WAKE THE MARINER - part 1

A VAMPIRE NOVEL - BY ERIK HANSON

(NOTE: WAKE THE MARINER WILL BE COMING OUT IN OCTOBER THIS YEAR, BUT OVER THE NEXT FEW MONTHS I WILL BE SHARING HALF OF IT HERE WITH YOU. OF COURSE MY HOPE IS THAT YOU’LL BE SO INVESTED IN THE STORY THAT WHEN THE BOOK DROPS IN OCTOBER YOU’LL PICK UP A COPY. I’M EXTREMELY PROUD OF THIS NOVEL AND HOPE YOU DIG IT.

HERE’S THE BACK COVER DESCRIPTION AND BLURB:

England, 1912. The last remaining vampire is hunted across Europe by the heroes who dispatched Count Dracula over a decade earlier. In a desperate bid to escape, the creature stows away on the departing White Star Line cruise ship, the Titanic.

Five days after its launch, the Titanic tragically sinks in the Atlantic Ocean, trapping the vampire at the bottom.

Seventy-three years later, a joint French-American expedition discovers the wreck of the Titanic and inadvertently frees the vampire.

Now, the citizens of the small town of Lugat Bay, Maine, will fall victim to the unspeakable evil that lurks in the darkness. It will be up to David Malek, a blue-collar divorced father, and the descendants of the original vampire hunters to confront the ever-growing ranks of the undead.

“Hanson has done what I never imagined possible: He’s made me interested in vampires again. Equal parts Carpenter and Hooper, Wake the Mariner is a sprawling, eerie trip. One you’ll definitely want to take.”

• Robert P. Ottone, author of Amityville Awakens and the Bram Stoker Award-winning novels The Triangle and There’s Something Sinister in Centerfield

WAKE THE MARINER

By Erik Hanson

Coming October 2026

*****

SPECIAL THANKS

Yevgenia Watts

Dean Hernandez

Brian Hall

Stephen R Bissette

*****

DEDICATION

To Christopher Lee

Who still haunts my bedroom window at night

*****

Wake the Mariner

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch’s oils,

Burnt green, and blue and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

- The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

___

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Ding-dong

Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell

- The Tempest, William Shakespeare

___

And the sea gave up the dead which were in it.

- Revelations 20:1

*****

PROLOGUE

North Atlantic Ocean

325 nautical miles south-southeast off the coast of Newfoundland

July 1, 1986

Robert Ballard leaned against the starboard railing of the research vessel RV Atlantis II and gazed across the expanse toward the setting sun. Twelve thousand five hundred feet below him lay the wreck of the RMS Titanic, the famous sunken ship he had located almost a year ago. On that initial expedition in 1985, he had employed the ARGO, a deep-towed, unmanned camera sled, to meticulously scan the ocean floor, which ultimately led them to the massive ship’s final resting place. Now, armed with advanced technology—namely the DSV Alvin, a manned submersible capable of descending into the crushing depths, and Jason Jr., a sophisticated remote-controlled robot designed to navigate the superstructure of the Titanic—he was poised for a new exploration. The prospect of traversing the Titanic’s once grand halls, luxurious rooms, decks, and galleys filled him with a sense of awe, like stepping into a living photograph from a time long past. Through the lens of Jason Jr., he could now document the preserved interiors of this underwater tomb.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Robert caught a fleeting glimpse of a pair of humpback whales breaching the surface, their massive forms crashing back into the depths. He wished he could navigate the sea as easily as they did, descending to the depths unaided, gracefully floating by the rusted hulk to pay his respects. Unfortunately, he was tethered by steel and wires. These bulky instruments, though remarkable, were guided by human hands and didn’t always respond perfectly.

This was underscored during yesterday’s ocean bed scanning. ARGO had abruptly struck an unidentified object amid the debris field along the North Continental Rise, situated off the Grand Banks. A surge of anxiety coursed through Robert as the camera platform ground to a halt, and his heart raced; losing ARGO would be disastrous for the expedition. He hurried to the control room, urgent fingers working the controls. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he reviewed the archived data and the grainy images captured just before the impact. Thankfully, ARGO was still operational, and after a few moments of careful recalibration, it resumed its mission.

