PREVIOUS PRAISE FOR BILL MYERS

The God Hater

“When one of the most creative minds I know gets the best idea he’s ever had and turns it into a novel, it’s fasten-your-seat-belt time. This one will be talked about for a long time.”

—Jerry B. Jenkins author of Left Behind

“An original masterpiece.”

—Dr. Kevin Leman, bestselling author of Have a New Kid by Friday

“If you enjoy white-knuckle, page-turning suspense, with a brilliant blend of cutting-edge apologetics, The God Hater will grab you for a long, long time.”

—Beverly Lewis, NY Times bestselling author

“I’ve never seen a more powerful and timely illustration of the incarnation. Bill Myers has a way of making the Gospel accessible and relevant to readers of all ages. I highly recommend this book.”

—Terri Blackstock, NY Times bestselling author

“A brilliant novel that feeds the mind and heart, The God Hater belongs at the top of your reading list.”

—Angela Hunt, NY Times bestselling author

“The God Hater is a rare combination that is both entertaining and spiritually provocative. It has a message of deep spiritual significance that is highly relevant for these times.”

—Paul Cedar, Chairman Mission America Coalition

Angel of Wrath

“Bill Myers is a genius. Not only is ANGEL OF WRATH full of engaging characters and heart-stopping suspense, but underneath it explores thoughts and truths that will keep you pondering long after the book is closed.”

—Lee Stanley, producer, Gridiron Gang

The Voice

“A crisp, express-train read featuring 3D characters, cinematic settings and action, and, as usual, a premise I wish I’d thought of. Succeeds splendidly! Two thumbs up!”

—Frank E. Peretti, This Present Darkness

“Nonstop action and a brilliantly crafted young heroine will keep readers engaged as this adventure spins to its thought-provoking conclusion. This book explores the intriguing concept of God’s power as not only the creator of the universe, but as its very essence.”

—Kris Wilson, CBA Magazine

“It’s a real ‘what if?’ book with plenty of thrills...that will definitely create questions all the way to its thought-provoking finale. The success of Myers’s stories is a sweet combination of a believable storyline, intense action, and brilliantly crafted, yet flawed characters.”

—Dale Lewis, TitleTrakk.com

The Face of God

“Strong writing, edgy...replete with action...”

—Publishers Weekly

Fire of Heaven

“I couldn’t put the Fire of Heaven down. Bill Myers’s writing is crisp, fast-paced, provocative...A very compelling story.”

—Francine Rivers, NY Times Bestselling author

Blood of Heaven

“With the chill of a Robin Cook techno-thriller and the spiritual depth of a C.S. Lewis allegory, this book is a fast-paced, action packed thriller.”

—Angela Hunt, NY Times Bestselling author

“Now this is innovative. Bill Myers has played a great game of ‘what if?’—creating a compelling story of grace triumphing over judgment...A bold new twist on an age-old theme. Blood of Heaven is an enjoyable and provocative read. I wish I’d thought of it!”

—Frank E. Peretti, This Present Darkness

ELI

“The always surprising Myers has written another clever and provocative tale.”

—Booklist

“With this thrilling and ominous tale Myers continues to shine brightly in speculative fiction based upon Biblical truth. Highly recommended.”

—Library Journal

“Myers weaves a deft, affecting tale.”

—Publishers Weekly

Soul Tracker

“Soul Tracker provides a treat for previous fans of the author, but also a fitting introduction to those unfamiliar with his work. I’d recommend the book to anyone, initiated or not. But be careful to check your expectations at the door...it’s not what you think it is.”

—Brian Reaves, Fuse magazine

“Thought provoking and touching, this imaginative tale blends elements of science fiction with Christian theology.”

—Library Journal

“Myers strikes deep into the heart of eternal truth with this imaginative first book of the Soul Tracker series. Readers will be eager for more.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Seeing

“Compels the reader to burn through the pages. Cliff-hangers abound and the stakes are raised higher and higher as the story progresses—intense, action-shocking twists!”

—TitleTrakk.com

“An entertaining novel, The Seeing is a great reminder of spiritual warfare and the impact of choices and is reminiscent of Frank E. Peretti’s, This Present Darkness.”

—IDealinHope.com

When the Last Leaf Falls

“A wonderful novella...Any parent will warm to the humorous reminiscences and the loving exasperation of this father for his strong-willed daughter...Compelling characters and fresh, vibrant anecdotes of one family’s faith journey.”

