throbbing. The nose pieces of the glasses feel like tight fingers pressing together. I pull off the shades.

We turn to leave the way we came. Ms. Brands is standing at the end of the sidewalk. Her back is hunched, staring across the street. She still looks lost.

"If you want to talk to her, you can. I'm going home." Janet says. And with that, she leaves my side. No kiss goodbye. Just a quiet exit.

Before I arrive, Ms. Brands turns to me. "Albert's eyes were scared."

"What?" I ask, staying a few feet away.

"Albert's eyes were scared. Pained. Terrified." by the way she now looks, those words could be describing her.

"Who's Albert?"

"My Albert." the reply creaks out of her, soft and troubled. "My Al-Albert."

"Your husband?"

"Not anymore." she answers, as if talking to herself. The answer isn't directed at me. It's just a reply. Her eyes have yet to focus on mine. "He's dead now." now, her eyes look empty. There is no sadness to them, or bitterness, or hostility.

What I know of Ms. Brands is what I have heard over the phone. Whenever Marcy was sick, she would take the call-in. Ms. Brands' voice was tight and strict. She was an old woman who had been doing the job too long. Everyday was routine. Children were headaches. That was the woman I knew over the phone. This woman is a scooped out shell, troubled and lost.

I haven't thought about this morning until now. The Lord prompted me to anoint Marcy. When I look into Ms. Brands' eyes, I get that same chill I had when Marcy looked at me before running down to the devil's call. The visions of blood, the restless nights—it makes sense now. The Lord knew something was coming that would directly affect me. He was preparing me. But, I don't feel prepared.

### John Doe

Perspective is beginning to grow in me. I don't know where it's coming from. The only time I remember having true perspective was before the shed. I have lived in a fog, completely aware of it without trying to escape. There was nothing outside of Teddy and our existence together. No brighter days. No happiness. No light. After dad stuck me with his piece, Teddy became my only friend. A companion who helped me carry my shame in secret, in hiding.

Teddy never implanted in me a fascination for children. There has never been an attraction to them, nothing close to it. But, this is where my perspective ends. Why I have lured so many children away from their protected lives to let Teddy kill them, I will never know.

I am fighting. Even if there is light in me, do I want it to be there? Do I deserve to feel any sort of redemption? Any kind of relief from this fog? Any light in the darkness of me? The man I was at the beginning of this day is not the same man I am now. Not completely. I don't feel so trapped inside myself. The view from my eyes has cleared and I can see things for what they are now. Not what Teddy says they are.

I don't miss him. I thought I would. I thought it would feel like a friend abandoning me. But, instead it feels like chains being loosened.

I can see M in the rearview mirror. Her skin is still the color of pale cream. She has yet to appear what she is: dead. I look at myself in the same mirror. The man looking back at me is unrecognizable. My facial hair curls unevenly across my top lip and bunches in uneven patches across my cheeks, chin, and neck. My teeth are something to be hidden, but I look at them anyway. The cut from where I dug my nail is now a hardened scab. Everything about the way I look is the same. Yet, I don't recognize myself.

Drug addicts describe this feeling as _clean_. There's something inside that is different. It's what makes the reflection seem like a stranger. They have only known that dirty feeling for so long, that _clean_ is unrecognizable.

My sins aren't piling up in my head. I am completely aware of what my role has been in killing children. I deserve the dirty feeling. There is no other truth. I deserve to feel trapped inside myself, yet I don't.

I take a deep breath, and then another. Clean. It's all I can feel.

### Matthew Mills

I asked Ms. Brands to tell me about Albert. The reply has been vague. He was her husband, but only at times does that register any emotion in her. I haven't tried to bring up Marcy again. Ms. Brands can tell me nothing about it. Though, the darkness in her knows. It's what The Lord has been preparing me for.

"What are you?" I ask.

Her eyes snap alive with piercing accuracy. "I am powerful." it whispers. Her hand touches mine. But, it's not her hand. It's tighter than that. My eyes close. I can't stop them. Children are screaming: _Help me!_ , but it's muffled. There is only darkness. The cries have become laughter. Deep. Distorted. Now, it's building. There is more than one. It's a symphony of mocking sounds. I can hear the cries. I can hear the laughter.

As soon as it started, it stops.

"Marcy is next!" it resumes, fuller and more chaotic than before. I try to call the name of Jesus, but my tongue won't form words. I try to pull away, but I am paralyzed.

"He-Hel-Help," it's all I can say. It does nothing. The darkness has faded into the image of our last time together. But, the view is not mine. It's from across the street, through eyes that belong to someone else. I am watching me. We are being watched. Or, we were—I still am.

"Daddy!" it's Marcy. I would know her voice anywhere. "It hurts! Help me!"

I try to say Jesus again. The words bunch up into something else and come out as _Sesuj_. A second try brings _Jusje_. The third is stuttered then strong. I call His name. As soon as they closed, my eyes open. Ms. Brands is blank once again.

I walk away, saying nothing more. My steps are fast and only quicken. When my eyes close, I hear the laughter and the cries. The tight grip on my hand is still there, even though nothing is holding it. I feel watched, by eyes I can't see. They are peering into the deepest parts of me, pulling apart my defenses—they know my weaknesses. The Lord is my Shepherd. He is my Savior. But, I am drifting, and a storm is coming. No. It's already here. And I am vulnerable.

The eyes that see into me have a familiar feeling. After dad died, darkness and I shared a room. It perched in the corner, watching me. I know darkness. It's a weight that only gets heavier. It's a lie that convinces until it's your truth: _There is no God. If there is, why does He let you suffer? You don't want to live. There is just this miserable, heavy, painful life. Kill yourself. No one cares about you. No one would even notice if you were gone._

Darkness is a lie I once believed.

### John Doe

Quiet used to be deafening. Now, it's nowhere close. The road is a quiet roar beneath my tires. My mind is toying with an idea that I haven't been able to have before. I don't want to drive to the shed, and add M's body to the rest. I want to bring her back to Payne. Just as her death was peaceful, I want the same for those who love her. There isn't much left of me. Even this new layer is just remains of a man who has nothing to live for. I am remembering happiness, but that doesn't change the things I've done. I am accountable for the lives I have ruined. My punishment will be severe. It needs to be.

The gas is nearly half. I could probably make it another couple hundred miles. Once it runs out, this is over. I will turn myself in. Her body will make its way back to Payne, and her family can say goodbye. If Teddy were still here, I would have been dead long before this plan had a chance to enter my mind.

Teddy is in the corner of my eye. Small yet large. It is just a bear. Faded brown. Aged. He is small in size, but the presence surrounding him fills the seat next to me. It is returning again, not in my mind, but in the car. The radio is back on. Static. Station. Static. Station. And then it stops.

"Found in the woods earlier this morning was a male. John Doe, approximately mid to late 30's, was found split open and gutted. Authorities believe it wasn't human."

The station changes:

" _Eyes multiplied. Two times eight. And then double. It sees me, inside and out._

Daddy touched me. It watched. It laughed.

Lids. Half of them shut. Half of them open. And then switch.

It's a man. It's a creature. It's not human. It watches. It sees.

There is no escape."

The radio is off. I now don't know if it was ever actually on. It feels like I was sleeping. The tingle of Teddy is present, but it's fading.

Time feels different. My gas gauge is much lower than I remember. The sun's placement in the sky seems closer to the horizon. It was just after twelve o'clock when I last looked at the clock on the radio. Now, it's two.

### Matthew Mills

I have been in the basement since getting back home. It's been well over an hour and a half, and I have yet to go back upstairs. Janet might not even know I am down here. I am haunted. The darkness that grabbed my hand has followed me home. Now, whenever I close my eyes, the laughing fills my ears.

My dad's notes have kept me sober in situations that drive many to addiction. He was an addict. That was before he and mom met, before I was even a conceived idea. Mom was an addict, too. The Lord delivered her in a cleaner, more severed way though. He also delivered my dad, but there were scars from an abusive childhood that never healed. And they became translucent, mostly through these notes.

He kept them hidden. I found them when cleaning out the attic of the old house, when helping mom move. I don't think she even knew about them. We all keep secrets. Dad's were of struggle. And his struggle gives me hope. No matter how much we fall, the Lord will pick us back up. My dad was living testimony to this. He faced his consequences, because those are promised to us just as much as blessings are. But, in the end, his walk with Jesus was all that mattered.

Mom has always told me this: _sin knocks as a stranger, enters as a guest, and stays as a master_. Nothing is truer. Sin is a living creature. It remembers who it shared a room with, who it used to own. It knows me. I'm older now, both in spirit and in age, but it remembers the hold it used to have.

Something familiar grabbed hold of me. I feel eyes, the same eyes that followed me in my bedroom this morning, the same eyes that watched me from inside Ms. Brands.

I am flipping through dad's notes. They are scrambled, with thoughts scribbled. Dashes are spread across them like commas. Some of these were written during his sickness, others before. He didn't date them. These notes aren't a chronicle of his illness. There is no timeline. Some are written in ink, some in pencil. He hardly ever mentions the cancer. But, I recognize some of the scenarios. I remember being the little boy, next to him when no one else could be, hearing the grim diagnoses build until it was us accepting his drawn out death.

I have searched these notes over and over, especially since Janet had her second miscarriage. Dad had to deal with two miscarriages himself. There was brief mention about it in one of his earliest notes. It isn't dated. There is just a look to the paper, the smeared ink, and the little doodles that line the sides. It looks older than the rest, considerably.

His sanity, worth, and identity were always in question. But, he never questioned Jesus Christ. He wasn't afraid of death. In many of the notes, he talked about it as a reward: _Death is the light; life is the dark_. Dad probably never knew that these random scribblings of self doubt, fear, and faith would speak to me as if he were still here. Or maybe he did.

### John Doe

These hands are still mine to control. If that is the truth, where did two hours disappear to? Teddy has taken over this body many times, but I have always been aware of it. In my own way, I have allowed it, because it was going to happen regardless. This feeling is something different. It feels like I had freedom, only to remember that a chain is still clasped around my ankle.

That is a life that isn't mine. But, I try to cast the freedom away, only to find it clings to me. There is more. Or _something_ has me believing it. Teddy's hold is strong again. I helped grow his power—his hold on me. And as we get closer and closer to Minea, his influence is finding its way back. I felt lighter, but now the weight is becoming heavy again.

Two nights ago, I had a dream that a chain was wrapped tightly around my ankles. I was being pulled. I only had control of my eyes. I could only watch. The sound of the chain dragging against ground echoed against my ears. My hands were pinned to my sides; my legs didn't kick to get free. I watched as it pulled me through my childhood kitchen toward the basement stairs. There was nothing I could do. I was pulled down the stairs slowly, hearing the creak of something following behind. As my feet hit the basement floor, countless eyes opened on the walls. They were the eyes of children; they were the eyes of Teddy; they were the eyes dad had when he stuck me with his piece. Behind me, I could still see the light of the upstairs. But, the chain kept pulling me forward. Inch by inch, foot by foot. Until, I saw deformed hands the color of soot.

And then I woke up. Two nights ago, the dream was just that: a dream. But, as I have come to find perspective, I'm a fly in a spider web, slowly being pulled to my death. Teddy got in again. He used the radio. He messed with my perception of time. I don't know how far we have traveled. I just know that his presence is heavy and full next to me once again.

But, he still doesn't have full control. These hands are still mine to control, at least, for the moment. I know one thing for certain. Teddy and I are not the pairing we used to be. I'm a puppet who now knows that life doesn't come with strings. And I want free. I know I don't deserve it—no, I do deserve it. Those children are dead because of these hands, but someone else was always controlling them. Dad was the only one I killed. Teddy made me feel fresh despite all of my shame. Dad became everything I hated. I didn't question why he would do something like that. I questioned nothing. When my teddy bear came to life, I felt safe. After the shed, safety was all I wanted. But, it didn't last. It never does.

### Matthew Mills

The stairs are creaking. I can hear the quiet breathing of Janet.

"Matthew?" I can hear her call too. "Are you down here, sweetheart?"

"Yes." I reply. Dad's notes are back behind the desk, in the box where I found them.

"What are you doing down here?" Her question reaches me before I see her face.

"I don't even know." And I don't. I suppose I am just trying to pass the time. When three o' clock comes, I know that I'll wait to hear Marcy come home.

"Sweetheart, your face looks very swollen." Janet's in the doorway of my small office now.

I have disregarded the fact that it has become more difficult to see out of my right eye. The pressure that's been building around the center of my face has numbed completely. My face is bruised and beaten. It's how I feel inside, both in body and in spirit. Ms. Brands had something in her, and it attached itself to me. I feel exhausted in every aspect.

"Come upstairs with me. You don't need to be down here alone. I know that you want your time, but I know you, Matthew. When you look at me with eyes like that, you are letting every thought fill your head. We can cry, but not alone. Not down here. There are too many shadows, too much darkness. You need light."

"Okay." I don't want to go with her. She can talk this way only because Jesus came to her. Before that, she treated me like a _crazy_ for having faith. I anointed her this morning because I felt something dark trying to get in, and she laughed at me. Only hours later, how can she be the one who has the solid ground? How can she be the one who is offering me the light?

I have been standing in the gap for her for five nights, willing to take on her hurt so she doesn't have to feel it. And it has transferred. My knees are about to buckle. I am haunted. I am in throbbing pain. My faith is there but hard to reach. Every time I try to give it all to Jesus, and lay it at the foot of the cross, my feelings overtake me. Feeling is enemy to the Spirit. It is fickle and fleeting. It is human, backed by emotion, thought, and reason. It is telling me to resent Janet for how easy it has become for her.

But, I don't. She would be dead had it not been for that encounter. It's a selfish part of me that wants to see The Lord for myself. I wasn't nearing suicide, like Janet. I wanted her to be lifted up. And now that she is, part of me wants her sad again. This is feeling.

### John Doe

Everyone called him Little Tommy. His actual name was Thomas Aerie. Dad's death gave Teddy a hold on my childhood home; Thomas Aerie's gave Teddy a place to call his own. The events that led to the killing of Thomas began with something as simple as an idea. I remember the moment that it flooded into my head, images and all. He was a pale skinned boy with blonde hair almost the same color. His voice was quiet and careful. He didn't like to offend, or disrupt. It's the reason I believe Teddy had for choosing him. The light in Thomas was almost as bright as it was in M.

Thomas Aerie is my true origin, and I still question how I could have done what I did to him. He was only seven and small for his age. I had seen Thomas many times before. He lived in Minea, just minutes away from me.

I was barely fourteen. The fingers of Teddy were already deep in me—they had been since the moment I killed dad. His voice was the only one I wanted to hear, like a compass guiding me. He didn't just sit in my thoughts. He pulled on my feelings. When I saw Thomas, I could only see the light. The light that I no longer had. The light that had been taken from me when my mom died. And it made me hate him.

That hate grew, until one night I dreamt of turning out the light in him. And when I woke up, my mind filled with vivid ideas of just how to do it. It came in images and sounds. It wasn't something Teddy was telling me, but he was presenting the option. If I couldn't have the light, why should anyone else?

When I thought of Thomas, I thought of dad, and then I thought of the shed. I thought of the fear I felt, and the hate that accompanied it. Killing dad was the beginning. But, it didn't end there. It only grew.

Teddy knew of my pain. He said it would be lifelong. He said that turning the lights out in others would help make the pain go away. It did at first...

Thomas ran through my yard, out of breath and terrified. Three others had followed him. They were boys, my age and younger.

"We just wanna play, Little Tommy!" they said. He ran down the gravel path, past the house. At first I only heard his feet kicking up gravel, but then I saw him. Teddy had told me it would happen this way. And as it was playing out, his voice whispered directions to me. He told me to call him toward the house. And I did.

I was his protector. That was Teddy's first direction. Thomas ran toward me, and slipped inside the house. We waited in the entryway.

"They're gonna hurt me." his voice was still that small squeak, now covered with a coating of fear. I could nearly hear his heartbeat in his breath.

"No they won't." I don't want to think about what comes next. Every word I told him was a lie. Every small smile I gave, every reassuring word I said, was all an act. I never had any intention of protecting him. It was all part of Teddy's plan. I could have stopped, but I didn't.

A small voice tried to tell me that I didn't have to do it. It tried, but failed. Whenever I would consider listening, I filled with hate. Maybe that was Teddy. Or maybe it was me. I still don't really know.

I only know what comes next in the true origin of me. I led him away from the entryway, and up the stairs. Knocks were coming from the front door, with voices saying, "We know you're in there, Little Tommy! You can't hide forever!"

His eyes weren't wide and terrified anymore. They were like M's. The light I saw made me grab a hold of his neck and squeeze. I thought of dad sticking me with his piece, the pain of losing mom, and before I knew it, breath didn't come from him anymore. I don't remember a struggle. Maybe there was none. All I remember are his eyes. They haunted me, because even in his death, I saw the light.

### Matthew Mills

I'm at the top of the stairs, hugging Janet. Her head fits like a puzzle piece with my shoulder. Neither of us has said anything. I can tell that it's something that she missed. I've missed it too.

When we were young, our hugs became extended slow dances. Sometimes music wasn't required at all. I would do my best rendition of Elvis' Can't Help Falling in Love. I try it again right now, but only tears come to her eyes. Maybe it's too soon.

Now, there's a kiss.

"I love you, Matthew." she whispers as she kisses me a second time. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, beautiful," I reply. She smiles. And just like when we were young, our hug has become a slow dance. I have never actually known the lyrics to the song, so I just hum over the parts I don't know. That makes her smile. The Lord has given me this moment to have with her.

I'm midway through the chorus for a second time. Her smile is pulling me in, and I'm about to kiss her deeply. It's the first time in at least a week that I have felt this way toward her. Nothing sexual can happen. It's far too soon after the miscarriage. Even in my attraction I know this. And she does too. But, that doesn't keep her from kissing me deeply, and rubbing her hands down my arms. We know we can't, but we want to.

There's a knock at the door. I can see the immediate switch in Janet's eyes. The mood is gone. She kisses me once more and then walks into the kitchen.

The first knock was quiet. The second one isn't. It's loud. I get to the door before a third knock happens. It's Ms. Brands. And all I can feel is fear. Something is in her, and it followed me home. And now, so did she.

Her eyes are different than when I last saw her. They are more aware somehow.

"Marcy didn't leave the school alone. There was a man with her."

"What did he look like?" I'm shocked, but able to speak. My stomach feels bottomless.

She is turning around to leave.

"What did he look like?!"

When she looks at me again, her eyes are lost.

### Answers/Fallen

### John Doe

Thomas' disappearance was soon overshadowed by the deaths of the three boys who had chased him. There was never any explanation found as to why, but three days after Thomas' death, all three boys were found face down in the stream, after having jumped from the top of the downtown bridge. The explanation was as simple as this: Teddy got inside their heads. Even though Thomas' death wasn't slow and methodical like Teddy had planned, it was my act of obedience following his strangulation that gave him all the more power. I stuck his skin with a needle, withdrew his blood, and placed the vial where I was instructed to. Mom had a full collection of teddy bears. I chose one that was small and shy and slipped the vial inside.

Teddy wanted to put on a show. His power grew from an idea planted in the boys' heads to complete control. He wanted to be the reason a small town lost its sense of comfort, even safety. And the deaths of the three boys did just that. The articles began as inexplicable and eventually became wild speculation that never got close to the real truth. It cast a dark shadow over a town that had been spry and light.

What followed is a lot of the same. After Thomas, Teddy had me in a position I couldn't break free from. Two people were already dead because of me. What was a third? Or a fourth? It's how I thought. And Teddy took advantage of it. The years passed. The town emptied. And the body count grew.

I have lived in a prison I helped build, year after year. But, there has never been a child like M. Before her, Thomas was the brightest light I had ever seen. The only difference is the hate I had for the light then, has now become a longing. I can't believe I am able to admit this to myself. Just hours ago I felt there was no hope for me, no redemption, no reason for me to fight to get free. I didn't even think it was possible. I used to think Teddy was all powerful, but there has to be something behind that light with even more power. If there isn't, I would be dead right now.

I just passed a sign. The words are faded and lines of graffiti mark it in both red and black. But, I can still see what it says: Minea‒18 miles. A second and third town follows farther down the sign. One is 48 miles; the other is 124.

With Minea being only eighteen miles away, I know this much. I am either going to die at Teddy's hands or I am going to get free of him.

### Matthew Mills

Ms. Brands walked away and out of sight. I wanted to follow, but something told me not to. It was a quiet voice talking in the thick of my thoughts. Or maybe it was the fear I now feel when she gets close to me. I have been trying to plead the Blood of Jesus over my mind. I have been trying to rebuke the demon that held my hand and followed me home. I know my authority in Christ, but I also know that right now I don't believe what I know. Why did Jesus tell me to anoint my little girl this morning? If she is protected under the Blood, how was she taken by a man no one remembers? How was she taken at all? If there is such power in the Blood, why is she not about to come home to me?

I need an answer, because this goes against everything I have ever believed about Him—everything I have ever known. After my dad died, handfuls of people would tell me that it all was part of God's plan. They had said I just couldn't see it. That was true. And even years later, I have never been given an answer why. I won't be able to handle being told that again. It already feels like I've been lied to. If there is such power in the Blood, how is my little girl dead?

Despite all the years I have walked with Jesus, 'it's going to be okay' isn't enough. It feels like my heart has been ripped out and dangled in front of me. My heart is Your home, Lord. And with it gone, it feels like You're gone too. All the years I have walked with You, to now feel completely alone makes me wonder what I have done to deserve this.

I can't just sit and wait to see what happens. I have been waiting to see what would happen for a full week, searching for Jesus in the quiet; searching for Him in His word. I didn't fully mourn the loss of our baby. Maybe because I knew Marcy was just in the other room. But, now I am a father who has been stripped of the title.

So many fathers would hold onto hope that their daughter is still alive. They would thank God for bringing her home safely, even if they didn't believe in Him, becoming violent to anybody that told them to prepare for the worst. I know that my Marcy is dead. The only hope I have now—the only thing I have control over is bringing her body home and giving her a burial that is dignified. And after that? I don't have an answer.

### John Doe

Eighteen miles have become fourteen. The fields are bare, with small areas still layered in frost. The plastic bags in the back seat are ruffling. I glance in my rearview. It's not M I see, but Thomas.

"We've been waiting for you, John." his voice is shy like I remember it to be. "We're all waiting. The father of the eyes is waiting too."

I try to say something, but my tongue is clogging my throat.

I glance again. Thomas' face is now full of eyes. They blink simultaneously, as a small smile becomes wider than humanly possible. I close my eyes, but his face follows. I open my eyes again. He's now sitting next to me. Small and shy. It's exactly how I remember him looking. But, now he terrifies me.

"You're dead." I'm able to whisper.

"Yes. And soon, you will be too." he smiles at me again with that wide smile and then disappears.

Fourteen miles have become twelve.

The fear I feel right now is far different from anything I have ever felt. I can only clench the steering wheel and watch as the miles lessen and lessen. Soon, I will pass through the town. Soon, the car will arrive at my childhood home. Who I saw wasn't Thomas, but Teddy. The something I call Teddy appears differently outside of the bear sitting next to me. It has many eyes. It watched and It laughed as dad stuck me with his piece.