Later that day in the lab, Robert settled in to examine those images captured by ARGO more closely. One black-and-white still stood out; it depicted what seemed to be the outline of a rectangular object. “Was that a coffin?” he wondered to himself, tracing the shadowy contour of the abnormality on the screen. He summoned a colleague to retrieve the Titanic’s cargo manifest, hoping it could shed light on the strange discovery. After a search, he found no evidence of any coffins officially loaded onto the ship. While there had been automobiles among the cargo, the notion of a coffin being clandestinely smuggled on board was tenuous at best. Even if it had existed, the relentless ocean and its voracious microorganisms would have long since devoured the organic material. Whatever ARGO had run into, he concluded, was unlikely to be a traditional coffin; it could be an iron safe, a robust chest, or something entirely unknown. But a coffin? He doubted it.

As Robert continued poring over the various images, one in particular caught his eye—a ghostly image. He could make out the ocean floor intricately patterned with shifting grains of sand. Embedded within was what appeared to be a series of footprints, their outlines eerily preserved in the sediment. He couldn’t help but laugh, a chuckle that startled a nearby crew member who was painstakingly plotting points on a tattered nautical map. When his laughter faded, Robert refocused on the screen, a mixture of disbelief and intrigue washing over him. Despite his initial skepticism, the impressions did indeed resemble footprints. As various scenarios swirled in his mind, he pondered the myriad explanations that might explain these strange markings. Ultimately, he rationalized it as an optical illusion, a trick of light and shadow akin to mistaking a harmless lens flare for a ghostly apparition; the prints could be attributed to the natural shifting of the ocean’s currents.

But deep down, those repetitive impressions haunted him.

As Atlantis II gently swayed, he continued to scan the horizon for whales as the red sun melted into the sea, leaving its magic to admire for the next hour. When he couldn’t find the whales, he looked down at the darkening waters, reflecting on the souls lost in these cold depths three-quarters of a century ago, and felt something like dread.

⭄

PART 1

THE TOWN

Lugat Bay, Maine

October 6th, 1986

*****

CHAPTER 1

DOROTHY JOHNSON

“Something bit me! Look!”

Dorothy Johnson sat on the edge of her rocking chair and lifted her foot with great care, revealing a small, reddish bump on the tip of her big toe. “See! Is that a spider bite?” Dorothy’s voice trembled, its unsteady cadence reflecting the years that had weathered her body. The skin around her raised leg sagged with wrinkles, resembling crumpled parchment, and faint blue veins snaked beneath the surface. Long ago, Dorothy’s fragile legs had once roamed the coastline cliffs, reveling in the sea air alongside her beloved husband. Now, at 81 years old, however, she was alone, spending her days in her small home on Sea Shore Drive.

“Yep,” David Malek said with a nod, his eyes scrutinizing her toe. “That’s a spider bite.” As he bent down to examine the bump more closely, his tool belt rattled against his waist, a symphony of clinking keys, wrenches, and an assortment of tools that encapsulated his role in the small town of Lugat Bay, Maine—as a handyman, pest control technician, plumber, and whatever else the community needed.

Dorothy murmured something, her words lost amidst the boisterous roars of the televangelist blaring from the 19-inch Zenith television. The set, nestled in the corner of the cottage living room, buzzed with energy as the volume was cranked up to an almost unbearable level, filling the space with fervent preaching.

“What did you say?” David asked, his attention shifting to the round coffee table where the remote control waited. “Would it be alright if I turned the TV down a bit?” He reached for the remote, eager to lower the volume even before Dorothy could respond.

“Oh, yes, hon. I’m sorry about that,” she said, her voice barely audible over the clamor.

“It’s okay,” David reassured her, pointing the remote at the screen. He repeatedly pressed the volume down button.

Televangelist Ulysses Bulwer dominated the TV screen with his swept-back, bone-white hair and rounded cheeks, scarlet from years of indulgence and the harsh shine of stage lights. His face contorted into animated scowls as he delivered his message. “Just twenty nine ninety nine, folks! You can’t put a price on God’s protection, but if you had to, then twenty nine ninety nine is a heavenly deal. Now listen to me, I spoke to God last night in my prayer room. I confided in my wife, Barbara, bless her heart, that I needed an hour alone with God. And you know what God told me? He revealed that I’m here to help protect His flock. His people. You people! I’m here to safeguard you with THE ULYSSES PACT! Thank you, Jesus! For just twenty-nine-ninety-nine, the Ulysses Pact includes a bottle of holy water, blessed water sourced straight from the Red Sea, the very sea that Moses parted. You’ll also receive a beautifully silver-plated cross pendant, a pocket-sized copy of the New Testament, personally signed by me, and a vial of sacred sand from Bethlehem. Tie yourself to the mast my friends and resist the song of Satan! Look out, Devil, you don’t stand a chance against The Ulysses Pact! Operators are standing by!”

The preacher’s voice grew faint as the green volume bars went from 10 to 8 to 6 to 4 to 2.

David set the remote back on the table, a sense of calmness settling in the room. “There we go. Now then, what were you saying?” he asked, his eyes re-focused on the bite on Dorothy’s toe.

“Just a sec, hon,” Dorothy said as she reached for a pen and an opened envelope. “I need to jot down this number to get me that Ulysses Pact.” She took her glasses that hung around her neck on a chain and placed them on. “Let’s see, one eight hundred…” After she finished, she removed her glasses and continued, “Well, like I was saying. Bethel Henderson told me last Sunday at church that she found a Brown Recluse spider in her bathroom.” She fidgeted with the thin fabric of her nightgown, which she wore at all hours of the day. “Does it look like a Brown Recluse bite, David? Oh, Heavenly Father, if it’s a Brown Recluse bite, I’ll surely die. Lord God.”

The sight of Dorothy reminded David of his mother. He recalled how she would call upon Jesus’ name in times of distress, raising a hand to the heavens as if seeking divine reassurance. She often asked her Heavenly Father to remember His promise of not burdening her with more than she could bear, and sure enough, David’s mother always seemed to bear her troubles with grace throughout her life. God had kept His promise until her final days.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Johnson. There are no Brown Recluse spiders in this part of the country. The climate here isn’t to their liking,” David reassured her as he inspected her foot. “They prefer states like Nebraska, Iowa, and Texas, not Maine.” He reached down and lightly touched her big toe. “Does that hurt?”

“Hon, at my age, everything hurts,” Dorothy replied with a resigned smile.

David grinned back, “Fair enough. I can relate.”

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” she exclaimed. “Come on now, how old are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

“Hah, I wish,” David said. “I’m fifty-one, Mrs. Johnson.”

“Ahh, just a youngster,” she sang out lightheartedly.

David laughed, appreciating her flattery. “And no, it’s not a Brown Recluse. It’s probably just a harmless Common House Spider or a Sac Spider. Keep some ice on your toe. The swelling should go down in a day or two.”

A thin grimace flitted across her face as Dorothy placed her foot back down. “Can you check for the spider in the bedroom, dear? It would surely make me feel better tonight,” she asked.

“Of course.” David said, “I planned to spray in there anyway. Let me go get my can.”

Dorothy nodded appreciatively, then picked up the remote control, her fingers clasping it tightly as she turned the televangelist’s volume back up, filling the room once again with his shouts.

2 to 4 to 6 to 8 to 10.

“...he is roaming like a lion, seeking whom he may devour. He is here to kill, steal, and destroy. Do you want to be left defenseless when Satan comes knocking? Now listen to me, The Devil will come to your front door, but with The Ulysses Pact, you’ll be ready for him. Let’s hear some testimonials from…”

As David stepped out of Dorothy’s house into the early morning fog, the obnoxious murmur of the TV preacher faded away, replaced by the crashing of waves against the rocky shore below. After three years of living near the majestic Atlantic, the rhythmic dance of the tide continued to enchant him. The siren call of the ocean was a melody that always drew him in, its allure never growing old.