I have been lied to from the very beginning. And now I very well may lose my life trying to get free. But, there is still a light in me. I have to believe that, because something has kept Teddy out of my head, something has kept him from killing me. That little bit of light is all I have going back to my childhood home. It's the only thing I have protecting me. The fear I feel is heavy.

Twelve miles has become nine.

### Matthew Mills

Janet called for me from the upstairs as I was leaving. I didn't answer. Instead, I followed after Ms. Brands. And now I'm behind her, back by the school. The voice telling me to avoid her has faded from my mind.

"What did he look like, Ms. Brands? I know you can hear me. Speak!" I'm following her slow dragging with fast steps. Her scent is stale. "Come on, Ms. Brands. You saw what he looked like. You saw! Tell me!"

She turns. Her eyes are as blank as ever. Blank but full. Full of something else other than herself. It should scare me, but it doesn't. I feel anger. It's boiling up from the center of me. I close my eyes. There isn't laughing. But, there is something. It's a view of a passenger glancing at the driver, though it's blurred. The view now turns toward the backseat. It's Marcy. Even blurred to this point, I recognize my little girl: the blonde hair, the blue ribbons tied into bows, the sky blue dress.

My eyes open. My hands are wrapped around Ms. Brands' neck and I'm screaming. I try to let go, but I only squeeze tighter. I'm watching her eyes bulge. Her face is red—now blue. I can't let go.

"Just tell me!" I scream. "Tell me what he looks like!"

She won't. Her eyes remain blank no matter how much they bulge.

"Tell me!" I scream even louder. In trying to loosen my grip, it only tightens. I close my eyes, trying to let go. I'm going to kill her. I can't stop.

I open my eyes again. I'm not squeezing her neck. I'm squeezing my other hand. She is nearly half a block away from me, now past the school. But, I can feel the anger still pumping through me. The small voice that tells me to go back home makes me even madder. I know that I am too angry to be anywhere near her. But, I also know that there are answers in her. I saw my Marcy in the backseat of a car. Ms. Brands doesn't have the answers. Something in her does. And it is revealing them to me.

The small voice has gotten louder. _Go home_. It is saying. _You are in danger_.

No matter how alone I feel, I know there is power in the Blood of Jesus. It covers my mind, body, soul, and spirit. I am protected. Jesus may feel gone, but He is always present. He is always with me. He knows everything I think before I think it, every action I will take before I take it. He knows that I am going to follow Ms. Brands wherever she goes, because I need an answer. This is the only thing keeping me from the state Janet was in just earlier this morning.

If I'm honest with myself, I am already at that state. I'm just more active. I don't have a vision of the future. I have a vision of finding my girl and that's it. Nothing else matters.

### John Doe

MINEA

Good Things Come in Small Packages

The WELCOME sign is behind me. I am only a couple of miles away now. Minea is a small skyline, with silos accenting both ends of the town. It has been a couple of years since I have been here. But, it is all too familiar.

The fields are as bare as the town. There isn't a car in sight. Every store is abandoned, with wooden boards across the doors and windows. The homes are weather worn; the yards are thin patches of dead grass.

Fear is crawling on top of me. The presence next to me has filled the air around Minea. It's thick and heavy. I try to think about the light, but pain shoots through my eyes. There are now children standing in the yards. Their smiles are just as big as Thomas' was. They move faster than I can blink. I pass one yard only to find they are in the next.

Now, they have formed a line in front of the bridge. Smiles wide. Eyes multiplied. I can hear them laughing. It's filling every area of my mind. The pain shooting through my eyes has stabbed through my nostrils as well. I am dizzy. The control I felt over the car is now a spin. Or, it feels like it.

"Join us, John!" they're all in the car with me. I can't close my eyes. They're there. I can't open them. They're there too. Their smiles! They're too wide for their faces! "It's scary under the house! Join us! You put us there! It's only fair!"

"Leave me alone!" I say, or try to. But, they won't. I can't concentrate enough to even know if I've passed over the bridge or if I crashed into it.

"It laughed, John! It laughed as your daddy put his piece in you!" they are laughing again. "It watched!"

"Shut up!" it doesn't matter how loud I scream it, they won't. The eyes are only growing. I feel watched from everywhere.

"You will die, John." Now, I can hear the quiet voice of Teddy. The laughing has stopped. It's quiet. "There is no escape."

It's quiet enough that I can hear my heart beating. I am over the bridge, driving on the wrong side of the road. There is no pain in my eyes or through my nostrils, but there is blood: on the seat, on my shirt, clumping in my mustache and past.

There are only a few houses left to pass until I am past town. My childhood home is less than a mile away. Something is in the corner of my eye. Thomas is being chased by the three boys, right next to the car. He looks at me, the terrified boy I remember him being. I feel the same way. He was the beginning of what I've become. And now, he is leading me to the end.

### Matthew Mills

Ms. Brands has stopped after walking more than a block past the school. She's kind of swaying, in front of a house that has a yard sign saying: Everyone Welcome! (except cats)

She is walking toward it, with her keys out and ready to enter.

"Come in, Matthew." it creaks out of her as she approaches the door. "Everybody is welcome."

I shake off the shiver I feel from the thought of _everyone_ and follow her toward the door.

_Don't go in_. The small voice says. _Go home_.

I shake off the voice too. Her front door is open. I can see into her living room. It is much cozier than I expected. A small sofa is against the far wall, and a wooden rocker is in front of what is probably a TV.

She is inside now, taking off her black low heels and placing them in the entryway. Every time her eyes meet mine, a chill shoots down my spine. I know there is something demonic in her. But, I also know I am covered in the Blood.

I am up the three stairs and stepping into her house. Another chill. The biggest yet. I close my eyes and shake it away. The door is already closed as I open them again. Her house is lit dimly. The curtains block out most of the natural light. The house has one floor. I can see nearly every room from where I am standing. All doors are open wide. Her kitchen is straight ahead, nuzzled into a small corner.

"Can you find Gizmo and Dizzy for me, Matthew?" she asks, now sitting in her rocker. She is staring at a blank television screen.

"Who's that?"

"My little stinkers." a reply that has some sense of life to it. "They are brother and sister yorkie terriers. Gizmo gets a little pink bow in her hair; Dizzy barks his head off if I try and give him one." a smile has crawled onto her lips.

"Okay."

"They were last in the bathroom, drying off from the bath I gave them when I got home."

I walk toward the bathroom. It is the opposite corner from the kitchen. "What did the man look like, Ms. Brands?"

"Did you find them?" she asks.

I am nearly at the bathroom. I can't explain why it feels so dark even with the sunlight spilling through.

"Dizzy. Gizmo." I call quietly. "You are wanted." I step into the bathroom. The shower curtain is closed. Out of my periphery, I see the mirror reflecting my movements. I look back toward Ms. Brands. She continues to call for them.

I pull back the shower curtain. Dizzy and Gizmo are dead, floating face down in dirty bathwater.

"Did you find them?" she calls again.

"No." it's the only thing I can say. Out of my periphery, I see the mirror reflecting something that's moving beside me. When I close my eyes, I hear splashes. I hear the sound of twin terriers being drowned.

I can walk enough that my feet drag toward the living room. The bathroom door slams closed behind me. I can hear the curtain draw back and the water splashing. Something is not just in Ms. Brands. It is here, in her house. Maybe it killed Dizzy and Gizmo while Ms. Brands was out. Or maybe, Ms. Brands killed them in the state she has been in.

"Matthew?" her call is a quiet growl.

I glance. Her eyes are like burnished stone.

"Minea." her smile seems too big for her face. When I look again, she is just sitting and staring.

I'm at the door, scared to look back. I feel watched, from Ms. Brands, from the open rooms, from the ceiling above. I open the door. The day is bright. I enter it, and walk back toward home, but to me it still feels like I'm in a dark room.

### John Doe

What does it mean to fear death? I never have before. Maybe there was a time before Teddy where I dreaded closing my eyes for the last time, but I don't remember it. I wanted Teddy to kill me earlier today. When he didn't, the fear of death appeared. And now I am unable to move.

I've been parked in this spot many times, only in a car different from the one I'm in, but that's the only detail that has changed. Like the rest of the town, nothing is alive. The grass is thin brown patches; the trees are as bare as the sides of the house. The shed is barely peeking out from behind the house's wraparound deck. This is how so many of my nightmares begin.

I dream like everyone else. When my eyes close, I'm somewhere different. Usually, I'm right at this very spot, looking at what I'm now seeing. Until today, it hasn't mattered. I would dream of the shed and dad's piece. I would dream of mom dying, leaving me alone with him. And then I would wake to Teddy's instruction. And I would feel nothing. Fear requires will. I had none. I didn't care what happened to me. I was biding my time, completely aware that someday it would end. Death hasn't scared me...

Now it does. I know punishment is coming. If not from Teddy, from the parents I have broken, once I give them back their children. It is a fight in me I don't understand. The freedom will be short lived: lonely but light. And then I will be seen as the monster Teddy always said I was. It doesn't matter if I would take it all back. I can't. Fifteen children are dead because of these hands. Maybe I never touched M. But, she's dead because of me. I'm fighting to get free from this so that I can finally be seen.

Why do I want to be seen? That's the question I can't answer. Something inside me is fueling this, something I can't describe. I understand what is going to happen if I get free. I'll be hated by everyone. Death threats will be the only letters I receive. But, something is telling me _that_ is freedom compared to this.

### Matthew Mills

When darkness and I shared a room, I pretended it wasn't there, despite the many times I knew it was watching. It feels like I'm approaching the same set of mind. More and more I want to reason away what is happening. No matter how many years I have followed The Lord, my mind never completely stops trying to convince me that everything I believe is fake.

_Marcy is my mission. Finding her is all that matters. If that means losing myself, and what I believe_ — my mind is lying to me right now. I'm not going to pretend that this can be reasoned away by what the world says is logic. It can't. I'm poking a monster, stepping into places that I should avoid. That little voice I ignored is not my conscience, it's my Guide. I disobeyed. And now the darkness Ms. Brands has given a home, is trying to take up residence in me.

It has already started. From the anger that feels deep enough to be in my marrow, to the sickening thoughts that now circle in my head, darkness wants me back. The Lord has brought me from very dark places, but this is the darkest I've ever been. Not even dad's death compares. The weights are much heavier this time. I'm not a son anymore. I'm a husband, a father—I keep forgetting that's not a title I can carry anymore. I'm a man who knows exactly where this road heads, a man who can no longer stop himself from going down it.

### John Doe

The longer I sit, the more fear consumes me. I'm trying to convince my hand to open the door, but it doesn't move, as if separated from the rest of my body. Every time I look up, my eyes catch M's reflection in the rearview. The peace I see in her becomes dread as it reaches me. I don't just fear death, I fear the last moment before it. What will I feel? What will I see? Peace filled M. Peace filled Thomas. But, I don't see any chance of that being my end.

If I get free, my last moment will be filled with eyes, the eyes of the people who need to see me die. If I don't, it will be the conclusion to a nightmare I entered over twenty six years ago. Neither will be peaceful. But, I know that I fear death because it is much closer than it has ever been.

The door is open. A crease of _outside_ is slipping in. I didn't even realize my fingers were wrapped around the handle. My other hand is moving senselessly. Just like the rest of me, it doesn't know what to do next.

The air is crisp. The smallest exposure confuses my senses. Nothing is alive here. How is there a smell of fallen leaves? How is there a sense of cleanliness in the air? The last time I came, it smelled as dead as it appears.

The small crease of _outside_ has become a wide open door. I didn't expect to feel this way, but the more exposure I have, the cleaner I feel. I am not the man I was the last time I came here. Light wrapped me. I was reminded of love that I thought was long gone. Since then, things have become more and more clear. I can be free.

My feet are outside of the car—now my whole body. In my periphery, I see my childhood home, tall and thick, towering above me. The beginning of the wraparound deck is only a few steps to my right. The shed where this all began is peeking out from where it was hiding. I'm still terrified of it.

As I walk away from it, I relive the steps where I ran toward it. Dad called me with these words: _I need help with a little project, kiddo_. Now, I hear them again. As loud as when he said them. I'm avoiding it, but I remember coming to his call. I remember the dim lighting, the dusty cement floor, the tools hanging on their little hooks, watching as it happened.

And I remember what followed. I left the shed, numb. He closed the door. As soon as I entered the house, I heard mom's cries. I ignored them. By then they were disconnected from me anyway, talking about crossing over to the other side. The feeling of dirty crawled all over me.

I walked up the stairs, and entered my room. Teddy began as a quiet voice in my head long before I saw red eyes in place of what had been brown.

He didn't scare me. I felt safe, just like I do now—but I shouldn't feel safe. This place belongs to him.

"We've been through a lot, John." I can hear him again, quiet and calm. This is what he wants. He's luring me in again, becoming that quiet voice that he introduced himself with.

"Why did you ever come to me?" I don't know what else to say.

"Do you really think you're going to leave here, John?"

"There is a light you've tried to explain away. But, it's still here. And you can't control me like you did."

"Maybe not!" My arm is yanked outward as the children's voices appear out of nowhere. "But, we can make you go crazy, John!" My other arm is yanked outward. I see flashes of bright color surrounding me. I feel sharp pinches in my ankles, but when I look down, there are just hints of fresh blood starting to bleed through my jeans. Little hands are grabbing my legs, but they feel powerful. When they pull, I nearly fall to the ground. Pain is in my chest, heavy and sharp. It feels like knives stabbing.

"The best way to kill you, John, is slowly." Teddy's voice is still quiet and calm.

"It watched! It laughed! It waited!" now the children's voices are everywhere around me. "You want answers why this happened, John?! Why you?! Because you're weak! You built a home for the father, and now he watches your pain with glee! We will bleed you dry! We will eat you alive! Your last moments will be filled with fear! And then after you die, we will follow you into the dark!"

I think I have fallen to the ground. But, I can't tell. Pain is covering my body. I feel the wet of blood in many new spots. My mind is full of terror. Their voices only seem to dig deeper into me. I can't move my hands to block my face. I'm frozen. I answered my own question. My last moments are fear—

"Beautiful boy," this voice is crisp and clear, completely separate from the ones surrounding me. "Open your eyes."

I do. But, I'm not outside anymore. I'm in my childhood bedroom. It's bedtime. My nightlight is on.

"Jesus loves you. And so do I, my beautiful boy." Mom's fingers are caressing my cheek. Her smile is wide. Her eyes are blue and beautiful. Dad is watching me from the doorway, arms crossed, smiling too.

My eyes are open to the outside again. It feels clean, like when I first left the car. But, it's different from that. I feel loved.

### Matthew Mills

Janet's face is a canvass of worry. She was waiting outside for me, eyes wet with tears. She told me she wanted me to be okay. I told her a lie. Now, I'm staring up the stairs as her arms wrap around me tightly.

"I miss her, but I know something miraculous is going to happen. He visited _me_ , Matty," just one of the many nicknames she has given me. " _Me_. A girl no one has ever wanted. He lifted me up from a place of unbearable sadness, and told me everything is going to be okay. I feel like I need to remind you of what you have told me over and over again. You didn't get that sad when we lost our second baby, and I couldn't understand why. Now, I do. You tried to tell me He had a reason for it, that He has a plan for everything. You tried to give me back my light when I only wanted to hide in the dark. I love you so much for that, Matty. So now I need to tell you the same thing. He has a reason for this. Don't give up, like I almost did. Trust Him. Please, Matty."

When we kiss after she cries, I taste the tears on her lips. She is saying everything I wanted to hear before Marcy was taken. It would have meant so much to me. Now, it doesn't mean much at all. She can say all of these things because of Who she saw. I can't just sit quietly with her, and wait to see what happens. Her tears taste bitter on my lips, instead of sweet and salty. I can't be the husband she wants me to be. I don't want to be.

She is above the situation. Having seen Jesus just today, she is able to look at this situation with eyes that no one else can. I haven't seen Jesus since I was six years old. Trying to remember that encounter is nearly impossible. I remember being awakened by the call of my name, and walking down the dark hall. I remember feeling no fear and finally seeing a man wrapped in incredible light. But, I remember nothing more. It's like remembering a dream. It has no effect anymore.

"I'll be okay," I answer quietly. I just want to get away. The words she said are making me feel sick.

"I love you," she whispers.

"Me too." I let go of her and step down the basement stairs. I can feel her watching me with a mixture of worry and bewilderment. She flicks the basement lights on as my feet touch the floor. Now, I hear her stepping firmly up the other stairs.

The word Ms. Brands whispered is bobbing in my mind, sinking deeper and deeper with every passing moment. I'm stepping toward my small office in the far corner of the hall. Shadow lies across the walls, forming shapes from the mess around, to make it seem like things are surrounding me.

"Find me, daddy." the whisper comes from the shadow. It's M's voice. "Bring me home. Please." Soft and polite, like when she was scared to stay overnight at her first slumber party, and she called me when everyone was asleep. _Bring me home, daddy. Please_. And I did. And we had our own little slumber party, turning the living room into a fort. She loved it, as did I.

I want so badly to hear that door open, and to hear her little voice call for me. I keep trying to convince myself that I am accepting this. But I'm not. That pain I felt earlier is returning. My face feels broken across the top half. Tears are streaming out of my healthy eye, but the swollen one is a pocket they are leaking out of.

I'm both numb and broken, like a man who has fallen from a great height but isn't dead. He just lies there, aware that he can no longer move, aware that his life is going to be an uphill struggle he isn't sure he wants to face.

I am this man. Metaphorically and internally.

### John Doe

The shirt beneath my trench coat is stained with blood in spots, and my pants are nearly all red from the ankles down. The children tried to kill me. Tried, but couldn't. Just like Teddy earlier today, something prevented it.

I used to close my eyes and see one thing: the shed, as dad pushed his piece inside me. I cried for him to stop, but he would only grunt and go faster. I could feel his force shake the table he had me against. And then when it was over, he turned me around, and said, "our little secret," and opened the door.

But, the more exposure I have to this reality of light inside me, I remember someone completely different. Dad wasn't the man who held me helpless against the table, and did what he did to me. He kept me safe, guarding the doorway as mom read a story. And, without him saying a word, when mom said I was loved, I knew it came from both of them.

The feeling that started after seeing mom on the bench today has only evolved into something more defined. It was clean. Now, it's something more. It's not just a feeling, but a desire. I don't just want freedom, I want answers. Everything began on that day. Had it never happened, I wouldn't be this man, facing a darkness that I used to call friend. I would be free.

But, what does it mean to be free? No matter how far I distance myself from here, the memory of it will live on. I am not free to leave. Not until I feel it coursing through my veins. Not until all of the dirty inside feels washed out, because it's still there. Dad's piece is a memory that still slips inside me when I become afraid. The children still surround me when fear crawls on top of me. And Teddy still watches me fidget and fight. I am not free. Not yet, but I will be.

The children gave me an answer. They said that I was weak. Of course I was weak. I was barely twelve. Mom was dying. And dad was supposed to keep me safe. Instead, he led me right into Teddy's welcome. Teddy used to be just a bear I shared my bed with. By the time I was twelve years old, he found himself on the floor more than on my bed. And then dad invited me into the shed, and everything changed. That day, Teddy was lying on the center of my mattress. I hadn't put him there.

The shed is on full display. No longer hiding behind the deck, it is making sounds. I can hear dad's voice rolling from the door as it opens: _I need help with a little project, kiddo_. The darkness of the inside looks red. Not like a red light, but like a room filled with thick blood.

"There is power in blood, John." It's Teddy. I know his voice almost better than my own. "You want freedom? I'll make a deal. Stick M's skin with a needle, withdraw her blood, and put it in a vial. Add it to the collection, John. Then, you are free."

I feel strange. I'm lying down, but moving. I can see my hands and feet dragging back and forth, trying to make a snow angel in the dirt.

"No!" I'm screaming. Or I'm not screaming. I can't tell. It's quiet outside, but loud within. I can only hear the beating of my heart. It's rapid and only growing. "It's a trick, Teddy! I know what you are trying to do!" The dragging has become a flail. My arms are senseless. It's like I'm seizing, without the foam or uncontrollable flail of my head. My head is calm, watching the rest of me go wild.

I close my eyes. My heart beat is all I hear. Thud. Pause. Thud. Pause. Now, I hear a door opening. I open my eyes. My hands are under M's legs, about to lift her from the seat. She's dead only because breath no longer slips from her mouth. Otherwise, she is still very much alive. She died with her hands pressed together tightly. A sheet of paper is pressed between them, folded down the middle.

I pull it free. In green color crayon, this is written:

Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.

### Matthew Mills

The desktop computer in my small office is turning on, but it's old. I have had it since before Marcy's conception. I grabbed it from mom's before she donated it. It was never meant for speed. It was meant for privacy, so that I could have a space of my own, separate from Janet. There is nothing even close to incriminating on it. The most I am hiding from her right now is the real pain I feel.

I typed all of dad's notes, and saved them in the order I believe they were written. The original copies are peaking out at me from under the desk, in the blue accordion folder. I'm tempted to read through them again, but it hurts me to say, dad can't relate to this situation. This is the first time I have felt completely alone. Sure, mom is only a phone call away, though I can already map out that conversation. It will begin and end with The Lord. She'll tell of her many hardships at my age, and how The Lord pulled her through them. Or, even worse, she won't know what to say.

I'm rocking back and forth in my swivel chair, tapping two of my ten fingers on the edge of the desk. It's loading the few programs it has on it. The background is a picture of clouds. Usually I see the light tracing them, a silver lining. Today, I see a storm coming.

The feeling of being watched has slipped into the walls, like our bedroom this morning, but stronger. I'm urged to speak a scripture. I remain silent. What would come of it? In the book of Acts in the bible, Luke talks about a group of men who would cast out demons with the Jesus Paul preached. One of the times, the demon replied, "I know Jesus, and I know Paul, but who are you?" And he violently attacked the men, leaving them naked and battered. This morning, I had the authority. Do I still? I am disobeying, because I need answers The Lord isn't willing to give. Right now, I am one of those men who do not know Jesus. So, I will not speak His name as if I do.

I am in danger, either way I look at it. If I just sit and wait, I fear I will do something terrible to myself. If I continue down this road, I may find myself face to face with the thing inside Ms. Brands.

The page is a search engine. I type in the letters _Mina_ first. What comes up is a page of suggestions: did you mean _Minea_? I click the suggestion. The first thing I see is an article from the Minea Paper, with the headline THREE BOYS DEAD. I click again. It takes me to an article:

THREE LOCAL BOYS DEAD, ONE MISSING.

Sunday, June 19th, 1983

Darkness covers Minea. Trevor Trills 14, Bradley Penwood 12, and George Thyme 11, were all found dead, face down in the stream beneath the downtown bridge. It is believed that they jumped. Thomas Aerie 7, is still missing. He was last seen walking home from class.

A pall has been cast. With no witnesses, and no explanation, Minea has already taken on the feel of a ghost town. The last sightings of any of the three boys were in school. Each of their teachers reported a "heavy daze." Separate classrooms, but a "lost" look in each has made this the biggest mystery we have ever had. That is not said with any sense of pride. It is a tragedy that already haunts this town.

However, Thomas Aerie Sr. and his wife Rebecca are "holding onto hope" that God will bring their Little Tommy home. Perhaps, a ray of light in disaster. Perhaps. But, only time will tell.