He made his way to his work truck parked on the gravel path near the house, his work boots crunching softly underfoot. The side door of his vibrant red Ford F-150 proudly displayed the name of his company: Jack of All Trades. Yet, in a playful stroke of individuality, the name Jack was crossed out, with the name David scrawled above it in a casual white handwritten font. He found this quirky detail amusing, but to his seventeen-year-old daughter, Daniela, it was simply “So stupid, Dad.” Everything lately was “so stupid” in Daniela’s eyes. It was stupid that he lifted weights at his age. She rolled her eyes at the suggestion of enjoying dinner at the table, her preference leaning toward lounging on the couch in front of the glowing screen while eating. It seemed equally stupid to her that her mother had chosen to divorce him, leaving both of them to navigate this new, unexpected, stupid chapter of their life alone. And it was beyond stupid that he decided to quit a lucrative job in Chicago and relocate to this nondescript little town, far from her friends and familiar comforts. Everything about Lugat Bay was stupid.

David deftly unclipped the keys that hung from his belt, the motion fluid and practiced—an indication of countless repetitions. With a small, shiny key in hand, he slid it into the diamond plate aluminum toolbox at the back of his truck. The toolbox gleamed like a polished mirror, reflecting the overcast gray sky, and for a fleeting moment, he caught sight of seabirds soaring above, their squawks carried by the wind. As he lifted the toolbox lid, a familiar scent of oil and metal wafted out, mingling with the salty breeze. He reached in, pulled out a pair of well-worn gloves, and retrieved a one-gallon B&G can brimming with pesticide. The can was heavy in his hands as he placed it on the ground; its label faded but was still recognizable. He worked the pump handle, hearing the satisfying hiss as he dispensed the first few squirts of the potent liquid to test it.

While the rhythmic motion occupied his hands, his thoughts drifted to the day’s agenda. A full day lay ahead of him. After tending to Dorothy Johnson’s spider, he had eight more stops lined up, with one being at least a two-hour job at the Lincoln Apartments, meaning there could be a chance he would be working late into the evening. In the handful of years he had spent as a handyman in this town of close to 10,500 residents, he had watched his workload blossom. Customers flowed in, drawn by word-of-mouth and his unwavering commitment to quality. David felt a deep sense of pride swell within him. This type of work was a refreshing departure from the years he had spent behind a desk, orchestrating the efforts of others. He savored the feeling of fulfillment. This new role suited him perfectly; it was a blue-collar job and a source of genuine satisfaction. He had traded a life of making six figures—a life overshadowed by discontent—for one that paid half but endowed him with a renewed sense of purpose and joy. Never before had he experienced such peaceful nights, his mind free from the stresses that once haunted him. Who would have thought that something as simple as fixing a leaky faucet could lead to such profound contentment?

David yearned for that peace for his daughter. He dreamed of the day he could share his hard-earned wisdom with her. He wanted to reveal a world beyond the tumult of angst, suffocating depression, and the relentless drama that seemed to envelop Daniela. Yet, despite his best efforts, she resisted him at every turn, her defenses high and impenetrable. He recognized the heavy burden of guilt from the past that weighed on her shoulders, a relentless tide that felt like it was pulling her under. He couldn’t shake the nagging worry that time was slipping away and he might be too late to rescue her from the depths.

Standing by the truck, crashing waves provided a soothing backdrop as he lost himself in these worrisome thoughts. The dawn mist hung in the air, settling on him like a soft shroud, a palpable reminder of his concerns. He shook off the heavy feeling, forcing himself back to the task at hand.