I am in danger. The descriptions fit Ms. Brands, but they're from over two decades ago. Those boys encountered what she did. I know I should stay away. This is something with power that has been growing for decades. All day I have been listening to the definite feeling that my little girl is already with The Lord. But, that feeling has become a question: What if she is still alive?

### John Doe

Even though she is dead, mom still talks about Jesus: on the bench, and in memories in my room. Even M said that name before she told me the light isn't gone. Maybe light isn't what Teddy hates. Maybe it's Jesus.

No. He's the man from the stories, the ones about calming a sea with His words, and walking across the water. They are stories mom used to tell me. Nothing more.

But, what if they aren't? When I read these words out loud, I feel powerful. And if these words are true, I am not weak like the children say.

"Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind." I have never felt power like this. It's not one of being controlled, but one of control. I say it again. Louder this time. I feel a tingle in the tips of my fingers. It presents in the way Teddy's did, but the control is mine.

I'm still hunched over M in the backseat. I haven't moved.

_I have come to set you free, John_. this isn't Teddy. The voice is warm and overpowering. _You are loved_.

Light is appearing beneath me. I look down. The teddy bear that was meant for M's vial of blood is now covered in light. I pick it out of the plastic bag. It feels weightless. I lift it to meet my eyes. The light has faded from the body, but its eyes are full of light.

_I'll help you find the truth why this happened to you. It's hidden, and I know where_.

"Where?" I ask.

_The shed_.

### Matthew Mills

The search engine mapped out the fastest route to Minea: 5 hrs 45 min. It's in Minnesota. The map is printed and crisp between my fingers. If I leave now, I'll get there before nine.

I'm standing to leave. The picture I have of Marcy on my desk is of her gap toothed smile after losing the left of her front two baby teeth. _Bring me home, daddy. Please_. I hear it again.

"I will. I promise."

I shut off the light and step through the hallway. The feeling of being watched follows me wherever I go. I have no defense against it.

The clutter is a wall I pass by. The basement has become a place to put things we no longer have use for. It began with the first miscarriage, and never recovered.

My walk has become a run. I pass by the room with the water heater. It almost sounds like high pitched laughing. And now, I run up the stairs. I don't want to face Janet, but I have to.

"Sweetie?" I call.

I hear her reply from somewhere upstairs.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"The kitchen," I think she says.

I run up the other set of stairs and find her sitting at the counter.

"I have to go somewhere." I say.

"Where?" her reply is quiet and tight lipped.

"I'm going to bring Marcy home."

She doesn't say a word, but I can see it in her eyes. She needs me here with her. She wants someone to hold her. And maybe even someone to tell her everything is going to be okay. But, I'm no good for that right now.

"I have to do this, sweetie. I can't just sit around here." I am going to tell her the truth. She deserves it. "I'm afraid of what I might do to myself if I do. I know you don't agree. I know you want me to stay, but I have to do this."

"When I had the first, and now, second miscarriage, you didn't get very sad. I thought it was because you turned to Jesus, but now I think it's because you turned to our daughter."

"What does that mean? You can sit there and say this only because you saw Jesus. Where would you be if you hadn't?!"

Her eyes are wet. She doesn't say another thing. She just walks away and slams our bedroom door closed.

I'm already sorry for what I said. I start to follow her, and then stop. The keys are hanging on their hook. My leather jacket is draped over my seat at the dining room table. I'll probably only make it worse.

I grab a sheet of paper, and a pen from the counter instead.

I'm sorry for what I said. I love you.

I'll keep my phone on, and will see you tomorrow.

Love,

Matthew

### John Doe

There is so much I don't know about what has controlled my life. Teddy came from nowhere and never left. And now, there is so much I don't know about this One Who's come to set me free. He's the man from the stories mom used to tell, but I know nothing else. I'm a blind man following a Stranger.

But it's all I have. I am weak. No matter how much perspective I gain, I will never be able to face this property on my own. I have grown Teddy too strong, and given him so much control that he knows me better than I know myself. I will never be free without this Stranger. He's not only the Man from the stories. If He was, I wouldn't be walking past the deck right now. The children would gather around and kill me slowly. Teddy would remain the quiet, controlling voice he has always been. If this Stranger was just for stories, I would already be dead.

He has taken a place inside of M's Teddy, which is held firmly by my right hand. Jesus is a stranger to me, much like my own dad. I remember a man who betrayed me. Yet at the same time, I remember a man who loved mom and I, and protected us. How can they both be him? Which was the real one?

I am scared of the answers. The closer I get to the shed, the more I realize that the pain of questions is far less than the pain of answers. Do I want to know who my dad was? Will it really change anything?

M's teddy has remained quiet. I have a light to take into the darkness, but at times it feels like it's just a teddy bear. Jesus has not given me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind. I am starting to understand what that means. There is a light in me, a power much stronger than the one that has held me prisoner. It's not in the bear I carry, but in me.

The weight of the bear has changed. The light is gone from its eyes. I drop it, continuing to step toward the shed. It's only feet away. I am not going to stop. I've come too far to turn away. There are answers why this happened to me, answers Teddy never wanted to give.

This is the door. When dad called me, I didn't know what was going to happen when I stepped inside. On that day, I burst through the door, excited to help out. Today, I look at the splintered wood, grab the handle, and pull it open. Before I even step in, I can see the teddy bears perched on the highest shelf. Dad's pack of cigarettes is on display on the left bottom corner of the table he held me against... it's the small, dark space I remember.

_Your dad hid things too, John. Look in his toolbox_. Even without the teddy, the voice is guiding me. It makes the darkness of this place seem lit. I flick the switch screwed into the exposed stud near the door. The light is barely existent. Maybe forty watts dangle from a thin wire high above the table. Dad's toolbox is tucked under the table. I have never touched it.

I take a deep breath and release. The toolbox is faded red and maybe a little bigger than a twelve pack. It's heavier than it looks. I put it on the table, and unlatch it. It has two layers; one extends out as I pull back the cover. The tools are rusted but categorized. It seems like something dad cared about. There is nothing but tools in the first compartment. I lift it out. In the bottom compartment, there are sheets of notebook paper. I pull them out:

February 26th, 1981

Anna is terminal. We got the news today. She just smiled and said, "If it's my time to go, then it's my time to go. I'll be with Jesus. And there's no better place to be."

This has been a very long road. She was diagnosed a little over two years ago. The doctor estimates she maybe has another 3 to 5 months.

I bedded her down inside, and put on her favorite record of hymns. She said she loved me, and I said it back. I still do love her. I never stopped. But, I am starting to let go of her.

March 15th, 1981

I used to hate dad because he cheated on mom. Now, I'm no better than him. But, I can't stop myself from going to see Stephanie. Seeing Anna dying in this drawn out way makes me feel sick. Just being in the same room with her tears me apart inside. But, Stephanie makes me feel alive. And to feel alive after all of this is something I won't give up. I haven't slept with her. But I have already cheated, because in my heart, Anna is already gone.

I don't want the responsibility of being her husband anymore. The last two years have been lived on a day-to-day basis. When she was too sick to lift her head, it was my job to try and tell John that Jesus loved him and that everything was going to be okay. I have stopped believing that lie. And I have stopped telling it. Over the last two years I have remained strong, organizing prayer chains for Anna, fasting for days for her, praying in tongues for hours straight. All that's come of it is a terminal diagnosis. I'm done praying. I'm done believing.

March 28th, 1981

Anna seemed very present tonight, but the medicine was still weighing down her personality. I don't joke with her anymore, because her reply is groggy and disconnected. She used to be so beautiful, but the sickness has taken away my wife, and left me with a beaten up shell.

Stephanie makes it all go away for a while. I drive down the road to her house, excited, even though I shouldn't be. I know I should be at home with Anna, caring for her. I miss her body: her lips kissing mine, her breasts in my hands, her moans as I make love to her. I miss that. But, that's not our marriage anymore. I'm just watching the sickness take away all of the memories I had with her before this.

When Stephanie and I sleep together, I think of Anna. I close my eyes and imagine her lips against mine, her breasts in my hands, her moans calling out my name. It's a sin what I'm doing. Why I keep doing it, I don't know. Before I ever met Anna, I had a problem with cheating. Like father, like son. But, then I met Anna. And my heart, my affections, every part of me desired only her.

I hate myself for what I am doing, but I can't stop. A big part of me doesn't want to.

April 10th, 1981

It's become almost nightly. Stephanie's arms around me have almost become the only way I can fall asleep. Anna takes a variety of sleeping pills and is out by 9:00 at the latest. I always tuck John in before I leave. He probably knows something is going on. He is almost twelve, but he doesn't say anything. I put on a fatherly face for him, even though I am not fatherly. He wants me to be there for him. Anna wants me to stay true to what I promised her. But, she isn't enough anymore. The more I see Stephanie, the more I realize that Anna has lost that special place in my heart. When I sleep with Stephanie, I now keep my eyes open. I no longer imagine Anna in place of her. I love the feeling of being with Stephanie. I don't have to change her messed-in sheets. I don't have to nod along to disconnected ramblings about the afterlife like I do with Anna. I can talk to her about my day, and then feel her body against mine.

April 25th, 1981

John's twelve today. The day he was born was the happiest day of my life. I remember holding Anna's hand, and talking her through it. I remember how tired I was after fourteen hours. I couldn't begin to imagine how tired she was. And John wasn't born for another six. I remember Anna saying that despite the horrible weather, it was the brightest day of her life.

I don't know what I'm doing. I have broken my vows. Reading back over what I have written, I have become a stranger to myself. I don't want to say goodbye to Anna. I hate myself for what I'm doing. I haven't been a father since the day we got the news that Anna is dying, and I know my son needs me now more than ever. If it's hard for me, I can't imagine how hard it is for him.

This morning, John asked me where I was last night. He said mom woke him up crying for me. He said she was in so much pain. He said he tried to make her feel better by saying a little prayer for her. I didn't give him an answer where I was, I changed the subject.

It hurts more than I can put into words to watch my wife slowly shut down. I have tried to avoid it, turning to another woman. I have betrayed sixteen years of trust. But, maybe there is still a chance for me. I will end things with Stephanie tonight. And then I will come home and be a father and husband once again.

April 26th, 1981

I told Stephanie we were done. I said how I have become a stranger to myself. I was so close to leaving through the front door, but then I went back. My mind was telling me to leave, to go back home and hold Anna. But, my piece was telling me to tear off her clothes and make her moan. The betrayal continues.

I know what I am doing. And I know that if Anna knew, she would be devastated. How can I know this, and still keep doing it? When it started with Stephanie, it was just talking. She was able to relate to me. I knew it was wrong, that even spending that time with her was a betrayal. But, I kept spending time with her, because she made me feel free. I never planned on sleeping with her. It just happened. A moment that led to another. Then it grew.

I loved how uncomplicated it was. She was an escape for me, other than this shed. Now, there is no escape. I think I would have been free had I left last night. Instead, I can only think about how it feels for my piece to be inside of her.

April 30th, 1981

It's over. Stephanie realized that our connection has become all about the physical. When she told me to leave, I wanted to hold her down and stick my piece inside. I was so close.

But, I didn't. I drove half an hour away to Briars Lilly and paid a red haired prostitute 100 dollars for two hours. I never thought I would be writing these words. I feel sick reading them, but I still want to do it again.

I should have walked away from Stephanie. I had an escape, but I went back. Now, I can't stop myself. The urges never were like this when I used to cheat. I'm controlled by my piece. It wants what it wants, and I can't say no anymore. But, I have to try. I haven't completely lost myself yet. The man I used to be is still in there. I can feel him fighting. He's weak and withered, and tired of the fight. But, he's fighting. I can't give in again. I won't.

May 1st, 1981

My piece keeps me thinking about one more time. It even seems to agree with my stopping. It wants just one more time with the prostitute. One more, then done. I haven't given in. I know it won't be just one more time. It never is.

I kept Anna company last night. Her thoughts were stuck in the moment when we met. She remembers what I was wearing, how my hair looked, and how she felt as soon as she saw me. She talked about how much she loved me, and that she wants me to be okay when she's gone. I nearly told her everything. I was so close, but I held it in. It would be cruel.

It would make me feel better to be able to tell somebody. But, I don't deserve to feel better. I don't deserve to have this heavy weight lifted from my shoulders. I chose to go back to Stephanie. I knew what the consequences were going to be. They have only grown stronger.

I am writing with one hand, and palming my keys with the other. I just need one more time. I just need that relief. Relief is the only way I can feel like the man I used to be. The urges get stronger every time. And the window for how long I have gets smaller and smaller. I am losing myself. Soon, I won't be in there at all. But, I still am. I just need the relief.

May 2nd, 1981

I don't know how long I was with her last night. I don't know when I came home. I don't even know what time it is. I'm in the shed. My piece is wet and erect. I don't even feel relief anymore.

### Matthew Mills

I saw a cop car parked in front of the school as I was pulling out of the driveway. I'm glad I won't be around. It's only a matter of time until it pulls in front of our house. Janet can answer the questions. She has a much better handle on the whole situation anyway.

The people of Payne like to talk. First, they'll talk about why a cop car is in front of the Mills' house. And when they find out why, they'll start to talk about Marcy's disappearance. I can hear them now. They'll blame me and Janet for her disappearance. They'll say, because of the miscarriage, we both weren't attentive enough. And maybe they'll even say, "Ironic that Matthew Mills, the man of faith, is losing everything close to him. Where's his God now?"

I'm done trying to answer that question. If He wants to remain a quiet voice telling me to trust Him, if that's all He will give me—

None of that matters. Marcy is in Minea. She is only five hours and forty five minutes away. I'm wrong about what I thought earlier. It wasn't the Lord telling me that my little girl is already gone. It was my sadness telling me a lie. She is in Minea, and she needs me to bring her home. I don't have to bury my little girl. I know where she is; I have the location on a sheet of paper in my hands. And I have typed it into the GPS as a fail-safe.

My Ford Escape hasn't even gone a mile, and already I am driving down the ramp toward the highway. My gas tank is nearly full. A survival kit is tucked under the passenger seat, and a back up flashlight is stored away in the glove compartment. Janet had a close call years ago during a white-out storm in winter. Ever since, both cars have had these items, just in case.

But, it's just a false sense of security. The truth is, you can never be prepared for what's to come. Life is a series of worsening storms. And shelter is becoming harder and harder to find. I am not prepared for what's ahead. I know I should turn around while I still can. I can feel that thought overtaking the rest. To drown it out, I turn the radio louder, and listen to a man talk in depth about mistakes. I'm already making one, but I have already gone too far.

Even though I can still see the exit for Payne in my rearview mirror, I have started something I can't step away from. Earlier today the reality of Marcy's death was so strong in me, that no one could tell me any different. Now, I don't know what's true. Every time I try to listen to the voice telling me she is already gone, I hear her voice calling for me: _Bring me home, daddy. I'm scared_.

### Truth/Mere Creation

### John Doe

It happened May 2nd, 1981. If dad didn't know what he was doing to me, then everything has been for nothing... not that it has ever been for anything other than obedience to Teddy. But, at least when I thought he chose it, his death had a meaning. The way I killed him was meant as therapy. Teddy said it would help. It was supposed to take away the pain. It didn't. It only grew.

Even this morning, I was still dedicated to him, completely blind of my actual position. Teddy has never been my friend; though, he had me believing it for most of my life. Feeding me lie after lie. And I ate it up. I only questioned it in the beginning.

I was already numb long before the shed. Mom and dad never kept her sickness secret. I knew she only had a little time left. And every day I was preparing for it. Dad was different when he came back from the hospital the final time. He no longer tried to encourage me. He hardly said a thing. I kept close to mom, because I knew she needed me. These are things I haven't remembered for years. I didn't even know they were still in me.

It's only the beginning to what I remember. There is no block anymore. No fuzz. No confusion. I was old enough to know what was happening, and now I am remembering it for what it is.

But, it's like tracing back over steps. Maybe my past will return fully, but right now it feels like I am being given the rest of the answers.

I don't know why I am focusing on my twelfth birthday. Mom and dad tried to make it special, but her condition was all I could focus on. The reality that it was my last birthday with her darkened any bright moment. The few moments of real joy were weighed down. And dad's genuine smiles became pretend before the day was over.

When dad tucked me in, he said everything was going to be okay, like he was answering questions I hadn't asked but wanted to. He said that he would be home soon, and that he loved me. He kissed my forehead, and stepped away. He left the hallway light on, leaving my door open only a crack. I waited to hear his heavy shoes step down the wooden stairs. The front door closed quietly. I got out of bed, and watched him get in his Buick. He looked back at the house once and then drove away.

I listened for mom as I got back into bed. The house was quiet enough that I could only hear the clock in the kitchen ticking. Some nights, it would put me to sleep. This night, I was wide awake. When I would close my eyes, I imagined mom taking her last breath. I opened them again to the same ticking. It was too fast... too slow... then not there at all. I heard footsteps louder than dad's stepping up the stairs. When they stopped, the light in the hall shut off. When they started again, my door swung open and then slammed closed.

"Who's there?" I asked.

"A friend." the voice was kind.

"What do you want?"

"A friend." it said again. "Will you be my friend?"

"Why did you come here?"

"You know what your daddy is out doing. While your mommy is dying downstairs, he's with someone else. What kind of man does that?"

"He said he'll be home soon, that everything is going to be okay."

"You'll see. Soon, you'll need a friend."

The next thing I remember is waking up. The morning sun was out, my right pointer finger was bloodstained, and the teddy bear that would become Teddy was in the bed with me. I don't know what happened that night.

### Matthew Mills

Even if I tried to call and apologize, Janet wouldn't answer. But I imagine she is staring at her phone, waiting for my attempts anyway. I am doing the same thing. I hurt her. But, she hurt me too. It wasn't just what she said about turning to Marcy instead of Jesus throughout all of this, but about this morning, about the constant snaps and sleights this whole last week. She isn't the only one who lost our baby. She isn't the only one who feels that pain.

I don't know why I am starting to hate this position. I used to take pride in being a husband. But, it's a thankless job. Janet hasn't noticed all that I have done for her. She focuses on all of the pain she has felt, but won't see what I am buried under. A simple sorry would have spoken volumes: _"I'm sorry for how I have hurt you. I'm sorry for not realizing all that you have done for me. Can you forgive me, Matty? Can you just stay home with me, and wait to see what 'it's going to be okay' means?"_

Had she said that, maybe I would have stayed with her.

### John Doe

I want to know I'm free to leave. But, I don't know if that will even come, because every answer I get only leads to more questions. If I did something to place Teddy into my life, does that make me responsible for what happened?

Dad's entry on my birthday was hopeful. And when he said he would be home soon, he meant it. I could see it in his eyes. But, he never did get free. He went back to that woman, Stephanie. On that same night, Teddy first introduced himself. But, he wasn't in my teddy bear. He was just a voice, a full bodied presence that I could almost see standing within the shadows.

I don't need to remember what happened that night to know what I did. It's a pattern. I've done the same thing for years with every child. _There is power in blood, John_. Teddy used the blood from each child to grow his power. I think he used mine to find a home.

The answer was sitting next to me the entire time. I will find something stuffed inside of Teddy, something with my own blood on it. It's why he has had the power since that very first moment. I helped him have a place in my life. Maybe it was loneliness. Or maybe I really did think he would be my friend. I don't know the answer to that question. Maybe I never will.

In order to be free, do I have to know every answer? Will this search lead me across every inch of this property, and through every room of my childhood home? I'm trying to just answer one question at a time, even though there are many. But, there is also a very clear path forming. Teddy is the next answer.

Blood has always given him power. What would happen if I took it away?

### Matthew Mills

There is a pocket sized calendar in my car, stuck just above the radio. Every month has a short Proverb. November says this:

Proverbs 9: 11-12: "I, Wisdom, will make the hours of your day more profitable and years of your life more fruitful." Wisdom is its own reward, and if you scorn her, you hurt only yourself.

Every sign is telling me to turn back. I flip to the next month on the calendar. Wisdom is the focus there, too. My quiet guide has become loud again. I'm tempted to turn back. _Just trust_ , the voice is saying. _Just believe_.

It's not enough. It hurts too much. I can't _just believe_ , not anymore. I have been betrayed by my Best Friend, and I don't know what to do about it.

"You've taken my sons, Lord. You didn't protect my daughter, even though Your word says that no harm will befall her. You are so much bigger than me. You are Creator, and I am mere creation. But, sometimes I think you just want to see what I will do. What will Matthew Mills do, now that his girl is gone? Will he stand strong, and just believe? It's cruel to ask of me. It's cruel for You to take our second baby, and then a week later, our daughter too.

"What am I trusting for? Is it just for the strength to get through another day? Is that all? Life is a series of worsening storms. You used to be my shelter. Now, I don't know what You are."

Sometimes it helps to speak out loud. Today, it only hurts. I'll keep the thoughts inside. It doesn't feel like Anyone is listening anyway.

My mistake was letting Marcy go to school this morning. Had I just kept her home, she would still be with me. I could have made her hot cocoa, and grilled cheese sandwiches, and watched Disney movies with her all day. Maybe Janet even would have joined us. My mistake was letting her out of my sight.

The Lord told me to anoint Marcy. I thought it was to protect her from the evil in our bedroom. That's why I anointed Janet, too. Now, I realize it was to see if I would do it. It's like the dream of dad's resurrection all over again. I believed it could happen. I waited for it. And when it didn't, I nearly drowned amidst the drifting.

The dream of dad's resurrection was a promise You broke. The anointing of Marcy is just another broken promise. I am merely a jar of clay. You create jars of all different kinds, and use them in many ways. You picked up my pieces once, after I broke into countless, and put me back together. You filled me with the sweetest gifts: a wife, and a daughter. I was privileged, on a shelf many never see. But now, you have dropped me again. And I don't know why.

### John Doe

I've left the shed. Fear isn't crawling over me like I expected it to, like it has so often before. I still have the feeling of power. In fact, I think it might be growing. Teddy can't control me like he used to. If he could, I wouldn't be stepping toward the car, at least not at this rate, and not with this sense of security.

I'm not alone. Even though Jesus hasn't said anything more to me since dad's entries, I know that this path is guarded by Him. This power—feeling power whatsoever should feel strange to me, since I have never had it. But, somehow it feels natural, like it's been in me this whole time.

Teddy made me believe I had a friend. Now, I think it's actually true. Jesus is still a stranger to me. I don't know His voice like I know Teddy's. What I do know is this: ever since I found that paper in M's hand, a part of me that I didn't know still existed has come back to life. Ever since I started speaking His name, a new _me_ has started to rise from whatever was left of the old.

The car is only another forty or so feet away. I can see M's head barely poking out from behind the driver's side seat. My steps are long and quick. The end is near. I can feel that reality starting to stream through me.

Every step. Every moment. They are both numbered now. There is an answer in Teddy, leading to something big. I can feel it.

_The truth will hurt, John_. these words just formed from silence. Blunt and honest, yet comforting. This isn't Teddy. _The truth is something you haven't been able to remember, something you haven't wanted to remember. When you take the blood out of the bear, you will. But, it won't just be a memory. You will relive it, exactly as it happened_.

The end is near, only steps away...

I think I'm ready.

### Matthew Mills

My mind is full of Marcy: her smile, her voice, her goofy personality. Deep in my center, there is that quiet voice telling me that she is nowhere near that evil place, but that she is home with Jesus.

"Shut up!" I'm screaming. It's all I want to do. "You take! That's all You do! You give in abundance to the foolish! They watch their kids grow to be a success! But, I can't even keep what I have! And now You want me to find comfort in these words?! You want me to just accept losing my daughter?! Accept losing the position of being a father?! I am starting to hate Janet because You lifted her up, and are letting me drown! I'm broken, but you don't care! You don't care! Why should I?!"

There isn't a lot keeping me from veering this car into the ditch. Going the speed I am, I would probably die not long after impact. It's a thought that I am seriously considering. I would only have to turn the wheel slightly. And then...

What would happen if I did die? Would Janet continue without me? Jesus told her 'it's going to be okay.' Would those words still be true? Or maybe the most important question is this: what if I try to die, but live?

I just hit something on the road. It lifted my vehicle for a moment and made an ugly sound. My reaction is immediate. I glance in the rearview mirror. I see my face before the reflection of the highway. My beaten eye is nearly swollen shut. My healthy eye is red—no blue. Blue and flat. But, it wasn't. It was red and sharp, like the thing that looked at me from inside Ms. Brands. Is it inside me now?

There is another sound. It's in the vehicle this time. When I look in the rearview again, I see Marcy sitting quietly in the backseat.

It's not her! I close my eyes, and when I look again, her face is turned away.

"Sweets?" it just comes out, a fatherly reflex.

Her face turns. But, it's not hers. It's old and wrinkled, yet her body is still small, like Marcy's. The sounds she is making are giggles and growls. "Yes, daddy. It's inside you!" her smile is wider than humanly possible. I can feel that I am probably going twenty miles over the speed limit, but my eyes won't pull away from the mirror, my foot won't let up from the accelerator. "And it is powerful!"

My hands have locked up. I am able to only glance at the speedometer: 100. And rising.

"Just a slight turn of the wheel." she is whispering.

And my hands are following. I can't control them, no matter how hard I try. I can feel the wheels going off the road onto the warning bumps of the shoulder.

"Je-Jesus!" I scream desperately. "Sa-save me!"

Immediately, my hands are mine again. And I am able to lift my foot from the accelerator. She's gone from the backseat.

_You are in danger. Turn around, Matthew. Trust Me when I say it's going to be okay. I see everything. There is so much more at work here than you know_. That small and quiet voice isn't so quiet anymore.

"I don't want to face it, Lord. I don't want this to be another slow process, where Your plan unfolds over many years."

It's quiet again. There is a ramp in half a mile. I'm going back. My little girl is nowhere near that evil place. She is home with Jesus.

### John Doe

This is the first real time that I feel bigger than Teddy. He's just an old bear in my hands now. Nothing more. His eyes aren't red, but brown: the color they used to be. I'm not afraid of the truth. I'm not afraid of the hurt. Most of my life has been lived in this fog where my thoughts, my desires, and my feelings were his. I don't know who I am, because I don't know where Teddy ends, or where I begin.

I don't even know what it feels like to hurt anymore. Even that word is strange to me. Teddy has hurt me before, physically, but it never really _hurt_. It was still numb. It was still his influence on my mind. Even when he hurt me, I believed it to be friendly. When Jesus said that the truth is going to hurt, there is no moment in my life that I can look back on. There was hurt after mom's death. I know, because it was the one thing that Teddy said would never go away. But, was that hurt, or hate? When I think about it, hate was the only thing I fully felt. It was the only emotion that Teddy brought to the surface. Every other human quality has been buried deep inside me.

Or, did I give it away? There is something with my blood on it stuffed inside of Teddy. My finger wasn't bloodstained after the shed, but a week before. Maybe I gave away my human qualities to Teddy before dad ever did anything to me.

I can feel a slit in Teddy's back. With both of my pointer fingers I push in. My right hand digs inside. The stuffing seems new, catching on my dry finger tips, even though it is very old. I can feel where his arms begin, and where the stitching starts. The stuffing is thick. I grab a chunk and pull it out of him. I can feel a folded piece of paper in my palm. It wasn't inside of the stuffing, but tucked behind it, near Teddy's front.

I unfold it:

FOR MY FRIEND

I drew four eyes of different sizes with my own blood beneath those words. I don't remember doing it, but I did. To my friend? I gave Teddy a hold before anything happened with the shed. The truth is going to hurt, because it already does. And there is more to come. The reveal is only starting. I drop Teddy to the ground and step away from the car. It's nighttime. It was just day. My surroundings are rippling, like reflections in disturbed water: the trees, the sky, even the car.

There is a feeling of being pulled out of myself, like many hands are coming from the house and trying to pull me inside. But, it's not my body that's being pulled. It's something inside of me. I'm detaching from my body. It just stands by the car as I am pulled away, pulled into the house. I am pulled through the wall and up the stairs. The speed is incredible. I close my eyes for only a moment. When I open them again, I am standing in my childhood bedroom. My childhood self is lying in bed, Teddy tight to his chest. Everything is the way it was, from the blue color of the blanket on the bed, to mom's memoriam card on the floor. I remember reading it every night for days.

Mom was buried on this day. I know, because May 12th isn't blacked out on the calendar in my room yet. I did it on the thirteenth. I remember what I was thinking, laying there. I remember the hate I was trying to deny, but couldn't. Dad's tears only hours before made me hate him even more, because he was gone again. He was out with someone else only hours after burying his wife.

It's late into the night. My clock was always slow, but only within a few minutes. It says it's 11:45 pm, so it's closer to 11:50. I can see by the wide eyed expression on his face that twelve year old John hasn't slept. He's been counting the ceiling of white spots.

"I can't sleep, Teddy." he whispers.

"Just close your eyes, John, and you will." I can hear Teddy again.

He just nods his head. He closes his eyes. That's what I remember about that night. I finally fell asleep, and woke up the next day. But, that's not what happened. His eyes are open again. He's sitting up and walking toward the door. Teddy isn't tight to his chest anymore, but held firmly in his hand.

I am nothing but a set of eyes following his steps. I can't grab handles, pick up objects, or speak words. I am back in this moment, because the truth is here.

His steps are Teddy's. He's halfway down the stairs and he hasn't looked over at the living room to see if he can still feel mom. I always did. There is no weakness to him. He is without expression. His steps are hypnotic. Emotionless. Soulless.

We are downstairs now. I look over to the living room, but it's completely white, like it never existed. I can only see what he saw. He opens the door, and walks down the deck steps toward the shed. The light is on. It's the only thing lit in the darkness, but even that's dim.

His steps are the same lifeless pattern. He doesn't wonder why the lights are on in the shed, when dad is supposed to be gone. He just keeps walking. I look back to see if dad's car is parked. There's just a gray smudge, close to the white nothingness of the living room, but dirtier, like the streaks a bad eraser leaves behind.

He has stopped in front of the shed. He doesn't survey. There is no chill that shoots into him. No hesitance. He just pulls the door open.

Dad's body is hanging. And I am just a pair of eyes, who can only watch. I don't even know what I feel. I don't even know if I do. I'm separated from my body, yet I know that if I was attached, the pain would be the worst I've ever known. All I feel is pressure, building, and pulsating, like I'm an object filling with too much air. I can't scream. I can't cry. But, I need too. Desperately.

A bright orange extension cord is wrapped around dad's neck. His eyes are lifeless and pained. His feet dangle about a foot off the ground. A piece of paper is duct taped to his dirty white dress shirt. I try to read it, but it's white. Just like with the living room, my childhood self never looked at it.

He's just pushing past dad's body, entering the shed. And now I am too. I am no longer choosing to follow him. But I'm tethered to him, like a balloon in a child's hand. He has stopped at the tool wall. I try to look back at dad's body, but even my eyes are now pinned in place: held by hands I can't see. The pressure is nearly unbearable. I feel like I'm in a body where my skin is vacuum sealed, suffocating my insides. This is the beginning of a hurt that I can't yet feel. It's only growing.

He grabs a dark gray box cutter from the wall. He sits Teddy on the table we were held against and then climbs up himself. Even standing on the table, he is barely tall enough to reach the cord wrapping dad's neck. But, he does. And he begins to cut. The wire is exposed before it snaps. Dad's feet hit the floor, tossing his dead body face first onto the ground.

My eyes are pulled left. John isn't standing on the table anymore. He's sitting on the edge, digging inside of Teddy's back. Teddy's eyes are lively deep red swirls. This is the Teddy I know too well, the Teddy I wish I could forget. John has pulled a piece of paper from his back. He unfolds it. There are only two eyes drawn in blood. He gets down from the table and walks over to dad's body. I know what's going to happen. He's going to cut him. He's going to draw two more eyes on the sheet of paper in dad's blood.

The pressure is severe. I'm going to burst. I can't feel any of this, but I need to. I have to. I have to! I try to close my eyes, and can. I squeeze so they won't come back open. It should hurt! It should, but it doesn't! It's just pressure I feel! Pressure! And it's only growing. I'm going to explode. This pressure is beyond words. It's pressure without pain, but knowledge that the pain should be there. It should be severe.

I hear something inside of me screaming. It's detached from me, but getting closer. I can feel I'm being pulled back to my body. I can hear screams. My screams. And as I hear them grow louder and louder, the pressure becomes pain. I'm in my body again. I can feel my hands tightly pressed together, and my whole body trembling. It hurts.

### Matthew Mills

I've been back in Payne for nearly thirty minutes. But, I haven't gone home yet. I'm at the park down the hill from our house. The Escape is idling quietly, and the sun has almost set. There is a smear of bright colors on the horizon. It reminds me of Janet's pallet when she is painting. But, she hasn't painted in a long time. After the first miscarriage, she painted her pain in a piece she never named. She used a large canvas, bigger than most posters. She started with a murky gray. Then she added reds and pinks, painting our undeveloped baby, still in his embryonic sack. He was shaped like a broken heart, split down the middle. That painting is somewhere in our basement. Or, maybe she already threw it away.

Janet threw a lot away after the second miscarriage: paintings she had spent hours working on, several bottles of paint, brushes, and varying sizes of blank canvases all ended up in the dumpster. Janet threw a lot of herself away after the second miscarriage. I've thrown a lot of myself away in the last eight hours, to a point where I hardly recognize the man I see when I look in the mirror.

Home is just a left turn and a couple of blocks up the hill. But, I don't want to go back. It's a few minutes after 4:30. I'll go home and my little girl will be gone. Even though I know she is home with Jesus, I don't want to face this. I love my Marcy, more than I can describe—was Janet right when she said that I turned to our little girl instead of Jesus? I want the answer to be no, but I don't think it is. When I think back to the first miscarriage, I read the Word constantly, but even then, I turned to her. If I was hurting, I wouldn't close myself away in quiet and wait on the Lord. I would find Marcy and bury my pain in the joy of her company. Janet was right. I wish she wasn't, because even with this realization, my eyes don't want to fully turn to Jesus. I don't know why.

After dad died, I felt things too much. They almost destroyed me. Even though Jesus was right by my side, for years, it felt like I was completely on my own. When I came back to Him, I had to rebuild a relationship that had been unbreakable. I had to learn to trust Him again. And I did, from Marcy's unplanned conception, to my temporary job at the factory becoming a management position.

But, something changed after the first miscarriage. After the pain of losing dad almost killed me, I decided to avoid the pain of losing our sons. I haven't wanted to admit this to myself, but it's the truth. I have only trusted Jesus wholeheartedly when hurt isn't involved, when things are easy.

And now that things are hard again, I don't know what to do. What does it mean to trust with all I have? I did when I thought dad was going to come back to life, when I had that dream about his resurrection. But, he didn't. I don't think I have ever trusted with all I have since. I want to be able to give all of myself back to my Lord. But this question always meets me: what if it feels like He left again?

Deep inside I know the Lord didn't give me that dream. Maybe it was my own desires telling me a lie, or maybe the devil put on a fancy suit and appeared to me in a hopeful way. I know it was a lie, but I don't understand why the Lord ever let it reach me. He knew what it was going to do to me.

Or, maybe I was supposed to have the dream. Maybe I was supposed to turn away, so that when I came back again, my relationship with the Lord was that much stronger. But, I have never reached that point. And I don't know how to get there, because I thought I was already there. I thought I had been there for years.

"Jesus." I whisper. "Dad died, and that part of me that trusts You with everything I have, has died too. But, I believe in resurrection. I believe that You can raise that dead part of me and let it live in me again. I want to trust You with everything I have, because You are all that I have. You are the Creator. I want to love you like I once did, like when I was a little boy, and nothing could pull me away from You. But, I don't know how to get back there. Even though You didn't give me that dream, it was like You watched as I was torn to pieces, instead of stepping in the way. What if You just watch as I'm torn to pieces again?"

There's this sadness washing over me. I can't explain exactly how it feels. It's a little bit like how I feel after I hurt Janet, after I see that sadness stick to her face, and brim in her eyes. But, it's still different. It's a sadness that I feel deep inside me, yet it's still sitting next to me. A living sadness, strong enough to almost have a solid form. I have never felt anything close to this. But, somehow it's familiar. Even though I have never felt it, I know it. I know the presence within it.

"Jesus?" my eyes are still closed. "My words hurt you, didn't they? I'm sorry. I'm just scared. To trust You with everything, means to give You everything. I don't even know how to. I haven't in so long, that it's completely foreign to me. I know Your Word. I know Your presence. You're my Best Friend, but I have never trusted You like I used to. Not since dad died. But, this is the day that I give it all to you. Please forgive me for anything You see in my heart as sin. Wash me in Your Blood. And cleanse me in my soul. Jesus, give me strength, because facing this reality alone will kill me."

I open my eyes. The sadness is gone, as if it was never actually here. The sky is a purplish pink splatter of color that is starting to disappear behind the line of trees a few blocks ahead. I take a deep breath, put the Escape into drive, and pull away from the park.

### John Doe

I finally understand what _hurt_ means. It's the process of a body being taken apart piece by piece and put back together again. Even though the pain is burrowing further into me, the clean feeling is undeniable. I am still sobbing. My hands have become tight and contorted. My whole body is a continuous tremor that has left me flat on my back. I haven't tried to open my eyes. I don't want to. My entire life is a sickness that I have spread to countless others.

But, there was a beginning to me, a time before the sickness. I had a reason for being, even a purpose. It was something small: I was simply the only child to Charles and Anna. But I mattered. I made them smile. I brought joy.

Since Teddy, I have only caused pain.

_This sickness didn't start with you, John. It was passed down to you from your father, who was given it by his_. I recognize the warmth attached to those words immediately. It's Jesus. _This sickness is a curse that destroyed your father, but not before grabbing hold of you_.

"Does it matter that dad passed it down to me?!" I'm screaming. My body is still stuck in a tremor. "I still listened to Teddy! I still did all of those terrible things to children! Why do you care about me?! I am worthless! I only cause pain!" whatever fight I had before knowing this truth, feels like it's gone from me.

_Open your eyes, John_. a quiet command.

They stay closed. I open my mouth to say—I don't remember. I don't remember anything I was going to say.

_Open your eyes, John_. this time the voice fills every part of me, like wind passing through my core.

They open automatically. I'm lying on my back. The sky above me is filled with colors I can't describe, colors I have never seen.

"My sweet boy," I look to my right. Mom is lying next to me. Her smile makes me do the same. "My sweet John."

"I wish I still was your sweet boy." I whisper.

"You still are."

"No." I look away from her. "You don't understand what I've done—what I've become."

"It doesn't matter, John." her hand tips my face back toward hers. "Jesus loves you. It doesn't matter what you have done."

"That can't be true." I can feel sickness pushing up from deep inside me. "Not after what I have done. Not after the pain I have caused. He can't. No one can."

"Let me show you something." she sits up from lying down. I watch as she stands without struggle. I remember when she was so sick that she could barely stand on her own. But here, she isn't in any pain. She offers me her hand with that same smile on her face. It's an ageless smile, where all the pain she went through with her sickness doesn't even seem to register. I grab her hand, and she pulls me to a stand.

We are standing at the top of a high hill. Out before us is the endless city. It stretches from where my eyes can't see, both ways. It looks like it's built into the mountains far toward the horizon. Built into them, but still separate. The valleys below are lush with life. The streams intersect with many others. Some flow directly toward the city, others branch away from it. The water is so clear it reflects the sky.

"Pain is only for a time, my sweet boy." she says as she takes a seat on the bench behind us. "Sit with me, and watch."

I sit next to her. "I see it, mom. It's beautiful. But, I will never be here with you. Not permanently."

"You can always be forgiven, John." she says with an assurance I have never heard before. "You are never too lost." she grabs hold of my hand. "Now watch."

She points to the left of us. There are trees that tower over us. The tree closest to us is deep auburn and stretches very high into the air. Every part of it is thick. There are small houses built into the branches.

"What are you showing me, mom?" I ask.

"What you see isn't a series of homes. It's a tree house, where any of the children can come and play whenever they want."

"Why show it to me?"

"That's where they are."

"They?" Suddenly, all of the children I killed are standing in front of me.

"You can always be forgiven, John." Thomas says as he steps out from among the rest of the children. How can he look at me and say that so simply? And how can the rest of them just smile at me, like I've done nothing wrong? What I did was disgust—

Mom's free hand tilts my face back toward hers. "You are never too lost, my beautiful boy. I'll see you again soon."

My eyes open. I'm not with her anymore. I'm lying on my back next to the car, staring into a sky where the sun has almost set. I am aware of the reality. I am aware that dad killed himself, and that everything that came after has been a lie Teddy had me believe. That isn't what I am thinking about, though. I'm thinking about what I was told by mom—by Thomas: _you can always be forgiven, John_. I didn't think I would ever believe it, but somehow I do.

### Matthew Mills

I'm in the entryway, taking off my shoes. The lights are on in the kitchen, but I don't hear Janet. I step quietly up the stairs. After about five steps, I can see up into the living room. Janet has set up a painting studio in the clearing. She is sitting on one of the chairs from the dining room table, and dabbing a thick brush on a pallet.

"I'm sorry, sweetie." I say before reaching the top step. She turns toward me, but not all the way. It's just enough to show that I have her attention. "I know where you would be had Jesus not visited you. It was cruel of me to say. And you were right. I have turned to Marcy instead of Jesus."

"It's not about me being right, Matthew." she whispers.

I step into the living room, and over to her. "I know, but you were—you are. You read me too well. You read me today, when I didn't want to be. I didn't want to think that Marcy had become an idol in my heart. And when you said that she had, I wanted to hurt you, because it hurt me." I pause as I kneel down and grab her hands. Her eyes make shapes of curiosity, but she doesn't reply with words. "But, that isn't an excuse. I'm sorry for leaving. I'm sorry for my jealousy, my hostility, and my unforgiving heart toward you. Will you please forgive me?"

"Yes." she says softly. And then she becomes quiet, as if weighed down by something heavy. "I know I hurt you, Matty, probably countless times since the miscarriage. I lashed out at you when you were just trying to be loving. And I'm very sorry." her eyes are wet. "Will you forgive _me_ , Matty?"

I can only nod my head. I didn't expect her to apologize. And now that she has, a clog has settled in my throat.

"Can you promise me something?" she breaks the silence.

I can't speak. It hurts to even try. I just look at her, with eyes that try to express what I can't say: _what_?

"Promise me you aren't going to leave again."

"I-I promise." I can barely hear it slip out of me. I don't know how she hears it. But, she does. And it makes her smile.

"I don't know what's going to happen next." she pauses. "I don't know what Jesus' words meant, and I miss our little M as much as you do, sweetheart. But somehow, in a way I can't describe or explain, I know everything is going to be okay. When Jesus said those words to me, He didn't just plant an idea in me, but a promise. And despite all of the sadness I feel about losing our M, the promise is stronger. So much stronger. It's like those words have been etched into my heart. I don't know if they'll fade as the days pass. I don't know anything but those words, Matty. When we lost our first baby, you told me that times come in our life where we only have faith... where everything else is enemy to it. I can't stand to see you falling away. I—"

"I was." I interrupt. The clog in my throat has mostly cleared. "But, I'm not falling away anymore."

Immediately, her eyes are at peace. She doesn't need me to explain anything more than that. Maybe it's something she sees in me that has been missing.

"You should sleep, sweetheart. Your eye looks worse. And you are past exhausted." she rubs my face and then kisses it. "Just let yourself sleep. I'll get you an ice pack for that eye. Go and lay down." she stands up and walks to the kitchen before I say anything.

I haven't even asked her if the cops came yet. I assume they have, but she hasn't mentioned it. I suppose it doesn't matter. If they did come, they took a statement, maybe an extra picture of Marcy, and left with some rehearsed set of words.

"What are you going to paint?" I ask as she comes back into the living room, with an ice pack in her hand.

"I want to paint the light I saw today, with Jesus' hands coming from it. And even though the room was dark, I want to paint black only on the far edges, like the darkness is trying to get as far away from the light as possible."

"It'll be your best one yet." I smile as I stand.

Her face is lit up like a little girl's. "Really?!"

My smile grows as I nod my head. "I'm just happy to see you painting again. You haven't in so long."

"I know. But, it's alive in me again. I am alive again."

I wish I could feel the same way, but I'm still struggling. It's human to hurt. Isn't it? I know that Marcy is with You, Lord. And even though I trust You with all I have, it doesn't change the hurt. It doesn't change that I want to hold my little girl in my arms. She isn't an idol in my heart anymore. I just miss my little girl. I just want her back.

"I'm tired." I whisper as I grab the ice pack from her. Janet's eyes immediately change, as if she knows the multiple meanings of that statement. I can see that she wants to say something, but doesn't know what.

"I'm gonna lay down." I say softly as I kiss her cheek. I press the pack to my swollen eye and walk down the hall toward our bedroom.

### John Doe

I am losing everything. It doesn't matter how far I've come. It doesn't matter what I was told or what I believe. Even though he is now just a bear tipped over with his stuffing exposed, Teddy is still holding me as his puppet. His eyes are a soft red glow again. He knows how to reduce me back to the weak, hopeless man I have always been. He doesn't deny the truth about dad. Instead, now that it has been revealed to me, he proudly takes credit for it. He has pulled the image from my memories and pasted it into this moment: I see dad hanging in the doorway of the shed, as clear as when it happened. And I am unable to move. I close my eyes. But, the warmth that filled me through and through is now cold. I can no longer hold onto what mom told me.

Something is rising up from the center of me. It isn't tears building. It isn't pain. It's pressure without an origin. Pressure that I should recognize, but don't. Even with my eyes closed, I only see dad hanging. And now I hear the quiet laugh of Teddy, rising up all around me. He's mocking me, aware that control is falling back into his hands. I don't know how to stop it.

"Jesus!" I scream. But, it's not me. It's the pressure exploding out of me. "Save me!"

Everything quiets immediately. Teddy's laugh is gone. My eyes open effortlessly, like a curtain falling away on a stage. And what I see is darkness lit, where light is now growing out of the ground like grass, stroked across the branches, painted on the front and sides of the shed, and bursting from the doorway. And now in the sky, the darkness is peeling away, revealing white light. Not day light, but something cleaner.