David lifted the B&G can and returned to the house. Despite what Dorothy Johnson had suggested, David Malek was no youngster but maintained a robust physique that belied his years. The gym had become his sanctuary, following the heart-wrenching divorce that had turned his life upside down. He had discovered that lifting weights provided a release, transforming his body and clearing the fog from his mind. The aftermath of his divorce had been brutal, littered with harsh words and painful confrontations that felt like wounds that would never fully heal. In the face of this turmoil, family and friends had encouraged him to seek therapy, a safe space to unravel his thoughts and emotions. He often pondered this notion while performing hammer curls. Yet, he concluded that even though therapy could be beneficial, nothing matched the exhilarating rush of benching 250 pounds—a cathartic escape that felt far more enjoyable than any counseling session could offer.

With a casual flick of his wrist, David removed his blue baseball cap, proudly emblazoned with the David of All Trades logo, and used the brim to scratch the back of his head. His dark brown hair, once vibrant and thick, was beginning to mingle with wisps of gray. The gray was primarily concentrated along the sides, slowly claiming dominion over the brown. He had briefly mulled over the idea of dyeing his hair, imagining himself looking a decade younger. Yet, that notion evaporated as quickly as it had surfaced. David preferred to embrace the passage of time, deciding to age with grace and dignity, firmly believing that he should not resist the natural progression of life.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t pass for forty-one, but definitely forty-two,” he chuckled to himself before stepping back into Dorothy Johnson’s home.

“What was that, dear?” Dorothy called out, her voice rising above the steady hum of the preacher’s words pouring from the Zenith.

“Oh, nothing,” David answered, standing in the doorway. “Is it just the bedroom, or do you want me to spray the whole house? If I spray the whole house, you might want to step out for an hour or two.”

Dorothy shook her head. “It’s too cold for me to go outside right now. Just spray the bedroom, please,” she said.

“Sure thing,” David replied, his voice trailing off as he walked past her and ventured down the hallway toward the bedroom.

The hallway walls were adorned with a tapestry of memories—photographs featuring the faces of Dorothy’s family intermingled with solemn images of Jesus Christ, creating the impression that the Son of God was intricately tied to the Johnson lineage. Various crosses hung with care between the picture frames—the largest displaying Jesus of Nazareth, His figure suspended by nails, a crown of thorns pressed into His brow. David paused, drawn to the plaque above the cross, its letters bold against the wood: “INRI.” He whispered reverently, then added in Latin, “Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum.” His eyes lingered on the pewter carving of Christ as if seeking a connection, a deeper understanding.

“I did this for you,” a still, small voice echoed in the recesses of his mind.

As he entered into Dorothy’s bedroom, he was hit by a blend of scents: the sharp mintiness of joint cream mingling with the delicate, faded aroma of old rose soap. The bed was immaculately made, the covers smooth and untouched, as though it had not been slept in for decades. Tiny pillows adorned with floral patterns were arranged meticulously along the headboard, framed by vibrant lime green wallpaper that brightened the room. Every corner seemed to overflow with treasures—dressers brimming with trinkets, tables topped with an eclectic array of figurines, boxes, and baskets stacked, each dust-laden artifact whispering the stories of a lifetime spent collecting. David recognized that each piece was not just an object but a vessel of memories for Dorothy; she relied on these relics to keep the past alive, to remember what once was. On the nightstand, a small black-and-white photograph of her long-deceased husband rested near a well-thumbed Bible and a half-empty mug of coffee, capturing moments of love, faith, and nostalgia in a room steeped in history.

He began spraying pesticide into the shadowy corners beneath the dresser and mattress, his eyes scanning for any telltale signs of spider webs. While he felt little concern about the presence of a Brown Recluse, the thought of a Black Widow spider lurking nearby was cause for concern, considering the frailty of a woman like Dorothy. Although fatalities from Black Widow bites are extremely rare—one might argue that you stand a better chance of encountering danger from a household appliance than from this notorious spider—it still happens, often affecting vulnerable individuals like infants, the elderly, or those with severe allergic reactions.

The characteristic webs of a Black Widow are unmistakable; they exhibit an unusual resistance, unlike any other spider web. The tensile strength of these silk strands rivals that of steel wire of the same thickness, which only adds to the spider’s intimidating reputation. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that washed over him each time he accidentally stumbled into one of their webs in a darkened shed. It struck him as peculiar that humans, with all their intelligence and capacity for reason, could harbor such deep-seated fear of something so small and seemingly insignificant. He pondered the nature of that fear, concluding that it stemmed not from the arachnid itself but rather from the primal instinct to resist being preyed upon. No matter the scale, dread would arise if something crawled across us with the intent to bite into our skin and draw blood—our immediate response is always one of instinctual fear.

David moved cautiously across the bedroom, sidestepping the carefully placed house slippers near on the floor near the bed. A gentle breeze flowed through the slightly open window, making the lace curtains flutter like delicate wings above a table filled with porcelain animals, each placed carefully.

To the right of the window, an embroidered wall plaque clung to the wall, held in place with a single thumbtack. The words stitched in blue thread read, Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. The plaque was framed by an ivy design that twisted gracefully around the edges.

“No, not ivy,” David mused. “It feels more like something thorny, maybe roses?” He halted to examine the wall art more closely, pondering whether he had ever truly grasped the depth of that verse. Having grown up in church, he had heard the phrase echoed countless times by various ministers, but did he genuinely understand its meaning? Was faith truly a substance, something tangible? He believed in God, yet that belief lingered primarily in his thoughts. Where, then, was the substance of his faith? Was he, in his physical form, the embodiment of it? He held the conviction that his body was a testament to the Creator, a living reflection of divine artistry. Perhaps faith and love were not merely abstract concepts but fragile expressions of the intricate beauty of creation itself.

From the other room, David could hear Ulysses Bulwer’s powerful voice rising and falling as he preached a sermon about revival. His words are designed to fill the hearts of his listeners with a renewed sense of hope and inspiration. As David listened, a whirlwind of thoughts swirled in his mind. “How is faith the essence of the things I long for? What exactly do I hope for? And where is the evidence of the unseen, the things beyond my grasp? Why do I harbor doubts about the scriptures that are meant to guide me?”

To David, being a Christian was not a straight path but a winding, uncertain road. He believed doubt was an essential component of any meaningful relationship, a catalyst that allowed it to grow stronger over time. The more we question, the deeper we search for truth. And, as the saying goes, the truth will ultimately set you free. However, that truth cannot be uncovered without diligent effort and introspection. Just as humanity once clung to the misconception that the sun revolved around the Earth, believing ourselves to be the center of the universe, it took doubt to challenge that. We are not the focal point of existence; the vastness of the universe holds mysteries far beyond our comprehension. It is through doubt that we can begin to unravel those mysteries and expand our understanding of what lies beyond the horizon of our knowledge. Doubt is distinct from unbelief. Unbelief often takes root in the fertile soil of anger, a fierce emotion that can eat away at a person from within and leave them hollow. David, however, was untouched by such anger. Even as he navigated the tumultuous waters of his divorce from a woman he had once cherished deeply—a woman who had betrayed his trust—he resolutely refused to allow hate to infiltrate his heart. Instead, he accepted the painful reality of his situation: he would face the rest of his life bereft of romantic love. Yes, he could have lamented his fate, venting frustration and questioning the heavens above, but he wondered whom such outbursts would truly benefit. Certainly not himself.

This discipline extended to his spiritual journey as well. In moments of despair, he could have directed his anger at God for permitting the pain and suffering that permeated the world. He could have cursed God’s name when he watched, helpless, as his mother lay in a hospital bed, ravaged by a relentless disease that had no cure. Like so many others, he could have chosen to turn his back on faith, letting unbelief shape his existence and embrace atheism. But none of that felt right to him; it wasn’t his character.

David was acquainted with several atheists and recognized a common thread: each had once believed in God. What had transpired to lead them down the path of denial? What circumstances had nurtured their unwavering certainty in the absence of a higher power? The answer lay in the depths of anger and pain.