"I don't know You, Jesus. But, I want to." I whisper as I stand up. "I need to know You. Without You, I am nothing. I'm this weak, stupid man. Empty and dead inside. There is no real strength in me. But, with You, I am strong. I only need to say Your name, and I feel fully alive. Alive in a way I've never been before." I pause, as my feet pull me toward the shed. "If it's really true that I can be forgiven, please forgive me for all of the pain I have caused. Forgive me for the lives I have ruined, the lives I have taken away. I don't deserve forgiveness, but if you will, forgive me. Make me new. I don't want to be this person anymore. I need You in my life."

The darkness in the sky is only left over flakes, like old paint being peeled away. My walk has become a run. The light is brighter in the shed. It's the center of this light. The presence emanating from it is something I can't reach fast enough. It isn't just light, it's love. It's the feeling of every happy moment I've ever experienced, multiplied by a countless number.

_You have purpose, John_. I can barely stand. His voice is coming at me from the trees, the sky, the ground, the tips of my fingers, the beating of my heart. It's present in my every pulse, in my every thought. _I know you through and through_.

I've fallen to my knees. The light is surrounding me from everywhere. I can feel it passing through me. Changing me.

_What's to come will not be easy, John. But, I am always with you. Even in the dark_. immediately, the light disappears. All of it. What it leaves behind is the dark it overtook. But, I feel no fear.

I am changed. Not just clean, or warm, or loved. Changed. And even though I don't know what my purpose is, I can feel that I have one.

### Matthew Mills

The ice pack is under the swollen side of my face like a pillow. The light of the hallway is causing my already throbbing head to pound even more, but it's the only light I have. As soon as I entered our bedroom, I wanted to leave. But, I didn't. I was too tired to turn back toward the hall, too tired to explain to Janet that our bedroom feels like a dungeon. I don't know if it's just this room, but I feel trapped. And my thoughts have grown into heavy weights, literally holding my body to this bed: _I_ _am worthless. My life is hopeless. I wish I was dead_. It's that familiar darkness that I know. But, I don't know how to get away from it anymore.

I am terrified, because I know something is inside of me. Something demonic. I can feel it turning every thought into an overwhelming desire to die. I'm thinking about the razors from my shaver. I'm thinking about bleeding out. I can't stop it.

The longer I lay, the louder it all gets. The weights have become literal hands pressing me into the bed. I feel watched from everywhere, like the walls, the ceiling, and the floor is riddled with eyes.

"Daddy?" it's Marcy's voice, but it isn't her. It's that wrinkled creature. "It's powerful!"

She's laughing in my ear. I can feel the spit. I can hear the growl behind the little girl.

_Matthew_? amidst the chaos, I hear Jesus' voice as if it's the only one speaking.

The weights haven't lifted from my back. The laughing hasn't stopped spitting at my ear. I'm still being pressed down. I'm still thinking about dying. The darkness hasn't gone away. Nothing is different, except one thought. I'm able to think about Jesus. I'm able to imagine the warmth of His presence. And now I feel it. I feel what I haven't felt since Janet's miscarriage.

_There is a poison inside of you, Matthew_. There is no chaos around me anymore. No more laughter. No weights holding me down. Just the quiet of the room. The warmth of Jesus' presence. The whisper of His voice. _I am not able to pull it out of you so easily, because it has been there for years, slowly eating away at your character, your energy, and your love for Me. Just like a cancer, it grows and multiplies. It fills your heart, corrodes your soul, and weakens your spirit. But, this day, Matthew, is the beginning of a process, where I pull that poison from you_.

His presence is gone as quickly as it came. But, what it's left in me is a speechless soul, a stream of tears down my cheeks, and a rapid beating of my heart. I am alive again.

### John Doe

I'm walking toward the shed, but it feels different than it ever has before, almost like I'm walking for the first time. My steps aren't difficult, but simple. No weights holding me down. No Teddy tingling through me. I'm not haunted anymore. I've walked toward this shed many times, but never as the person I have become. I am clean on the inside. Everything is new, despite all of the old: my long and dirty fingernails, my bloodstained musty clothes, my badly scarred face, and a past that doesn't just disappear. Fifteen children are dead because of me. That doesn't change, no matter how much I do.

The closer I get to the shed, the clearer it becomes why I'm even walking toward it. There was a note dad left for me to find, a final message he wanted me to see. But, Teddy hid it from me. This is the final answer. This is the last time I am going to walk toward the shed. And once I leave, I'll never be back.

It's not far away at all anymore. Yet, every step I take is harder than the last. I'm new now, but the idea that I could have been this person from the beginning—that's what hurts. What would my life be had I never listened to Teddy? I could have been so much more. I probably wouldn't have been an important person. But, fifteen children wouldn't be dead because of me. And that's all that matters.

But, it's a question that doesn't matter. I did listen to Teddy. I did kill fifteen children. And after I have this final answer, my life will become a display: instead of being hidden, I will be seen. They will hate me. They will give anything to see me suffer because of the pain I have caused them. There is no escaping what comes after I leave. I will be seen as the monster that killed fifteen children. Nothing else.

This is a walk I never thought I would take. I'm as close to free as the shed is to me: feet away. The door is halfway open. The dark of the outside matches the dark inside. But, now there is a small light. Cleaner than day.

_It's never too late, John_. Even though I don't know what Jesus is talking about, those words calm me more than I can describe. I step into the shed, and see the source of the light: dad's pack of cigarettes. _What you call Teddy wanted to bury this with your dad's body. But, it isn't powerful. It's weak and small_.

I walk over to the pack. The light is the same that shone up at me from M's teddy, the same that passed through me, and wrapped every part of me. As soon as I grab it, the light disappears. And suddenly, I feel like I found dad's body again, or, how it would have felt if I wasn't controlled by Teddy when I did. It's sadness. Simple and heavy and painful. But, also necessary. I never did feel this. I only knew hate.

My fingers have pulled open the pack. I'm digging inside. What I pull out is a paper folded three times unevenly:

Son,

I don't deserve to live. I don't want to. I've taken away your innocence, and left you with monsters. I see them when I close my eyes. They are the same monsters that have destroyed me. They have made me do things I never wanted to do. I betrayed your mom, my beautiful Anna. And I have destroyed my last love, my wonderful son. It doesn't matter that I didn't know what I was doing. I chose to betray your mom. I chose it. And everything that has come from it is my fault. I'm so sorry, John. I wish I could ask you to forgive me.

But, there are no words I can say. Nothing to make it better. I can only leave you with a message. Jesus is the only light. He's the only one who can take away those monsters I have left in you.

What I deserve is punishment. But, all I can think about is how Jesus forgives, even as I prepare to die. And how maybe He will forgive me.

I love you, John

Goodbye

There are no words to describe how this feels. The sadness isn't simple anymore. There is nothing simple about it. These are the words of a broken man who thought he had no other option. But, he didn't have to die. Had I only known that he was sorry, it would have changed everything. I could have had him in my life, instead of the monsters he gave me. I would have forgiven you, dad. If you had just asked me, I would have forgiven you.

Tears are starting to cover my cheeks. This is grief I've never known. Pain I've never felt. I am now entirely aware of everything I have lost. And with it, everything I could have kept.

_Close your eyes, John_. it's a soft command. Even though I have been told this very same thing many times today, it feels new. It always feels new.

I close them. Immediately, I hear the sound of life. I feel the warmth of light. My eyes open. Not far away from me, mom and dad are sitting together on the bench, holding hands.

### Matthew Mills

With my eyes closed, I have sat in the quiet of this bedroom and thought about the poison in me. About when it began: Dad's funeral? His diagnosis? Somewhere in between? I thought about when my relationship with Jesus lost the close connection it once had. I thought about the first moment that I truly hated Him. It was when dad didn't come back from the dead, when the lid closed, and the casket was lowered. And then I thought about how it has only been buried, deeper and deeper.

There is a poison in me. Even now it is trying to drip doubt into my faith. It's trying to ruin my encounter with Jesus by making me guilty over the peace I have: If _you love Marcy so much, how are you okay now that she's gone?_ I loved Marcy so much, that she became the air I breathed, and the blood that kept me alive. She wasn't just my little girl. She was my idol.

But, I remember when she was born. I remember how much time I spent with Jesus. Even as she started growing up, that didn't change. When Janet got pregnant the first time after we had Marcy, it was planned. We had been trying for many months, seeking the Lord through every attempt. And as Janet slowly started to expand, we began to prepare for our little Michael. I pleaded the Blood of Jesus over him from his day of conception. And whenever I spoke about Jesus, something in me would come to life. But then, twelve weeks and three days into the pregnancy, Janet lost him.

After that, I didn't spend as much time seeking Jesus. And when I talked about Him, I didn't have the same life inside of me. I haven't ever since. As Janet began to wear her sadness around, Marcy became a bright light. When she would smile, I would too. And little by little I turned to her instead of Jesus, because she was always there. Always close.

I've resented the Lord. Not just because of dad's death, but because of the first and second miscarriage. And I've used Marcy to bury those feelings, to make me believe everything was fine. But, now that she's gone, there is nothing to hide it. In the past three years, I have become a man who doesn't love the Lord like he once did. There is a poison in me. And it's eaten away so much of who I am.

But, a healing is already starting to happen inside of me, because Jesus is enough. That hasn't been true of my life since—I don't exactly know when. Maybe it was the first miscarriage. Or maybe it was dad's death. I don't know when it stopped being true. I only know that it is. And that's why, even on one of the worst days of my life, I am alive.

### Purpose/Helpless

### John Doe

Freedom doesn't feel the way I thought it would. I'm standing in this shed, terrified to leave it. I don't want to be seen. I just want it to be over. I just want to be where mom and dad are, where the endless city is, where there is only joy, only light, only love. I tried to call for them, but they didn't turn around. I tried to walk toward them, but I couldn't move. I was just there. And then it faded.

... This is a freedom I never thought I could have. Now that it's mine, I wish it wasn't just the beginning of what's to come. I am a new man, who will pay for everything the old me did. Am I a coward because I want out? I know the answer to that question is yes. For most of my life, I have taken away so much. Now, I expect to be given a new life without any consequences? Without repercussions? Without being seen for who I have been? There are always consequences. And that is what my freedom will be.

_There is a purpose for you, John_. It's a reminder that drops into my mind like a stone into water, and spreads outward. I don't know why, but suddenly I'm thinking about Matthew, about the way he hugged M before having her run into the school. There was only happiness on his face when he turned around. Nothing else.

Before ever bringing her out here, I wanted to take her home. That hasn't changed. The more I think about it, the more it spreads throughout me. I have a purpose. Maybe it's as small as being the one who brings her home. But, I have always taken. I have always caused pain. What if my purpose is to bring back some kind of joy, even though she is dead?

The reminder has reverberated, causing every part of me to come to life with the idea. I grab all of dad's notes from the shed, and tuck them away in a bottom trench coat pocket. All that's left in my right hand is the paper I pulled from Teddy.

_Burn the paper, and the thing you call Teddy. Do not take anything from this property with you_. it's a command that has a severity to it.

I dig down into my pocket and pull out the handful of dad's notes. I haven't known about them until today, and now I can't bring them with me. I want to. This is a part of dad that I never knew. But, I can't take them. Jesus has guided me all this way. He told me to take nothing.

_But, they are just notes. Why can't I take them? What will happen if I do? The paper with the eyes is the one I'm supposed to burn, not my dad's notes. Just take them_. This thought has crawled into my mind.

I'm skimming through dad's notes again. They are notes of his struggle, notes of his pain, notes I can relate to. I fold the full sheets in half, and walk toward the car.

### Matthew Mills

I'm sitting on the couch across from Janet's canvas, watching her paint. She hasn't asked me why I'm not sleeping. She hasn't said a thing. She is just smiling back at me shyly. It's the same smile she had when we were newlyweds and I would watch her paint. Her cheeks would get many shades of red. The many shades they are now.

Our first apartment was a shoebox, with one tiny room leading into another. She used our kitchen as her studio, spreading old sheets across the ugly tile floor. I had only begun working at the factory. It was one of the only reasons we didn't find a different place to live. The pay was good. The apartments were cheap. The town was safe.

But, Janet and I didn't meet in Payne. We met in Anderson, North Dakota, a town that is about an hour away from here. It was where she was born, and where I grew up, from eight years old on.

The first place I lived after moving out of my mom's house was a room-for-rent: three hundred and fifty dollars a month, with working cable and internet. It was where I met Janet. She was eighteen; I was twenty. She answered the phone when I inquired about the room at her mom's; she answered the door when I came to check it out. And from the moment I saw her, I was caught. We married eight months later.

"I always wanted to be a dad," I say softly.

Immediately, she stops dabbing her brush in the middle of the canvas and turns back toward me. She doesn't say a thing.

"But, I didn't realize how that would change _us_. Not as people necessarily, but as a couple. You are so special to me, Janet, but I haven't really shown you that in a long time." I pause. "Do you remember when we were newlyweds?"

She nods her head.

"There was just something so organic about it. We didn't really know what we were doing. We only knew that we loved each other. That hasn't changed." I didn't plan what is happening. I've gotten down on one knee. "I don't have another ring to give you, I only have this symbol. I'm proposing that we be newlyweds again. I want to start over. I want to discover you again, because the beautiful woman I am looking at is the woman I married. _You_ are who I married. Will you start over with me, Janet?"

Her eyes are wet and leaking. Nearly ten years later and her expression is the same it was the day I proposed. She pulls her ring off her finger and hands it to me.

"Yes, Matty," she says with an alive smile. " _You_ are who I married."

I slip the ring back onto her finger. It feels new, like the way it did the day I slipped it on her finger for the first time. I stand and hug her, able to just be here. No resentment. No hostile thoughts. Nothing but this moment.

"You have always been the only one for me," I whisper. "I love you."

"I love you, too." she says as she squeezes me tighter.

### John Doe

I look down at the notes in my hand. Even with the car's internal light on, they are covered in shadow. Dad's entry for April 25th, 1981, he wrote that the day I was born was the happiest of his life. There are a few mentions of how much I meant to him. But even so, his entries are a reminder of who I no longer am, just like M dead in the backseat. And that's why I can't take anything with me. This property is Teddy's. He was grown here. The blood from each child still remains in the bears on the shelf in the shed. Everything on this property is cursed. Dad's notes are not just sheets of paper; they are a way to keep Teddy alive in my life, a way for him to follow me once I leave. I won't take them with me. I will burn them with Teddy.

I push in the car cigarette lighter, and glance in the rearview mirror once more. M is a reminder of what I'll never be again, of what I'm about to burn. I open the driver side door. The light in the car is still bright enough that even as I lean out of it, I can read the notes. I start at the beginning. The more I read them, the emptier they become. Just as I'm a new person, so is he. The man who wrote these notes isn't my father. This is a sad shell. But, someday I can have him again.

"Look in the mirror!" it's Teddy, deep and dark and distorted. My eyes look. I see M now replaced with every other child I've killed, like a reel of images constantly changing. "You don't deserve to have redemption! You are a disease, John! And fifteen children are dead because of you!" It's suddenly freezing, and feels like Teddy is back in the passenger seat. I'm a new person, but he's trying to flood back the old. It's the tingle shooting through me, the chill crawling over me, the dirty feeling trying to seep back through. I'm new, but the shame wearing heavy on me is old. Old and familiar.

I close my eyes searching for that new feeling, but all I feel is the _old_. I hear the sounds the children made when I wrapped the bag over their heads. The sounds of the suffocation. The sounds of desperation. Everything is heightened. Teddy's not just reminding me of the _old_ , he's making me relive it. I feel their little hands against my arms. I desperately wish I could pull the bags away. But, I can't. It's just a memory of what has already happened.

This wasn't me! It was Teddy. With every child it was Teddy, because I would have pulled the bag away! I feel their fingers pulling. I hear their little voices pleading. If I would have been in control, I would have let them go.

A soft pop. I open my eyes. The cigarette lighter is ready. It's quiet again. Even at my weakest, Teddy isn't able to control me anymore.

"It was a lie you told me." I whisper, as I grab the lighter and step out of the car. "They're dead because of you, because I let you in." I walk toward Teddy, who's tipped over and only feet away from the front of the car. "But, even with all that power I helped grow in you, you are still weak." I'm standing over Teddy. The notes are in my left hand; the lighter is a dim orange glow in my right. I haven't been able to imagine this moment. I never thought it would come. But, here it is. Teddy is now the small, defeated object. Not me.

I press the faded orange tip to the bottom edge of the sheets. They catch fire immediately, peeling back and flaking away. There isn't even a part of me that wants to put them out. I want to drop them into Teddy's split open back and watch him burn. And I do.

But, immediately a smell comes from the flame, like a body that's rotting. The fire is consuming Teddy, coming out of his back, and burning through his arms and legs. But, the smell is only getting worse. And fear is starting to consume me. Teddy doesn't feel like he's dying. He feels like he's getting stronger. The smell is the smell of rot. Decay. Death. Everything I want to leave. Yet, it's surrounding me again. I can't get away!

The fire is now eating Teddy's face. But, he's still growing. I can feel him. The presence of Teddy is tall above me. He's not this small, burning bear. He's bigger, so much bigger than I am. He always has been.

"How do I get free, Jesus?!" I scream. "What do I have to do?!" This isn't even me screaming. It's something from within me, who screams when I can't.

_Know Who I am_. His voice isn't a quiet whisper this time. It's like thunder, making the ground shake.

I don't know Who He is. He's the Man from the stories mom used to read me from that thick leather book she always had with her. I only remember the stories. I don't remember Who He is. I wish I could. But, I only remember the stories.

Silence answers my silence. The silence is all consuming, like nothing else is around me, like this world has been muted. With my eyes closed I hear mom's voice.

"This is from the book of John. That's _your_ name too, because he was a great man, like you will be. I want this to stay with you forever. John 3:16 says, 'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten son, so that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.' That means Jesus died for you, John. He loves you that much. He died for you."

She used to say this to me almost every night before she got sick. I only remember it now. And that's all I remember. Life before Teddy is still a heavy fog. Things are revealed in small pieces. But, I now know Who Jesus is.

"Jesus." I say as I open my eyes. "You are the Son of God."

I can only hear the quiet crackle of flame at my feet. I look down. Teddy is black, and still burning. He isn't a tall presence above me. He is ashes at my feet. This is freedom. It's not just because I'm free from Teddy, but because I know Who Jesus is. Not a stranger. Not a Man from the stories mom used to tell me, but the Son of God.

### Matthew Mills

This is the kind of hug Janet and I shared when we were young. It's a living expression that speaks without words. Our hug is a verification of what has been missing between us. And now, what the Lord has returned. I have never stopped loving Janet. I know that. But, I also know that I haven't loved her like this in a long time, because our hugs haven't been like this in a long time.

Her tears have soaked the right shoulder of my shirt. I don't think they are tears of sadness. I don't feel sadness in this hug. My few tears haven't been from sadness, but the overwhelming sense of renewal. I believe she can feel the same thing.

"Matty?" she whispers.

"Yeah, baby?" I answer.

"Something miraculous is going to happen."

"It already has."

She lets go of me immediately and steps back. Her child-like eyes meet mine. They tell me to continue without her saying a word. Maybe she doesn't understand what I mean. Or maybe she just wants to hear it, even if she does understand.

"Something miraculous has already happened." I say as I smile at her. "This hug with you is miraculous. The life that has returned to your eyes is miraculous. Just think about how earlier today you were a shell. Now, you're new." I pause. "The work Jesus has already done in my heart is miraculous. I'm new. I'm new, sweetie, even though everything apart from the Lord is telling me I should be broken. But, I'm not. That's miraculous." I pause to brush away tears from both of her eyes. "Getting to feel this close to you again is miraculous. Getting to love you wholeheartedly again is miraculous. I love you with a depth that goes beyond words, Janet. The miraculous has already happened. The proof is in this moment."

She didn't expect this. It's written all over her face. Her tears are a steady stream running down a speechless display. When she said something miraculous was going to happen, she was talking about Marcy. She thought it was what I needed to hear. Of course I want Marcy back. That will never change. But, my survival doesn't depend on it. She isn't my air, she isn't my blood. Jesus is. I want my Marcy back, but I don't want her back the way she was. She was an all consuming presence in my life.

I understand Janet's speechless display. She saw that my purpose was found in Marcy. She saw that she wasn't first after Jesus, but a distant second. And I think she still wonders that. Even with our little girl gone, she thinks she's still a distant second.

"I know that look, sweetie. And I'm so sorry." I press my hands against both sides of her face and draw her close. "I'm sorry that I put Marcy before you, that I loved her first, that I found happiness in her and struggle in you. I have taken you for granted. The fact remains that you are the most precious gift God has given to me. And Marcy is an extension of you. I can only ask you to forgive me. And then spend every day proving that you are the most precious gift, second only to Jesus. Please forgive me for all the times you felt replaced and unimportant, because you are irreplaceable. You are my wonderful wife. You are my other half. And you are so very important to me."

Her expression is the same as it was when I re-proposed to her only minutes ago. It's still speechless, but with an entirely new context. Not bewilderment, but jubilation. The newness I feel is now glowing on her. Her tears are now just sniffles.

"Yes, Matty. Yes. I forgive you." she's smiling. "I love you so much."

I gently pull her face in to touch mine, and say the same thing back before I kiss her.

### John Doe

Teddy is just remains. Where the flame has died, I put my foot, dislodging a large chunk of him. He's now just pieces of my past. I don't feel him at all anymore. But, I know I'm not alone. The reality of Jesus is overwhelming. And with Teddy gone, my purpose is a spotless clarity. I will leave soon. I will return M to Matthew. And then I will turn myself in. But for this moment, I'm basking in the crackle of the flame. It's Teddy's defeat. And my victory. I am free.

"I am free." when I say it out loud it satisfies even more. "I am free." The details of this freedom are becoming more and more clear with every passing moment. It's a clarity I shouldn't have, a knowledge I shouldn't possess. Yet, I do. I can hardly remember any of my childhood, yet, somehow what I was taught during it is coming out of me now, like I'm a garden filled with seeds that are only now starting to grow.

I don't remember when I was told these things, but I know I was taught them. They were simple teachings then, but have become complex understandings now: _It's the realization that my reason for life hasn't been lived out, but is only starting to arrive. It's the realization that God has a plan to take all of what I've done in my past and turn it around for good. It's the realization that, despite all the pain I've caused, there is a purpose for me that is much greater, that somehow I will be a light with what time remains of my life_.

I shouldn't know these things. I haven't been taught them. I was taught simple truths, that Jesus loves me, that He died for me, that through Him, and only Him, I can have eternal life. Those are simple teachings, that a child's mind can hold without confusion. But, the realizations I'm having now aren't child-like. They aren't even simple. They are revealing a plan on my life that Teddy hasn't been able to change. How is that possible? How is there still a purpose for me, beyond bringing M back home? No matter how new I am, my past is what people will see. They'll see the man who took their children away, not the one who wishes more than anything that he could give them back.

My eyes are open to what Teddy blinded me to: purpose. It's always been inside of me. A seed in the ground. But, it hasn't grown until now, because darkness is all I've known. The light I had as a child was quickly blotted out by what dad fell into, by what he did to me. And since then, Teddy convinced me that my only purpose was found in him, found in his direction. Maybe Teddy came into my life to stop my purpose from happening. Maybe he knew that it was full of the light, full of what he hated.