The atheist grapples with the concept of faith, often rejecting it with fervor. They seek the elusive evidence of things unseen that the Bible describes, yet they find nothing but emptiness. They confront a world saturated with suffering and despair, and their frustration deepens until God transforms into a mere illusion—an uncomfortable notion in a reality that demands more than thoughts and prayers. In their pursuit of understanding, the atheist discards the idea of God, striving for an unfiltered view of existence, stripped of ancient beliefs and promises. For David, the weight of anger that comes with disbelief feels burdensome and unsettling.

Yet, there remains an unshakable truth: doubt is an inherent part of the human experience.

David embraced the doubts that occasionally surfaced in his mind. The profound question of whether there was a God would often drift into his thoughts, enticing him to explore the evidence both for and against such a belief. Each time he engaged with these questions, he felt a quiet yet powerful strengthening of his faith. In his heart, he was sure that there was a divine presence, a creator weaving the fabric of existence. To reflect on these thoughts, he would wander for hours along the fringes of the forest, where towering trees reached skyward, their branches entwined in a dance of fractal geometry. The intricate patterns of leaves and bark echo a masterful design, leading him to believe in a conscious creator behind the symmetry he observed. As he walked, the rustle of the wind would carry whispers of life’s complexities, reinforcing his belief that the countless quirks of nature were far too complex to be mere products of chance. In these serene moments, surrounded by the beauty of the natural world, David felt a connection to something greater than himself.

In the old woman’s bedroom, he whispered his favorite Bible verse from the book of Psalms, “The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day, they pour forth speech. Night after night, they reveal knowledge.”

“You find anything, hon?” Dorothy stood in the doorway, holding the frame for support.

David snapped his head around from the window, trying not to appear too startled. “Oh, uh, no. No, Mrs Johnson. No spider.”

“You like that embroidered art?” Dorothy asked.

“Uh, yeah, yes, it’s very nice,” David said, slightly embarrassed that Dorothy had caught him daydreaming.

“Well, I’ve got five more just like it if you want one.” Dorothy shuffled over to a rust-colored chest near the closet and opened it. “Here,” she said, taking out an identical-looking wall plaque and holding it out in David’s direction. “It’s yours, honey.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Mrs. Johnson,” David told her as he set the pesticide can down.

“Now, now, I want you to have it. You’ve been such a blessing to me these last few years. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t around to fix that hole in my roof.” Dorothy motioned with her hand for David to come over and take the wall plaque from her. “Here. Put it up in your house.”

David nodded and took the art from her. “Thank you. I appreciate that. Very nice of you.”

“Come in the other room, and I’ll get your money for you,” she told him.

Dorothy slowly exited her bedroom and returned to the living room, with David following just as slowly behind. She sat down at the dining room table and began to make out a check for David. This simple task, which should have taken less than a minute, took Dorothy Johnson closer to five.

While David waited, he watched Ulysses Bulwer preach his sermon on the television…

“...Stop it! Stop letting fear take away your hope! Second Timothy one six says God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. When you let fear control your actions, you go against what the Lord God Almighty says. When that newscaster on the evening news tells you to fear the world around you, full of war and disease, rebuke him in the name of Jesus. Do not let the spirit of fear into your home. Tell it to leave. To never come back. I want to pray for you right now. Will you reach your hand out towards the screen and bow your head with me.”

David tilted his head down while behind him, Dorothy Johnson struggled to sign her name along the bottom of the check as Ulysses began his prayer…

“Father, I call on you right now to take the spirit of fear away from your children who are watching this program right now. I cannot see all the hands outstretched towards the television sets, but you can, Heavenly Father. You can see them, and you can hear them. We live in a fearful world filled with sin and death, the result of Eve’s mistake in the Garden. But you have given us a way out of sin and death. You have died for our sins. This world is not our home. We are just passing through. But until we get to our reward, help us, Jesus. Give us the strength to make it day to day. Take away our fear, and give us hope. Hope that when the devil comes knocking at our door, our faith will be enough to drive him away. I ask this in the name of Jesus Christ, your son. Amen.”

And in his mind, David offers the response, “Amen.”

⭄