Or... what if my purpose has always been this? What if Jesus knew what dad would fall into, and how it would affect not only him, but me? What if He saw the darkness that would come before it ever did and allowed it? What if my purpose has always been the testimony of how Jesus set me free?

### Matthew Mills

Just like with a hug, a kiss can show many things. A peck usually means the relationship is on life support. Shallow and short usually means things are strained but not wanting to be discussed. But, deep and extended means a relationship is in health or has been repaired or is in the process. Just like with our hug, our kissing is sign of renewal. We're in a sensual state. Our tongues are dancing in unison. Our lips are old partners that know exactly where to meet—

I hear knocking. It's muffled and quiet, but immediately it pulls me out of the moment. Like earlier today, our kissing is interrupted by a knock at the door. Except this time, Janet doesn't pull away. She just keeps kissing me. The knocks don't seem to affect her. But, they affect me.

I close my eyes again, trying to get back to the place I was at with Janet only moments ago. I can't.

The knocks are closer to pounds on the second set. Now, Janet's eyes open. She glances toward the stairs, her bottom lip bent in annoyance.

"You should probably answer that," she sighs. "It doesn't seem to be going away."

My reply is a nod of the head as I walk toward the stairs.

The third set of knocks are as loud as the second, accompanied by a voice.

"Mr. Mills?!" it's a man, a voice I don't recognize. "This is the police!"

It feels like a pit has opened up on the inside of me. Is Marcy on the other side of this door? Is he holding my dead daughter? I'm afraid, Lord. I'm afraid.

"I'm coming!" my reply is just a tick above a whisper. It's the loudest I can muster. My tongue is clogging my throat. I'm not ready for this, Lord. I'm not ready. You have done a miraculous work in me. You have renewed my marriage. You have renewed me. But, I'm not ready for this, Lord. Give me the strength to open that door.

"Who is it, Matty?" Janet calls from the top of the steps.

I can't speak to answer her. I just offer my hand. Something in her eyes light up as she runs down the steps and meets it with hers. She moves toward the door effortlessly, unaware of what's on the other side. She doesn't know that our dead daughter is only feet away.

She opens the door without a second thought. She didn't hear who it was. She doesn't know what she's going to see. But, I do. Give me the strength, Lord. Give me the strength.

I see him before Janet does. But, he's not holding Marcy. And his face isn't sympathetic, but stern.

"Matthew Mills?" he asks, seeming to already know.

"Yes." I can hardly speak. My tongue is still stuck in my throat.

"I need you to come down to the police station."

"Why?" Janet beats me to the question. "Is this about our daughter?" how can she be so calm?

"No Ma'am." he doesn't expound. He remains a statue outside of our door. "I just have some questions I want to ask your husband."

I'm here but I'm not. I'm watching but I'm not interacting. They're talking about me like I'm somewhere else entirely.

"If these questions aren't about the kidnapping of our daughter, what are they about?" Janet can be as sharp as a knife when she wants. "Tell me or we aren't going anywhere."

I hear her, but I'm not looking at her. I'm not looking at the police officer either. I'm staring past him. Somehow, I know what he's going to say before he says it. This visit isn't about Marcy, it's about Ms. Brands.

"Edna Brands was found dead. Your husband was the last one seen with her."

The pit in my stomach has become a sour swamp.

### John Doe

Although the moment to bask in Teddy's defeat has ended, the feeling of victory hasn't. I'm sitting in the car, ready to leave. He's really gone. Part of me was afraid that as soon as I got back in the driver's seat, he would return to the passenger seat, and quietly laugh at my vain attempts to get away. It's a part of me that's practically mechanical, a part of me that expects him to be wherever I am. And now that he's not, that part is like a dead and rotting limb. It doesn't need to be attached to me anymore. But, the amputation of it isn't something I have the ability to do. I wouldn't even know where to start.

Maybe some part of me still believes he did what he did to protect me. Maybe some part of me is terrified to leave, to be seen, to be hated. Maybe it's trying to stay in the dark, because the dark is all it has ever known. I know what's to come isn't going to be easy. I'm going to be hated. But, I'm not afraid. Or if I am, the peace filling me far outweighs the fear.

I look in the rearview mirror. My reflection doesn't fit the way I feel. My face is bloodstained and scarred. Scabs from old cuts mark my cheeks. This isn't who I am. This face doesn't match the man I have become. I am new, in the body of something old and homely. This body is a display, a consequence for the years I've followed Teddy. I have to wear it, because this is the man the people will see. I'm new where it matters: on the inside. But, the outside will not be new. Not here. Not until I die. Then the newness will match.

I turn the key to start the car. An urgency is starting to build on the inside of me. I need to bring M home before the end of this day. The digital clock in the car says it's a few minutes after five. I have just enough time if I leave right now. I don't know why getting her home by midnight matters. I just know it does. The more I learn about my purpose, the easier it is to read the details attached.

Without looking out at the property again, I put the car into reverse and back away from it.

### Matthew Mills

The officer told Janet something I don't even remember hearing and then walked away. She hasn't said a word since the officer left. She has hardly even looked at me. Does she actually think I did it? Is that why she is being quiet? I don't know what to say to her. I shouldn't have to defend myself. She should know that I would never do that. She should know.

We're walking toward my Escape in silence. I don't know what she's thinking. No clues are written on her face. No bent lip. No wandering eyes. No pauses or attempts to speak. She's just quiet. The longer she goes without speaking, the more it hurts.

"Say something." I mutter as I open the passenger door for her. This isn't how a new beginning with her should feel. I feel judged and dissected. I feel like I have to defend myself.

"I know you didn't do it, Matty." she stops and looks at me. "I'm praying that they'll know that too, that the Lord will open their eyes to the truth. I never thought you did it. Not even for a second." she smiles something reassuring at me as she kisses my lips softly. And then she gets into the car. I close her door.

It's what I needed to hear. She didn't doubt me for a moment. _Not even for a second_. It makes every word that she said to me inside the house even more special.

Some part of me wants to blame God for this: _first Marcy? And now thi_ s?! But, it's my fault. This is a consequence for following Ms. Brands when I was told to leave her alone. This is a consequence. And the outcome is out of my hands. It's my word against what they believe happened.

Lord, I trust You with everything. This is my own doing, my own mistake. But, Your Word says that You turn even what the enemy means for bad and use it for good. The enemy is trying to destroy me. He set in motion a plan that I walked right into. He's trying to frame me. But, You are my Savior, more than able to deliver me. Let the truth be known, Lord.

I open the driver door and get in. Janet starts the car from where she's at, and immediately takes hold of my hand, meshing her fingers with mine.

### John Doe

This town doesn't resemble what it was when I entered it earlier today. It's hard to describe. Every shut down shop is still as empty as when I arrived, every house is still empty and forgotten, and every street branching from Main leads to the same emptiness. On the surface, it hasn't changed. But below the surface, it has. Ever since Teddy caused those three boys to jump from the downtown bridge, Minea has been a place for secrets, a place for curses, a place for him to control.

But now I realize even Teddy's power was small. What took him twenty six years to build has been taken away in less than a day. It only took the mention of Jesus for everything to change.

### Matthew Mills

I back the car out and drive toward the police station. Even from here, I can see Ms. Brand's house. Two cop cars are parked along her curb with the lights still flashing. A white van is parked in her driveway.

I see Janet looking out the window. Her face is pulled down into a sad display.

"What do you think happened to her?" she asks without looking toward me, her fingers now seeming restless with mine.

Does Janet need to hear what I think? Does she need to hear that I think the evil Ms. Brands was exposed to ended up killing her just as it did her Dizzy and Gizmo? And that now it's trying to frame me? Would she even believe that? Janet hasn't experienced the demonic like I have. She didn't see it in Ms. Brands; she didn't see the change in her personality, the quiet growls that came from her. She saw a lady with lost eyes. She didn't see what was beneath them.

"I don't know." it's not a lie. I don't have the details. I shouldn't bog her down with them, especially now, as we're driving down to the police station.

"I think you know more than you want to say. Is that it?" now she's looking at me.

"Yes," I whisper. "I'll tell you later." I look at her, and smile. "I promise."

Her restless fingers have calmed and mesh with mine again as she looks back out the window. The peace covering her amazes me. Her faith is child-like. She doesn't need to know why this is happening. She accepts that it is, and holds onto the Lord's words with all she has: _it's going to be okay_. Those five words have carried her through this day and continue to. I know it will be okay, but that doesn't mean the hardest days of our lives aren't ahead of us. That doesn't mean that the road to that promise won't be dark and painful—is this just the fear talking? What happened to the assurance I had before the police officer came? The newness I felt? The renewal? Do I still feel that?

I don't know. Once again, I am a man split in half. There is a part of me filled with peace that matches Janet's. But, there is also a part of me that's absolutely terrified. And that's the part that is overwhelming. That's the part that makes my old anger seem new. That's the part of me that wants to curse God and question His _almighty_ power.

Even with all the change He has done in me, there is always a part that wants to deny, wants to negate, wants to explain it all away. It's inescapable. It's my biggest enemy, able to undo my certainty and leave it a mess of jumbled knots.

Calm me, Lord. Give me the peace that Janet has. Give me the strength to keep my eyes on You, even as these waves crash all around me, even as the current tries to pull me under—help me to keep my eyes on You.

### John Doe

Like my life with Teddy, Minea is behind me. Except... when I close my eyes, I can still see it. When I close my eyes, I'm not leaving but driving toward it. I don't know if I'll ever really get to completely leave. I'm free from Teddy, but I'm not free from the memories. Maybe that will come with time. Or maybe that's part of my consequence.

I'm a selfish person, selfish in my newness. I want more than what I have. I want Minea to disappear from my mind completely, not to linger as a nightmare. I want a new start. I want my mind to match my soul. But, I know that isn't realistic or even fair of me to ask. Those memories stick to me like my skin because they have been me for so long. All of the things that I leave behind still belong to me in some way. Even in my newness, some of the filth remains.

Why does my security seem to disappear as I drive out into the dark? I've walked in the dark for most of my life, without any sort of light. Now that I have the Light, why am I more afraid of the dark? Teddy is powerless. But, my memories don't portray him as powerless. Now with a complete picture, my memories cast Teddy as a master puppeteer. If I build him back up in my mind, could he find his way to me again? If I believe he is still powerful, could he return?

The headlights on this car are weak and dim. The darkness covers everything. And I feel watched from everywhere. It's familiar, like returning to an empty home. It's what I know. My mind doesn't want me to accept my freedom. It doesn't even know what to do with the reality. It wants what is familiar. It wants to go back home, back to what it has always known.

I know the darkness much more than the light. I know Teddy much more than I know Jesus. I hate to admit that. But, it's true. I know hatred much more than love. Pain much more than peace. And anger much more than calm. But, I'm new. I have to keep saying that.

"I'm new." when I say it out loud, it only seems to echo from someplace empty. My heart? My soul? My fear that only seems to be growing?

Since leaving my childhood property, the reality of my freedom, the reality of Jesus has started to run through my fingers like precious sand. What feels real right now is the darkness surrounding me, the memories flashing before me, the dread coursing through me. What I feel is all consuming.

But, something small remains within. It's a small impulse, growing stronger as I focus on it. I know what I'm going to say. Somehow, it feels more familiar than the darkness I've known for all these years.

"Jesus." it's a quiet call, one I've repeated many times today. "Help me."

Suddenly, a streak of bright red color appears across the horizon ahead of me. It's the last of the sunset, seen only at this moment because I'm driving down a decline. And it bleeds into me immediately. Jesus isn't gone. He is in everything.

### Matthew Mills

The police station looks like the thrift store it's next to: a small brick building with outdated signs. It isn't intimidating. Only one cop car is parked out front. It's a small town operation, almost pathetic in its appearance. Yet, it's now the place where my future is decided.

Janet hasn't stopped holding my hand. She hasn't urged me inside. She is staring out at it like me.

"What do you think is going to happen?" I ask without turning to look at her.

"I think the truth will be known." she turns to look at me. "Jesus has you, Matty. Just tell them the truth." she uses her free hand to turn my head toward her. "Leave the rest up to Him."

I nod my head as I open my door and plant a foot on the pavement. The building seems even smaller, now that I'm standing outside of it. But, my heart is still racing. And no matter how small it seems, it has now become a mountain in my mind that I don't have the faith to remove. Instead, it only seems to be growing as the moments pass.

Even as Janet's hand slips effortlessly back into place with mine, the small building continues to grow in my mind. The front door shrinks off into the distance, becoming a mirage; the surrounding trees almost look plastic. Even my free hand looks fake as I sway it across my face. For a moment I think about hitting myself again—

"Mr. Mills?" my eyes follow the call. The cop who came to our house is now getting out of the parked cop car. "I'll bring you inside for questioning." he's much taller than me. I don't know why, but it's all I can focus on. It makes me feel even smaller. "Follow me."

I listen to what he says, taking short steps behind his. I feel like a child: completely helpless, smaller than everyone else around me. Janet's hand doesn't even feel like my wife's, but like my mother's. It's like I'm a little boy again, being brought into a situation my mind can't fully comprehend. It was like when dad was first diagnosed. I only understood certain things that I was told. I didn't understand the details or the technical terms. I understood that dad was sick. I understood that he was helpless. Like me, he became a child who had no control over the outcome.

It was a losing battle from the moment it began. Over those three years, a man who wanted to control everything, learned to let it all go. He put all of his strength, all of his hope, all of his love into his relationship with Jesus. And at the end of his life, he was just a little boy waiting for his Daddy to bring him home.

Many times I have wondered why he decided to give up. I have wondered why he stopped fighting, when there was still so much to live for here. I have wondered why he was okay leaving me behind. That question has hurt me in the deepest places. Why did he leave when I still needed him so badly?

I've never understood the answer to that question. But, as I walk toward this building, feeling like a child again, I finally do. This is the place I was always meant to come back to: the place of a child; the place of helplessness, where I give away all control and take my Daddy's hand, trusting that He knows the way.

### John Doe

The streak of red is gone from the horizon, but the revelation remains. Jesus is in everything. He is even in my mind, quieting the past and feeding my newness. The old memories are still playing like old film from somewhere inside, but my focus is on the newness. I'm thinking about how it will feel to bring M back home, and the hope that will come from it. It gives me hope.

Matthew may beat me to within an inch of my life as soon as I bring M to his door. Light may not return to his eyes at all. But, it's the best I can give. He won't wonder what happened to his little girl. He'll get to say goodbye. It's something none of the other parents have: closure.

And after that? Whatever happens, happens. I can't really imagine how it will feel to be hated by everyone. I haven't been a relevant character in a room since before mom died. I have merely existed. I can't begin to imagine what it will be like to be important only because of the pain I've caused. And the horrible things I've done. There are fifteen families that I will have to face. They won't see the story of how Jesus set me free. They'll see the pain I've caused them. And my name will continue to match what they perceive me to be: I am anonymous. I am not a person to them, but a tragedy. I'm the one who took their life away. Their spark. Their happiness.

Whatever my purpose is within it all is something I can't see. But, it's the certainty of purpose that keeps me going. Even though I can't see my purpose, I know it's there, wrapped up in my consequences. It begins with bringing M home before midnight tonight. That's the only clear direction I have—

I don't even know how I'm going to get back to Payne. The gas light just came on. The needle is barely above E. And I don't have any money. I didn't even think about how low it was when leaving Minea. It seemed small compared to everything else. Except now, it's the very thing keeping me from my purpose.

"Jesus." I say, glancing over at the passenger seat automatically. "I haven't known purpose until I started to know You. This purpose doesn't come from anywhere else. It's because of You. If I'm supposed to bring M back to Payne myself by the end of this day, I know You will make a way."

I don't need to say anything else. I know what faith is. It's loyalty. I showed it for twenty six years with Teddy. And now, I will show it for the rest of my life with Jesus. Faith can bring freedom or it can bring chains. I know both. If my purpose is to return M before midnight tonight, it will happen.

Suddenly, the dim lights of this car climb a single sign on the side of the road: _Gas station 10 miles_.

### Matthew Mills

The police station interior matches my low expectations. It is one large room, divided into several offices by cubicles. The officer hasn't said another word since we entered the building. His steps in front of Janet and I are his only constant. He leads us past the empty cubicles and toward the back of the room. There is a wooden door. A gold colored number 1 is the only thing marking it.

"I'll have to ask you to wait out here, Mrs. Mills." he says, glancing back. "There's coffee and magazines right over there," he points to the right of us, where there is a makeshift waiting area in the corner.

"Okay," she agrees, and then looks at me. "I'll be right out here, Matty. I love you." calm still covers her face. "Everything's going to be okay." she lets go of my hand, as the officer leads me toward the room.

_I love you, too_. I mouth the words so she can see. A small smile crawls onto her face as she walks toward the waiting area.

"Ready when you are, Mr. Mills." the officer is already standing in the room. It's not dimly lit, but closer to an office. Dull blue carpet is on the floor. Tube lights stripe across the ceiling in sections. A cheap wooden table sits in the center, with one foldable metal chair placed on each side. "Have a seat." he says as he closes the door. I do.

"I am the officer who followed up on your daughter's disappearance from school today." he starts before ever sitting down. "I talked to Ms. Brands, Mrs. Fig, and a few of your daughter's classmates at school. At 3:31 pm, I came to your house to try and get any more valuable information. Your wife was home, but she couldn't say where you were. Meet me at this point. Where were you?"

"I was driving." I answer quietly.

"Where?"

"Do you believe in demons?" why am I asking this question?

"Is that relevant?"

"Yes."

"Okay." he sighs. "No. I believe in fact. I believe that everything has an explanation. And I believe the explanation for this is very simple."

I stare at him blankly. "Tell me what you think, officer."

"I believe that you were frustrated. I believe that you knew Edna Brands was the one who called your daughter down to the office. You expected answers from her. And when you didn't get them, you drowned her in her bathtub."

"You asked where I was driving." I disregard his accusation.

"Yes. Where were you driving?"

"To Minea."

"Where is that?" he asks coldly.

"It's a small town in Minnesota." I pause. "Do you believe in demons?" I didn't even ask it this time. It just came out of me.

"No." I can see his face starting to tense. "I already answered that question. Why do you keep asking me that?"

"You said you talked to Ms. Brands?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

"She talked about her dead husband."

"Did she say anything else?" I'm asking the questions and he doesn't even realize it.

"Not really."

"Had you talked to Ms. Brands before today?"

"No."

"She has never been that person. Before today, she was a sharp toned attendance woman. She didn't like her job, but was too old to get something else. She was almost condescending in her reply when I would call into the school if Marcy was sick." I pause. "Ask anybody about Ms. Brands, and they will tell you she wasn't sick. She didn't just happen to lose her mind today. It was taken from her."

I expect skepticism to flood his face, but instead he just clears his throat. "Why were you driving to Minea?" he doesn't disregard my theory. I can see the conviction in his eyes.

"Ms. Brands came to my door before I ever came to hers. That was a couple hours after Janet and I left the school. I think it was a little after two. She knocked on my door and said that a man took Marcy. Something was in her. You could feel it as soon as you looked in her eyes. They weren't empty, but full. You could feel something looking back at you that wasn't her. I knew that it had the answer. It knew where my little girl was, so I followed her back to her house. I knew I was supposed to stay away, but I didn't. If you are a father, you understand."

"How did you get those bruises on your face? Were they self inflicted?"

"Yeah. As soon as I found out Marcy was missing." I pause. "I know what you think happened, but I didn't kill Ms. Brands. I followed her back to her house, trying to find out more about where my little girl was. She had me come in behind her as she entered her house. She sat down in her rocking chair. I asked about Marcy; she asked about her dogs, Dizzy and Gizmo. She sounded closer to Ms. Brands. There was actually direction to her request. I thought maybe she knew more, so I went to find them. She said they were drying from the bath she had given them. But, when I went in the bathroom, I pulled back the shower curtain and found their bodies floating in the tub. And as I left, that thing in her said one word to me: _Minea_."

His eyes are wide. He's not even looking at me anymore, but past me.

"My wife kept telling me that there were demons torturing her." he says, almost blankly. "She kept saying they were the reason she didn't want to live anymore. She kept saying she didn't want to remember what happened to her when she was a little girl. I disregarded what she said. I told her to stop focusing on it, to live in the real world. Then one day, she took a gun from my study and tried to quiet them." he pauses, closing his eyes. "She can't talk. The bullet did irreparable damage. She can't communicate with me or my sons at all. Except, sometimes when I look into her eyes, I still see that same fear. And it makes me wonder if she is still being tortured."

"Do you believe in Jesus?" I ask quietly.

His eyes avoid mine. "Why is Minea important?" he avoids my question, too.

"When I got home, I researched it. The first article that came up was about three boys who had jumped to their deaths off a bridge for no reason, and a little boy who went missing. The townspeople who last saw the three boys reported there being a lost look in their eyes. It matched how Ms. Brands was acting. That article was from 1983. That is where the man took my little girl, so I printed out a map, programmed my GPS and started driving toward it."

"Why did you come back?"

"Because I was never supposed to leave. My wife was given a word from the Lord early today that everything is going to be okay. But, I didn't want to hear it. I wanted answers, not to be left helpless, forced to trust that God would do something eventually. I wanted my little girl back more than anything."

" _Wanted_?" he asks. "Don't you still want her back?"

"Of course I do. But, it's out of my control." I pause. "You learn a lot from being helpless."

"Yeah. I suppose you do." he's staring past me again. His eyes aren't blank, but searching. "I suppose you do." the pause is long. "Excuse me if I seem distracted, Mr. Mills. What you've told me is hitting close to home. I don't really talk about my wife. I shouldn't even be talking about her now. But, I understand those bruises on your face. You just wanted to feel something. I haven't. Not for a very long time." he sighs as he presses his palms to his face. And then, almost immediately he pulls them away. And the man looking back at me isn't the vulnerable person he just was. Like he switched masks behind his hands, he is no nonsense once again. His eyes match his stone-like face.

"Do you have any more questions for me?" I ask.

"Here's the thing, Mr. Mills. I read people. I read them very well. Every little tick tells me a story. It tells me whether or not their story is fabricated. I see through the act people put on, the characters they wear, the emotions they use. I see through it all." he pauses. "I didn't see a lie on you once. I can't promise that this is the end of this process. But, I know you didn't kill Edna Brands. And I will do all that I can to prove it."

I close my eyes and smile. "Thank you, Sir."

"You can call me Rick, Mr. Mills."

"And you can call me Matthew." my eyes are still closed. One deep breath follows another. Now I open them. "This wasn't coincidence, Rick. You being on the case, you interrogating me. It was all for a reason."

He only nods his head as he opens the door for me to leave.

### John Doe

The neon light from the gas station overhang surrounds me. It paints everything in lifeless shades. I am a skeleton in the rearview mirror; M is nothing but my fifteenth victim. Whatever hope I felt is gone. There is something that this pale light displays so simply: _I am not redeemed. I am not new. I am just a blood stained man, searching for a freedom I don't deserve_.

Some part of me is screaming inside, telling me to hold onto the newness. But I'm tired. I will never be free from Teddy, because his identity has become mine. I grew him for too long. I can't see who I'm supposed to be.

If I could only see the newness, it would change something. I know it would. But, this body doesn't match. I need to see the newness on this face. Even just a glimpse. I only need a picture of something I haven't seen before. I know the sensation of newness. It's cleanliness. But, this reflection always dirties it. Even after everything I've experienced today, this reflection makes it feel like nothing has changed.

But, it has changed. If I continue to believe the lie that I am never going to be free, I never will be. I am a prisoner of my own perception. My life is where it is because of a lie that I believed, a lie that I helped grow until it consumed me. If I embrace the newness, couldn't it consume me like the lie did? Couldn't it change my perception entirely? If I choose to see the newness, will I?

Teddy is still in the car with me, wearing a different identity. He is my doubt, my reluctance to receive the newness. He is the voice telling me that nothing has changed. But, it has.

If I don't see that now, if I don't choose to embrace it right now, I never will. Jesus came to set me free. He came into the darkness and led me out. I am not a prisoner anymore. The bondage is now my own. The prison is in my mind. I will never be free if I don't accept that I already am.

I look at my reflection and then close my eyes. "I am new." I whisper as I open them again. My reflection is the same, but clearer. I see the purpose showing through me. Another man is present in my eyes. A new man. This is me. I'm no longer a dead body buried under the darkness. I am new.

My eyes fall onto the dull green digital numbers of the car clock. It's 5:25 pm. Nothing about my purpose has changed. I have to bring M home before midnight tonight. And the assurance that it will happen has never been stronger. Despite all of the uncertainties, I know it will happen. This assurance is more than faith, this is a palpable, almost touchable thing. I will bring her home before midnight tonight. Nothing can stop it from happening.

... The wind is howling. I see time add another minute. I don't know what to do next. I know I'm going to get there tonight, but I don't know how. Something has to happen soon. I still have at least five and half hours to go, with only a six and a half hour window. I close my eyes, because what I see tells me that it's impossible. Past the pale light of this station, darkness is everywhere. But, when I close my eyes, I can focus on what I know. It will happen. No matter how impossible it seems, it will happen.

The wind has practically become a wild animal surrounding me. I feel it pushing against the car. I hear the rustling of leaves as they blow across the windshield.

... And now, I hear nothing. As suddenly as it started, it has stopped. My eyes pop open automatically, as if they were on a timer. And the first thing I see is bright green within the dead leaves that remain on the windshield. A fifty dollar bill is wedged under the driver side wiper.

### Matthew Mills

I can only marvel at what has happened. The way the interrogation ended still baffles me. I think it always will. Rick was convinced that I killed her when we stepped in that room. He had me pegged guilty before I said a word. But, now, here I am. I'm holding Janet's hand, walking down the stairs, about to leave the station. When I play it over in my head, I know I should still be sitting there, hopelessly defending a story few would believe.

Demons? Only a man who has experienced them in his life would understand—

"Matty?" Janet asks quietly.

"Yeah?" I look over at her.

"What happened?"

"He believed me." my tone sounds as awe-struck as I feel. "He knows I didn't do it."

"I know." she smiles. "But, how?"

"I'm still reeling from _how_." I say as I look up to the night sky.

### Consequences/Saying Goodbye

### John Doe

According to the last sign I passed, Payne is about fifteen miles away. I traveled maybe two or three more miles before pulling into this rest stop. My plastic bag of clothes is on the sink next to me, along with a cheap pack of razors, and a small can of shaving cream I bought with the money I had left over after gas.

This is the first time that I'm free to feel clean. I can splash my face and feel the water wash off what isn't me anymore. I can shave without worrying that Teddy is going to make me cut my skin. I'm free to enjoy something as simple as this. It's routine to many people, but to me, it's everything.

Every moment without Teddy is like learning to breathe again, after being fed oxygen for most of my life. I was existing. No. I wasn't even existing. I was a ghost who made people's nightmares a reality.

Even with all the newness I feel, I know what I've done. I'm preparing myself for the consequences, because once they start, they won't stop.

I just need these few minutes to enjoy every breath of air, every splash of water, and the cold burn of the shaving cream as I apply it onto my mess of facial hair. This is my last stop. And then the consequences will start.

### Matthew Mills

The peace that I feel doesn't change the sadness passing over me. It lets me know that I'm never alone. But, I still miss Marcy, especially as the quiet of this house reminds me of how just last night she called for me. It almost makes me expect to hear her call for me again.

Janet is sleeping soundly on me. She fell asleep after our long talk. She now understands what still has me in awe. It put her in the same place and then lulled her to sleep, like a baby being rocked back and forth by protective arms. It put me to sleep for a little while, too. I dreamt I was holding Marcy. I was feeling her kisses on my cheek, her little body tight in my arms, and her sweet little voice telling me how much she loved me. It felt so real.

And then I woke up. And I remembered that the hug I gave her this morning was the last I'll ever give. And I've been lying still ever since, trying not to let the sadness stick, trying to hold onto the warmth of knowing I'm never alone.

But, the quiet can be lonely. It can be filled with the sadness you've outrun all day, reminding you that it still hurts. No matter how good God is, it still hurts. It will hurt for a long time. Life was never promised to be easy. And when this hits, the sadness does stick. It can stick for a long time. It can actually destroy you—

I can't let the sadness stick to me. I'll always miss my little girl, but I know there is a reason for this. I know there is more than just pain in this situation—there already has been. I will not revert back to the man I was last night. He was the man who had replaced Jesus with his daughter. He was the man who found strength in her alone. That isn't me anymore.

The quiet can be a stage for stories to be told. It's a place where doubt can spin a tale and convince you it's truth. Instead of focusing on what I have gained, it shows me what I have lost: _just last night you were still a father_.

Yes, I was.

But also, just last night my wife was a lifeless shell. Just last night I was a man filled with bitterness, slowly dying from the poison inside. Just last night I had Marcy, but nothing else.

### John Doe

The longer I stare at myself in the mirror, the more I realize how much I want to run. I will never be ready to face the consequences for what I've done. I am a coward. I want to be free without having to face what I've done. It's selfish. And I know that I can't follow it. But, the desire is still there, still strong, still something I'm imagining: _I could still bring M back without turning myself in. I could leave her outside on the lawn and then disappear_.

It's only a thought. It's only pictures in my mind. It won't happen. There is only one direction I can go. No matter how scared I am, there is no turning back. I have had these few moments to clean this dirty face, to wash the cuts on this body, to change these dirty clothes, to shave away the last part of the man who is no longer me. And now it's time to leave. I will never be completely ready. Some part of me will always want to run. But, this freedom I've been given means nothing without the consequences. And if I did run, where would I even go?

There is no purpose for me outside of this. If I ran, I would lose all that I have gained. And what I have gained is so much more valuable than these few moments in front of this mirror...

### Matthew Mills

The hardest times are not going to be under this house with Janet. They are going to be around the people of this town, because...

... Life goes on. At least it's what people expect. It's what they say. So, it becomes a role to play, because people don't want to see your pain. They don't want to see how you hardly smile anymore or how all your conversations somehow always come back to your pain. They tolerate it for a time and then they just stay away.

I've experienced it before. And I'm expecting it again, because not tomorrow, but soon, I'll have to step back into my routine. And when I do, I can't be quiet and distant. I have to be a functional supervisor. It doesn't matter what has happened, because life goes on...

### John Doe

I'm parked outside of M's house. It's 11:54 pm. I know what comes next. I know what I have to do. I look at myself in the rearview mirror one more time before opening the door. There is no turning back.

I open the backseat door and grab M's body. Her skin is cold and her small body is heavy in my arms.

I'm not afraid. I'm calm. I expected this to be a fight to the finish. Instead, it's a simple walk to the front door. No shaking in my body. No falter in my steps. I'm ready for this. I never thought I would be. But, I am.

My steps are long. I've taken five. Maybe four remain. The freedom I have wanted for so long continues to find me at different levels. Every time I think I have experienced freedom, I'm shown that it's only the beginning. These few steps are the deepest level of freedom I have experienced yet. It's the freedom of choice, the freedom of knowing that I could run but don't.

And now, it's the freedom to knock on this door...

### Matthew Mills

I'm trying to fill my head with songs, because the quiet can bring sounds, like soft knocking on the door downstairs. It's what I want to hear, especially now that it's almost midnight and my eyes are heavy. I want to believe that I won't have to go to bed tonight, wondering if I'll ever see her again. I want her to be returned as suddenly as she was taken, so that we can say goodbye.

I hear it again. Louder this time. Janet's eyes open slightly. She hears it too.

"I have to get up, sweetie." I whisper as I slip out from under her. She doesn't reply. She just resituates now that I'm no longer on the couch and falls back to sleep.

I'm standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. I hear it again, as loud as before. The darkness in the entryway matches my fear. The knocking terrifies me. I want Marcy to be on the other side of that door. But, I also don't know how I'm going to handle it if she is.

I hate the knocking, because no matter who it is, I'll always want it to be her. It could be anybody on the other side of that door. It could be a different officer wanting to ask me more questions about Ms. Brands. It could be just my exhausted mind playing a prank. But, it always could be her. And I know that no matter how many times it isn't, I'll always prepare for it to be.

I flick the switch next to me, lighting up the entryway. The light doesn't give me any comfort. The quiet of this night has pulled apart my defenses, leaving me a weak and tired man. Until she is returned, I will never be able to walk down these stairs easily. It will always be hard.

I start stepping down the stairs. I can feel the pressure of tears building deep inside of me. I can feel the pangs of realization hammering into me like nails. The hardest part is knowing that this will happen every time. I will always prepare myself for it to be Marcy. Until it is her, I will always go through this...

I'm at the bottom of the stairs. I'm ready to face this. I'm ready for it to be her, even though it probably isn't. I grab the doorknob and turn...

### John Doe

The door is opening slowly. I'm not shaking. Not even now. I'm ready. As the door opens, I can see the inside of the house: carpeted stairs that continue up to a second level, a well lit entryway—Matthew Mills.

I can only stare at his face. He's looking at me with eyes that have no words. One is almost swollen shut; the other almost looks blank. Does he even have a heart left? The pain I see on him could take me to my knees. It's because of me that he looks empty. Because of me...

### Matthew Mills

I want this to be a dream. I want to wake up. Now that she's here, I don't want her to be. I don't want this to be reality. I thought it would be easier to say goodbye, to know that she was truly gone, but it isn't. My little girl is just a dead body in the arms of this man. She's just a dead body. All life is gone from her. All love. All warmth. All joy.

I feel like the life has been drained from me and I'm in hell, moment by moment drifting farther and farther away from all emotion. I know of God's love, but I can't feel it. I know His warmth exists, but I only feel cold.

The events of today feel like they happened years ago. All purpose that came from them is lost on me. I'm looking at my little girl's body and I see no miracles, no silver linings, no happiness. It feels like she is all there is in my life. And with her gone, it feels like I'm gone too...

I know this is a lie. But, it's the only thing that feels true. I know I had to lose Marcy to get back my relationship with Jesus, and Janet, and myself. But, what I know isn't what I feel. And what I feel is hopelessness.

I don't have questions to ask this man. I don't have words to say. I just want my little girl back. I put out my arms to take Marcy.

"She helped save my life." he whispers as he hands her over...

### John Doe

Matthew's face changes immediately. He doesn't grab M from my arms. He freezes midway, now just looking at me with wide eyes.

"How?" he asks quietly.

"She was kind to me." I whisper. "She cared about me. She told me that Jesus wanted me to know the light wasn't gone." my words seem to hit him like stones. His eyes aren't just wide anymore, but wet. "Those words changed me. Even after every unforgivable thing I've done, Jesus still loves me? And he forgives me?" my eyes are wet, too. "But, I don't expect you to forgive me, Matthew. I wanted to bring you the message of how Jesus set me free, how He used your little girl. I thought it would give you hope in your pain. But—"

"It has." he says as a tear falls from his healthy eye. He steps forward and takes M from my arms. He looks at me for a moment more and then steps inside. The door closes...

### Matthew Mills

Marcy is so heavy in my arms. She is no longer just my little girl, but the whole weight of this situation: the clarity of a much bigger plan, the sting of my own selfishness, and the reality that it was always meant to happen.

I'm exhausted. I've used all of my strength. Nothing remains. I fall to my knees, too tired to stand. I look down at my little girl. But, I'm too tired to cry, too tired to feel any of this. Her weight in my arms is so heavy, yet it comforts me completely. I can close my eyes now. I can fall asleep, knowing that she is right here.

### John Doe

I saw hope in Matthew before he closed the door. I saw relief. He grabbed M like she was a weight he was ready to carry, like she was a reality he was ready to face. But, he also grabbed hold of her like she was a piece of him being put back in place.

This is the best it will get. This is the quietest it will be. The other families will not react like Matthew did. They have had the burden of time attached to their loss. All of their hope is gone. And all they will want now is justice.

I want the same thing for them, because I am not that man anymore. I am enemy to him. What he did is not something I want to run from anymore. What he did is something I will face, no matter how much it will hurt.

I don't know where the police station is in this town. So, I'm walking back to the Buick to sit and wait. I know they'll be here soon...

### Matthew Mills

My girls and I are finally going on our picnic. There is a beautiful park back in our hometown of Anderson. We haven't been there in a while.

Janet is my faithful passenger; Marcy is my little chatterbox from the backseat. She's telling me about a man. "This man, daddy. He was lost. He was hurt. Jesus wanted me to help him."

"Did you?" I ask, keeping my eyes on the road.

"Yeah, I did, daddy." she smiles at me. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, sweets. What is it?" I glance in the rearview mirror.

"Take care of mommy."

My eyes open. Janet is crying, sitting on the bottom step. I fell asleep with Marcy in my arms. I don't even know what time it is. How long has she been down here? How long has she been crying alone?

"Janet." I whisper as I lift Marcy toward her. "Hold her." she pulls her from my arms and wraps Marcy tight in hers.

_Take care of mommy_. I will, sweetheart. I will. But, I have to let you go. I have to say goodbye. I have to be okay, even though you aren't here anymore. I want to have you forever, but I can't. Jesus wanted you to help that man. And you did. And I'm so proud of you. I will take care of mommy. I promise.

Janet's face isn't buried in a tight hug. She is now cradling Marcy, looking down at her the way she did when she was born.

"You brought me so much joy, baby girl." she says with a sad smile on her face. "I'm sorry you didn't see more of it from me." she looks at me and shrugs while slowly shaking her head. She doesn't know what to do next. She doesn't know what to say.

"Say goodbye." these words hurt to say.

Janet just shakes her head. "I don't want to." she pauses as new tears trace over the old stains on her cheeks. "I neglected her, Matty. I wanted you to love me like you loved her. I was so jealous of her. I wasn't a good mom. I was just com-competing." she stutters through her tears.

"That's not your fault, sweetie. It's mine." these words hurt, too.

"How can I say goodbye, Matty? It's only now that I realize how much I'm going to miss her. It's only now that I see how much joy she gave me. I couldn't see it before. I was blind to it. How can I say goodbye? I'm not ready to say goodbye. I'm finally ready to love her like I should have. But, she's gone."

_Take care of mommy_. These four words are like the five Janet was given by Jesus. They are helping me keep my eyes on something else. Not the devastating reality, but the responsibility that I still have.

I have enough strength to stand and join Janet on the bottom step. I brush her matted bangs from her face. "It's going to be okay."

She looks at me with eyes that are searching.

"Keep looking up at me, baby." I pause. "Remember what you saw when you heard those words?

She nods her head.

"Keep holding onto that promise."

"How?" her whisper is child-like, a question emptied of all direction.

"You need to know that our little girl did not die in vain." Her eyes search mine immediately. "She helped save a man's life. She helped him find Jesus. He was the one who brought her back."

She looks down at Marcy and back up at me. "Does that help you?"

"Yes." I say as I wipe away a falling tear. "It preserves the memory of our little girl. H-her kindness led that man, the very person that took her away, to Jesus. It gives me hope, sweetie. It gives me something to hold onto. She'll never be this life-lifeless body. That isn't her, Janet. That isn't our Marcy. B-but who she was is who that man saw: a light that was so bright, he couldn't help but see Jesus shining through."

"Yeah." her bottom lip is trembling like mine. We aren't two separate people right now. We are one. My pain is hers, her pain is mine. There isn't a distance between us anymore. Instead there is a connection that we have never had. A closeness we've never shared. This isn't pulling us apart at the seams. It's weaving us together. "Matty?" she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"For what, sweetie?"

"For helping me see who our little girl was." she's smiling despite her tears. "She was the brightest of lights."

### John Doe

More and more of who I was before Teddy is coming back to me. I remember a story dad told me when he took me camping. I was still little. Five. Maybe six. He told me why they named me John. He told me about a man named John the Baptist. He said he was a voice in the wilderness, that his purpose in life was not to be accepted, or liked, but to live only for Jesus Christ. Then he told me my purpose in life was the same.

### Matthew Mills

Something changed in Janet's eyes immediately after she called Marcy the brightest of lights. They regained the certainty she had been carrying throughout the whole day.

But, when she looked back down at Marcy, they deflated again...

I know what I have to do. I have to call the police. I have to let them take her away, because the time to have her here has passed. I only have to look at Janet's eyes to see that.

I pull the phone from my pocket. Janet's eyes follow it.

"It's time, Janet."

"I know." she answers quietly.

### John Doe

These memories aren't random. They are guiding me, like footprints in a desert. A path has been laid out before me. Jesus is speaking through these small memories. I was born to live only for Him. Even after everything I've done, somehow that truth remains. Somehow that is still my purpose.

"You have given me a purpose that I'm not worthy to have. There is someone so much better than me. The testimony of how You set me free doesn't erase what I've done."

_The testimony is your purpose, John._ His vibrant voice is loud in my mind. I close my eyes. _The majority of the people will hate you. They believe that a depth exists that I won't go down to. But, they can't begin to fathom how deep My love runs. It is not conditional, like theirs. Your purpose has always been to tell the world that no one is too lost for Me._

"Who will listen?"

_Are you the only person who has committed murder before? Is it you alone who has wanted to be free, but felt you were too lost? John, your testimony is for the people who think they can't be forgiven, the people that this world has already written off as hopeless. But, they aren't. I know the hearts of my children. I've come to tell them that they can always be forgiven. And you're my voice_.

I'm sitting in His presence. There is nothing like it. It's waves that pulsate and dance around me. It's warmth that wraps me completely. It's a place where fear doesn't exist. Everything I'm about to face seems so small, because In His presence, I am complete—

_Tap! Tap!_ My eyes open. The flash of red and blue is the first thing I see.

"What are you doing out here, Sir?" an officer asks as he shines a flashlight on me through the window.

I roll the window down with my left hand. "I'm turning myself in."

"What did you do, Sir?"

"I kidnapped Marcy Mills from the school down the street." I pause with a slow blink. "She was the fifteenth child I've kidnapped in the last twenty six years."

He's alert immediately. "Put your hands on the steering wheel. Don't move."

I do what he says.

### Matthew Mills

I was told to lay Marcy on a flat surface. I was told to distance myself from her. The man I talked to didn't want me to further contaminate the scene. He used cold, professional terms. She didn't have a gender. She didn't have a name. She was _body_ or _the deceased_.

It was a short call. And when it was over, I took Marcy from Janet's arms, carried her upstairs, and laid her on the couch. Janet didn't try to follow. She didn't say another word. She looked at me with grateful eyes, like I was taking away a burden.

I kissed Marcy's cold forehead once and then covered her up with the throw from the couch. I didn't stay with her any longer. I joined Janet at the bottom of the stairs and held her close...

Even now that the knocking has started, I haven't let her go. She needs to know that this isn't going to break us.

"We'll get through this, sweetie." I whisper as I stand up. "I promise."

It's Jesus within giving me the strength to stand and walk toward the door. It's the promise of the five words He gave Janet; and the responsibility of the four Marcy told me. I have to hold onto what I know.

I'm opening the door for them to take her away. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. It's the very thing I avoided when my dad died. I was there for all three years of his battle. But, when he took his last breath, I had to leave. That small boy still exists in me. He still wants to leave, to hide away, and to avoid this reality at all costs.

He still exists in me, but I am not that small boy anymore. I'm opening this door, because I trust that everything is going to be okay. Despite the questions I have, and the deep pains I feel, and all uncertainty that remains, I trust in Jesus. He's my Rock as the rest of my world crumbles beneath my feet. He's my joy. My peace. My comfort...

Two men are waiting at the door. One is a cop, the other a coroner.

"Have you said your goodbyes?" the coroner asks.

I can only nod my head as I look back at Janet. She nods the same with a sniffle.

### John Doe

I'm like garbage in the backseat of this cop car: my very presence causes disgust. The officer cuffed my wrists, read me my rights, and then said nothing more. He already sees me as filth. And he doesn't even know how dark it goes. He only knows that I kidnapped fifteen children. He doesn't know that fourteen are dead and buried.

If he did, I don't know how he would react. He won't look me in the eyes as it is. I'm already a monster. Already. And he has only heard the beginning. If this is how he sees me before knowing everything, what will I be after? If I'm already a monster, what's left?

He's talking to someone else over his handset about the situation: _the Mills girl was deceased upon arrival; another officer is with the family; the coroner is examining the victim's body; the culprit is in custody; I'm bringing him back to the station now_ —

As the car pulls away, my eyes scan over the remains. The red and blue lights make everything look hollow. The white van parked in the driveway is there to take M's body away. This is what I leave behind. I take happiness away and leave nothing. The Mills' home is now just a crime scene...

### Matthew Mills

The only way I know I'm awake is because I'm not reliving last night anymore. It still feels like I'm sleeping. Or it feels like I'm awake, but from a terrible nightmare where I lost my little girl. It feels like I could leave our bedroom right now and find Marcy watching Saturday morning cartoons in the living room. If I let myself, I can even hear it. And if I let it, it could make me incredibly sad.

What I'm feeling is too familiar. After I lost dad, every day was a struggle to feel anything at all. It was easier to exist in a state of suspension, where time didn't move and life didn't continue. It was easier to hate God than to trust Him...

I'm faced with the same choices now. But, I understand so much more than I did after dad died. The Lord didn't take my little girl to hurt me. He took her because He had become a footnote in my life. He took her so that I could finally see the poison that's been slowly killing me. He took her because of my wife. He saw what Janet had become to me. And he saw what Marcy had become to her. He took her to save that man. There are so many facets, so many reasons why.

But, it doesn't make it any easier. My little girl is gone and isn't coming back. I can't change that. The only control I have is over what choices I make: _Will I trust that Jesus has me secure in His hands? Or will I get lost in the sadness?_

It's not even a choice anymore. It's a necessity. It's my only hope. He is my waking thought. He is in every breath I take. And If I don't trust Him now, I never will. I can't make that mistake again. I can't listen to the sadness, that's telling me that I'm completely alone, and that all the things that have been repaired are just going to break again: _my marriage isn't going to last; my faith isn't going to be strong enough_.

It is easier to hate than to trust. It is easier to slip under the waves than to keep a heavy head above water. In the book of Matthew, Jesus talks about _easy_ : easy is the road that leads to destruction; but, narrow and uninviting is the path that leads to salvation...

This is a new day. But, I don't know how to navigate it. Where do I begin? Just one step after another? Part of me still thinks I'm going to see Marcy in the living room. And even though I know she's gone, it doesn't change my expectation.

How do I navigate through this, Lord? I'm split in two. I'm a dual person. She's gone, yet I still expect her to be here. How can I fully trust You if half of me is still telling lies? How can I know that losing her was necessary yet want her here so badly?

_Take care of mommy_. It drops into my mind like a heavy stone. I look over at Janet. She's sleeping sound, but the sadness from last night has left a deep crease in her forehead. When she wakes up, she needs to see that she's not still second to Marcy, because a new day can erase any progress that was made the day before. I made her a promise last night. This new day isn't going to change that.

I want to see her smile again. Not a smile that falls away after a moment, but something that leaves an imprint in her, something that causes random reoccurrences because she knows she is enough for me. I remember when she used to smile like that before the first miscarriage. She hasn't smiled like it since.

I remember the way she smiled when I woke her up with breakfast in bed the day after Marcy was born. I scrambled the whole carton of eggs, made probably a dozen waffles with our waffle maker, fried up a whole package of bacon and poured her a very big glass of orange juice. I was so proud of her. She had worked so hard to get our little Marcy into this world—

I'm going to make her breakfast in bed.

### John Doe

I've always believed that freedom happened in a moment, that the chains would fall away, never to weigh on me again. I never realized it was a daily choice. I never realized that every day was a new beginning for either freedom or bondage...

I saw Teddy last night. He was at the foot of this small bed. He wasn't a bear anymore, but a mouthless man with a face full of eyes. He looked like me, but different. Deformed. Soot colored. And bleeding from many places.

Then my eyes opened. And I haven't closed them since. The message is more than clear. He isn't gone from my life, but he is bleeding. He doesn't have a voice anymore. He doesn't have the hold he once did. He is a mouthless memory, a dog with no teeth left to bite.

But it also means he isn't gone. And if I let him, he can come back again. Just like the memories are footprints, what I saw last night is a warning sign. No matter how hard this gets, I have to keep stepping forward, because Teddy is looking for a way back in.

It's a familiar fear that I feel. The same fear that followed my nosebleeds. The same fear that Teddy has controlled me with for most of my life. It is in the familiar that I forget the new. I know Jesus has set me free. I also know that I have to keep stepping forward for that freedom to stick—

This walk is so heavy, Jesus. It's already almost more than I can bear. It's not just because I'm afraid to face the consequences. I know I'm not strong. And if every new day erases what came before it, how long will my freedom last? If this is just a daily race, how long will it be before I lose?

_You are mine, John. You can't lose._ Immediately, these words sit on me like a crown _. You were made for the very road you now face, which means I have already given you the strength to walk it_.

I always know when Jesus is done speaking. He says exactly what I need to hear. He never leaves me in my worries. He gives me the words needed so I can step out of them myself. He gives me sight past my circumstances. First with Teddy, and now this.

This jail cell is one of three in this room. The other two are empty. The police are just through the door to my left, in a big room divided into small offices. I can hear voices starting to gather. The night crew must be switching over. The officer who brought me here last night said only what was required of him before locking me away. He said that the interrogation would start today, when the officer in charge of Marcy Mill's case came on duty.

### Matthew Mills

We didn't have many ingredients on hand: frozen waffles, three eggs, a handful of hash browns, and enough orange juice leftover for a small glass. But, the breakfast is untouched on the tray at the bottom of her feet. She isn't hungry. I guess it was more the thought that counted this morning. She smiled warmly at my attempt and then told me about the pit in her stomach. She said it's been there since seeing Marcy's body last night and that she's afraid it will be there for a long time.

I can't stop looking down at the food she won't eat. It's a constant reminder of how little I can do. I can't even take care of my wife. I can't even make her smile anymore.

The silence is a divider between us. And the only thing I feel is the anger flooding back into me. This is the very reason why Marcy became all consuming in my life. She always needed me. She always lit up when she saw my face. I never wondered if she loved me...

I can't say the same for Janet—

_My marriage isn't going to last_. The thought is like a ghost walking past me. _Nothing has changed. The two miscarriages nearly killed Janet. What is Marcy's death going to do to her? The wife you saw yesterday was a glimpse of who you'll never have again_ —

"Matty?" Janet's voice slightly cracks as she speaks.

"Yeah?" my reply is quiet.

"Can you hold me?"

I nod without speaking and wrap my arms around her. She starts to cry immediately.

"I miss her, Ma-Matty." she's struggling to speak. "And I'm trying to hold onto what Jesus told me. But, it hurts—so much. Whenever I think about our little M, I think about what we won't get to experience. The school plays we won't g-get to see. The report cards we won't get to read. The holidays we won't have t-together." she pauses. "We won't see her get married. Or have children. Or-or—

"I know." I can only whisper. "But we have to keep going, sweetie." I pause. "Do you know why I made you breakfast this morning?"

She shakes her head.

"The day after Marcy was born I made you breakfast in bed, because I was so proud of you, so in love with you. I made you breakfast today to tell you the same thing: even though our little girl is gone, I am still so in love with you."

There's that smile, showing amidst her tears. I've wanted to see it for so long. It is the smile I saw when I fell in love with her, the smile I saw when I pulled back her veil at our wedding, the smile that she carried with our little girl, the smile she met me with every morning, and the smile she ended everyday with. It was the smile that always told me she was okay. And it tells me the same thing now.

### John Doe

It'll be any moment now. The endless ticking of the clock above the door is a constant reminder. Things are about to change. And even though I had to face Matthew while holding his daughter dead in my arms, I haven't truly felt the pain of my consequences.

But, that's coming. Any moment now, the officer in charge of M's case is going to come through that door. He'll bring me into a separate room and learn everything I've done. He'll see what I no longer am. And then everyone else will see it. And that is where my consequences will truly begin.

When I close my eyes, I can see it: waves of people holding signs to express their disgust, the deafening chant of their inexpressible hatred toward me, toward the monster I will always be to them. Some will hurl questions at me that I can't answer. Nobody will understand. They won't care how it started, about the day in the shed, and everything that came from it. They'll only care about what I became. And what I've done—

I think the door is opening. A quiet click has brought a much louder set of sounds: someone laughing, someone else coughing, and phones ringing from more places than one—officers settling into their morning shifts. I haven't opened my eyes yet.

"I'm in charge of Marcy Mill's case." his voice is steady; but, my heart rate isn't. And I'm starting to shake. "Stand up and walk towards me."

I open my eyes. The man standing outside of the cell is twice my size. His eyes are flat and empty, like blots of dried ink on dirty paper. He's a living man who looks like he's already dead. How familiar...

My shaking has stopped. The fear has settled. I stand up and step toward him. He reaches his hands into the cell and cuffs mine tight. He doesn't say anything. He just unlocks the cell door and lets it swing open.

I step out of the cell, immediately lost in his long shadow. The dim light in this room is only hitting him. Through the door ahead, I hear the sounds of the day continuing. Behind me, I hear only his breathing. It's deep and controlled—which means he wants to lose control. It means he doesn't know how to react to me.

I step forward, staring down at my feet. I have no shadow; his covers me even when he doesn't follow. But, I've come to realize that there is no _me_ anymore. My identity is my crime. Right now it's M's kidnapping and death. But, soon it will be so much more. I'm not even a person. I'm just part of this process: a criminal caught and waiting. I'm at the mercy of everyone else. And it starts with this man...

_But, this man will understand_. a quiet whisper from within. _Just like you, John, he knows what it means to have his life taken from him_.

What should he understand, Jesus? The death of those children? I don't even understand why I killed them. I know what I've told myself. But, I should have died instead of killing Thomas. I didn't have to do it. I made a choice. I was so hurt, and angry, and alone. Teddy made me feel wanted. I was willing to do anything to have someone in my life...

Is that what it really all comes down to? I killed Thomas Aerie to have a friend?

_You were lied to from the beginning, John. The thing you call Teddy earned your trust through lies. Your father wasn't a tyrant; he killed himself the night of your mother's funeral. When this was hidden from you, all truth was hidden from you_.

Does that make it o—

The officer grabs my right arm from the side, forcing me forward quickly. He's leading me out of this room and into the next. And now he stops me in the doorway of the main room.

"Take a good look, ladies and gentleman!" he's showcasing me. "This is why a child is dead."

I have to keep looking down at my feet. I don't want to see their eyes. I don't want to see their hate. But, I can feel it regardless. Everyone is looking at me. And the silence in this room is louder than screams. The atmosphere is filled with their disdain. I am on display as a child killer. If they could, they would kill me right now.

I am at the mercy of this man, whose hate towards me is only now fully showing. He needs to show me to others, to share in his hate, because his isn't enough. It's like a fire that can only be put out with an explosion.

Except, it's not being put out. It's burning hotter. He squeezes my arm as he forces me left of the doorway. His breaths are losing any sense of control. They are shallow and faltering, unable to hide his rage any longer. He's rushing me to the room, no longer wanting to share in his hate, but to keep it to himself.

What will he understand, Jesus?

_The bondage, John_.

I'm nearing a door with a faded gold number 1 on it. His grip on my arm continues to tighten. He's not under control. He's about to snap.

"You're broken." I didn't mean to speak. The words just came out.

His grip loosens slightly as he continues to lead me toward the door. Those two words didn't slow him down. But, somehow they calmed the storm...

He opens the door, leading me in.

"Sit down." he says as he closes the door behind him.

I do what he says.

"I don't understand a man who takes a little girl from her school, and in less than a day's time, returns her dead body." he pauses as he sits down. "I don't care what your name is; I'm supposed to care. I'm an officer of the law. I'm supposed to follow a specific protocol. A code of conduct. But, I don't apply it to filth."

I'm looking down at my feet again. I don't know what to say.

"When you turned yourself in, you made it clear that Marcy Mills wasn't your first. You told the officer that you had kidnapped fourteen other children in the last twenty six years. What happened to them?"

I'm shaking my head slowly.

"I was afraid of that." he sighs. "Fifteen children dead, because of you. You can sit there and play remorseful. You can avoid all questions with that pathetic silence. But the fact remains that you are worthless. A man who kills children is not a man. He's an animal, who needs to be put down."

"I know." I whisper as I look up at him.

"What do you know?!" it slithers from his lips. "You know how to listen and react! You know how to manipulate a situation just the way you want it. You know how to act remorseful. But, you don't really know what you've done. You don't really know the pain you've caused or the lives you've destroyed. You are nothing more than a dog who has mauled a child. Your eyes are apologetic, but you don't really understand the ramifications. Just like an animal, you can't comprehend the emotion. Or the permanency of the loss." He makes me feel so small. "The dog kills the child but then looks for the child to play a day later. It doesn't understand what it's done. Even when you are about to put it down, it doesn't understand why."

"I know what I've done." I whisper. "I turned myself in because I finally can. I'm finally free from it."

"Free from what?" he asks very slowly.

"Prison."

He smiles slightly, "where do you think you're going?"

"It's different. And I know you understand that, officer. I see your eyes. They are empty like mine used to be. You understand prison."

"You know how to manipulate: _I'm broken_?" He shakes his head. "But, I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of picking me apart. My job is one thing today: find the location of your victims.

"They're buried under the deck of my childhood home, just outside of Minea, Minnesota."

"Minea, Minnesota?" his eyes widen.

"Yeah."

"What happened to the three boys that jumped from the downtown bridge in 1983?"

"How do you know about Minea?"

"What happened to them?" he ignores the question.

"You won't believe me."

"What happened to them?"

"Teddy got in their heads."

"Who is Teddy?"

"He has been my prison for twenty six years." I feel naked.

He sighs, "Ms. Brands died yesterday, like those boys did over twenty five years ago."

"Who is Ms. Brands?"

"The woman who called Marcy to the office. Did Teddy _get in her head_ too?"

"Yeah." why do I keep thinking about the words she typed? _My dead husband burns. So will I_. "He said she wouldn't remember seeing me."

"The only reason I'm listening to this is because Mr. Mills talked about it yesterday: Minea. The article from 1983. And how it all correlated with the death of Ms. Brands. And the kidnapping of his daughter."

"How did he know about Minea?"

"He said something from inside Mr. Brands told him." his voice is quiet; his eyes are searching me desperately. He's looking for something. "You said you are finally free."

I nod my head just enough for him to see.

"How?"

"Teddy wanted me to take Marcy. Like the other children, he picked her out before I ever saw her. He chose children that had light in their eyes. And Marcy's was the brightest I had ever seen." I pause. "He told me to say I was an employee at the factory her father supervises. He said she would trust that. So, I lied to her. She didn't see a hideous man. She just saw Mr. John. Teddy wanted me to kill her there, because he hated the light. I didn't want to take her away. I wanted to bring her home. But, Teddy didn't allow that. He would've killed me before he let that happen. So, we got on the interstate to go back to Minea. She wasn't afraid, like she should've been. She just said, 'Jesus wants me to tell you the light isn't gone.' And then she died. There was no pain or fear. Teddy never even got a chance to hurt her."

He's just staring at me. His face is empty of everything. I don't know if he believes me or not. I don't expect him to—

"What happened next?" he asks as he closes his eyes.

"Everything changed. I was pursued by a love that I don't deserve. I deserve to be put down like an animal, officer. I don't deserve forgiveness or compassion or love. But, that's what I've been given by Him. He's pulled me out of the dark, when I didn't think it was possible. If He can do that for me and give life back to a man dead inside, He can do the same for you. I don't know what you're going through. I just know those eyes. I would see them every time I looked in a mirror."

He breathes heavily as he pulls a small notepad from his back pocket. "It doesn't really matter," he pauses. "Just give me the address of the victims. Then we're done."

"210 Country Road 18."

### Matthew Mills

It's Tuesday today and we're saying goodbye to our little girl. I'm sitting at the front pew of our church, holding Janet's hand very tight. We both cried while getting ready this morning. My tears were heavier than Janet's. I've already let Marcy go, but I'm going to miss her so much.

We didn't wear black today. I wore a bright green dress shirt, with white pants, blue cufflinks and a matching blue tie. Janet wore a dress covered in flower prints. We asked the guests to refrain from black as well, because Marcy wouldn't have wanted sadness. She was so full of life. We wanted that to be the celebration today: life.

Marcy's memoriam is in my free hand. I've already read it three times. Janet wrote it:

Marcy Ann Mills: The Brightest of Lights.

This is not a memoriam of our little girl, but a celebration of the life she lived. It was short, yes, but it was so beautiful. She loved. And when I say love, I don't mean how we love. I mean something pure and without judgment. She loved like Jesus loves. And the man who took her, returned her, because of that love. He saw Jesus in her. He saw hope in hopelessness. And that is who our little girl was. She was the brightest of lights, living proof of the love of our Savior.

This is not a memoriam, but a celebration of the miracle Matthew and I were given for eight years. We want more time. We always will. But, Marcy was like a flower I suppose. A flower that blooms for only a time, sharing all of its beauty and joy while it is here. We are saying goodbye for now. But, we are also saying we were so blessed to have her for as long as we did.

Janet used the picture where Marcy got to be _giant_.

"I love you, Matty." she whispers as she rests her head on my shoulder.

I can't speak to answer her. The tears from this morning have tied my tongue to my throat. I can only squeeze her hand as my reply. It's all I have to give today. The bright colors we are wearing are for the memory of our Marcy. And they are a representation of our faith: the joy of the Lord is our strength, even on this day.

But, how I feel is weightless, like my only tether is Janet's hand. And if I were to let her go, I would drift off into madness...

We decided on an open casket. Too many people wanted to say their goodbyes, especially our moms. When Janet and I drove back to Anderson and told my mom that Marcy was gone, it seemed like her heartbeat left her body. She just stared at me for a long time, and then Janet. And when the reality finally hit her, she cried loud tears. I asked her to prepare a few words for today. She said she would. And then Janet and I called her mom, who lives about a day's drive away. We asked the same thing. She said she would, but she wasn't sure if she could get through it. Others wanted to speak today, but we only wanted the Grandmas.

The funeral hasn't started yet. _Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus_ is lightly playing from the speakers. Red rose pedals are still being spread down the aisle by a few of Marcy's friends from school. But, nobody is talking. It's quiet, as it should be.

Only a few people have gone up to the casket to say their goodbyes. I haven't gone near it. I don't know if I'll be able to. The song that's playing brings tears to my eyes. Turning my eyes upon Jesus will be a daily struggle, a daily decision, because the pain is so much louder than the peace.

I hurt all over. The swelling in my eye and nose has gone down. And the bruise isn't black and blue anymore, but a pale yellow. It's still very sore. Janet suggested wearing sunglasses to cover it. I decided to let it be what it is: a sign of pain, despite the bright colors.

### John Doe

I'm in the backseat of a state trooper's car, on my way back to Minnesota. The state where the crimes were committed is where I will be tried. The stage is being set for my prosecution.

The evidence is stacking. They will have all the pieces of this puzzle soon, if they don't already. And they'll want me to put it all together, to give a _why_ to how someone could do this. The result won't be much different than it was with the officer who interrogated me. He was able to understand enough to listen. But, even with him, nothing really came from it.

I don't know what I'm expecting to happen. Jesus said that most people will hate me, and that my testimony is for those who think they can't be forgiven. Those like me. But, everyone else will want my death. Even with purpose, sometimes a consequence is just a consequence.

### Matthew Mills

Many more people have gathered in front of the casket in a single file line. It will be shut before the eulogies begin. I can tell that Janet is getting ready to stand and join the line. My hand is still tight with hers. But, I'm not ready to go with her.

"If you want to stay here, it's okay, Matty." she says quietly, noticing my hesitance. "But, will you regret it?"

I nod my head immediately. I can tell myself no, but I will regret it. The last few weeks dad was alive, his body started to shut down. He would sleep for hours, only rarely returning to a lucid place. When I was finally ready to say goodbye, he was too far gone. Dead eyes. Long struggles for air. Just a shell shutting down. And I have regretted it.

I know this is different. It's not my dad but my daughter. Yet, it feels like I'm both a child and a man, experiencing both losses in one. Maybe there is something from my past that I need to walk through again.

I stand with Janet and we join the line separately. My hands are now buried in my pockets. I am at the back of the line. And my tether is gone... But, I'm not drifting away.

Some people have flowers to lie on the casket. Some have cards. Marcy's few friends are in front of us. It looks like each one is holding a clay pendant.

"What's in your hands, girls?" Janet asks quietly and with a smile.

"Everybody in art class made something for M. This is ours." Her name is Sarah. She always speaks for the group as a whole. "I carved a butterfly and put purple glitter for the wings. Tammy carved a big M and decorated it with all kinds of colors. And Erica carved a small crown, using glitter as the jewels."

"Well," Janet pauses. "Thank you, girls." I can tell she wants to cry. "It means a lot."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Mills." she smiles, as speaker and head of the group. She's trying to be the strong one, but her eyes say she just wants her friend back. Tammy and Erica are both crying. They are twin sisters who look nothing alike, but they act the same. Both shy. Both quiet. And both were very close friends to our little girl.

There isn't much left of the line. The closed half of the casket has a neat stack of cards next to about half a dozen flowers. Mom is saying goodbye right now. Janet's mom is already back in her seat, wiping her eyes, and crumpling the piece of paper she is holding.

Mom is calm as she walks away, but her eyes are dull red orbs. She's been crying a lot.

Marcy's three friends go up to the casket as a group.

"You showed us lots of things, M." Sarah says softly. "We had so much fun together. Goodbye." Sarah lays her pendant on the casket and walks away. Tammy and Erica don't follow. They grab each other's hand and place their pendants in the casket.

"Bye." It's so soft I can barely hear it. And then they walk away together.

I grab Janet's hand as we approach the casket. We're going to get through this together.

Marcy's bright green dress matches the ribbons in her hair. She looks so peaceful—

The pain is immediate. It's sharp and pounding, like something is being born on the inside of me: misery. And the pain is its constant heartbeat. A constant reminder of this great sadness. It's all consuming. Even Janet's fingers with mine doesn't comfort. I am drifting away—

But, there will always be pain. Pain comes with love. And feeling is always louder than the Spirit, especially today. But, every day the same choice has to be made. Despite what I feel, what will I say?

"I trust You, Jesus." I whisper. Nothing has ever been harder to say, because every other part of me is saying sadness is all my life will become.

_Matthew_? my eyes immediately jump to the left. It's Jesus' voice. But, it's not coming from within. It's outward and reachable, as if He were standing ri—

I don't know how to describe what I'm seeing. Jesus is stepping out from pure white light and it's following Him. As He walks, it clings to Him. As He breathes, it pulsates and shivers. It matches what I feel but can't express. I've been waiting to see Him again since I was a little boy. And now that I see Him, my spirit wants to shiver and pulsate in His presence. I want to cling to Him. Yet, I can only watch.

My eyes know what they're seeing, but my mind can't grasp hold of it. He is a man, yet He is the Light that can't be without Him. The very thing that clings to Him comes from Him. He is the Source and the Sustainer.

_Even before I made Marcy, I foresaw this day_. He says as the light reacts to His voice with twirls and small bursts all around him, as if it were dancing. Dancing like I would be, if I could. _She was made for this day, Matthew. As were you_. He is holding my little girl in his arms. Has she been with Him this whole time?

I see Him kneel. The light lays flat as a shadow, as if bowing and then pulls to Him again. He whispers something in my little girl's ear and then lets her down. The light fades away as He steps back into it.

He's gone but I see her running from where He was. She is the brightest of colors. She isn't looking at me, or Janet, or anyone else. She's only looking at the casket.

She stops at the foot of it and starts to climb. She pulls herself up easily. On her hands and knees she crawls across the closed half of the casket, moving through the card and flower stacks as if they weren't even there. She's right in front of me but doesn't turn to look at me. And I can't move my hands to reach out for her. I can't dislodge my tongue to speak. I am paralyzed.

She peeks into the open half of the casket and smiles.

"There's so much more to do." she says to herself as she crawls into the casket. And like slipping under her covers, she scoots her legs under the closed half and then lays down on top of her body, immediately disappearing into it—

My eyes open. I don't remember closing them. What did I just see? Was it all just a vision? Her spirit laid back into her body... but, nothing has changed. We're still saying goodbye.

Janet is next to me, whispering something under her breath as she lightly brushes her hand across Marcy's forehead. Maybe a prayer? But, I can't say a word. I can't even look at Marcy anymore.

Why would you give me a vision like this, Lord? I never expected her to come back to life. I came to say goodbye. Why give me hope of this again? It completely derailed my faith when dad didn't come back.

Is this just a test? Will _I trust You even in this, my biggest disappointment_? Why would you give me hope, when I wasn't even looking for it?

"My God," Janet's whisper fills me with shivers. I can feel the tremble in her hand.

"Hi, mommy." Is _this_ actually happening? "Hi, daddy."

Acknowledgements

My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. You are my Light in this dark, dark world. Without You, I am nothing. And without You, this book wouldn't exist. Let You, and You alone be praised.

Jillian Marie. My wife, my best friend, my partner on this crazy ride called life. I want no one else. The cover looks amazing and your notes have been very helpful. Thanks, J-Bird.

Mom. You have supported me from the very beginning. You'll never understand how much that means to me. I am forever grateful.

Dad. Gone but not forgotten. You lived your life for Jesus, fearlessly. I want to do the same.