—Publishers Weekly

Other Books By Bill Myers

NOVELS

The Judas Gospel

The God Hater

The Voice

Angel of Wrath

The Wager

Soul Tracker

The Presence

The Seeing

The Face of God

When the Last Leaf Falls

Eli

Blood of Heaven

Threshold

Fire of Heaven

CHILDREN BOOKS

Baseball for Breakfast (picture book)

The Bug Parables (picture book series)

Imager Chronicles (fantasy series)

McGee and Me (book/video series)

The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle (comedy series)

Blood Hounds, Inc. (mystery series)

The Elijah Project (suspense series)

Secret Agent Dingledorf and his trusty dog, Splat (comedy series)

TJ and the Time Stumblers (comedy series)

Bedtime Bunny Tales (interactive e-book)

TEEN BOOKS

Faith Encounter (devotional)

Hot Topics, Tough Question (non-fiction)

Forbidden Doors (supernatural series)

-Dark Power Collection

-Invisible Terror Collection

-Deadly Loyalty Collection

-Ancient Forces Collection

The Dark Side of the Supernatural (non-fiction)

eBook Series

Supernatural Love

Supernatural War

For a further list of Bill’s books, sample chapters, and reviews go to www.Billmyers.com

For Leslie and Belen:

Who know God’s love and experience His power.

“I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. However, do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you, but rejoice that your names are written in heaven.”

- Jesus Christ

INTRODUCTION

PEOPLE OFTEN ASK WHERE I get the ideas for my supernatural fiction. Lots of them have come through research—interviewing everybody from the head of the now-defunct CIA psychic research department, to so-called UFO abductees, to those working in psychic research labs, to the Son of Sam serial killer (now a devout Believer), to meek and humble, Third World Christians who pioneer hundreds of churches while quietly performing miracles. And the list goes on. As a writer and documentary filmmaker, I’ve witnessed some remarkable things. And, on very rare occasions, have been a part of them.

This story is one of those occasions. . .

It was 1976 or ‘77. My wife and I had joined the Jesus People “Revolution” in California through a church of young artists called The Vineyard. For the record, this was a small church grown out of a couple of home Bible studies, long before it was turned into a denomination by more dramatic and controversial leaders.

Although the incidents happened in the ‘70s, I made a cassette recording of them immediately afterwards to remember some of the details. More recently I interviewed the only three remaining participants—our pastors at that time, Larry Myers (no relation) and Kenn Gulliksen. And, of course, Brenda, my wife.

Because of the unusual nature of this and other miracle stories in my “Supernatural” series, my policy is to exclude anything that cannot be verified by two or more people. I’ve made the exception regarding both Simon’s childhood and his time with Anthony. I was unable to track down Anthony, and Simon’s mother is no longer alive. I’ve also changed their names since neither are now public figures and may want to retain their privacy.

That said, all the supernatural incidents in this story are exactly as those of us involved remember (and recorded) them.

This is the second of what I hope to be several true accounts I’m writing on God’s supernatural encounters in modern day lives. If you have a true story or know of one that can be vetted for accuracy and that deals with God and the miraculous, please drop me a line. I can be reached through my website at: www.billmyers.com

Thanks!

Bill

CHAPTER ONE

Glendale, California

Sunday Morning

SIMON’S HEART HAMMERED AGAINST his ribs with such force he could barely breathe.

But he wouldn’t stop.

It made no difference that he’d had open-heart surgery just a few months earlier, he would not stop.

Standing alone in the darkness, chest heaving, he regripped the ax, its handle slick and cold with sweat. He hoisted it over his shoulder and swung again. It slammed into the chain-link fence that shook and rattled but did not give. He lifted and swung again. His heart slipped into jarring, erratic palpitations. And still he would not stop.

He wasn’t sure where he was or why he had to escape. He only knew he had to get out . . . before his chest exploded. He raised the ax and felt the ground shift under his feet. It shifted again. He staggered, fighting to keep his balance as everything around him grew white, a pale overexposed photograph. Then, just as he was about to lose consciousness, he heard a voice boom behind him—roaring like thunder, like a waterfall:

“HE WANTS MORE TRUTH.”

He was immediately bathed in brilliant light—so blinding it hurt the eyes. He spun around and saw the figure of a man standing in the center of the light. He could make out no details, but knew it was the one who had spoken. It spoke again:

“GIVE HIM MORE TRUTH.”

And suddenly he jolted awake. He was soaked in sweat and his heart still pounded, but he was awake. He rolled onto his back, trying to catch his breath. The dream had been so vivid. The voice so powerful. He’d never experienced anything like it. Was it some sort of message? If so, what? As he stared up at his bedroom ceiling, he heard another word. Not “heard,” not like before. There was no thunder or roar. It wasn’t even audible. Instead it bubbled up in his thoughts like an impression. Two words. Or one. He wasn’t certain:

Vine yard.

He lay there, continuing to take deep, measured breaths as his heart began to slow. He couldn’t go back to sleep, he knew that much. Finally, he threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed.

Vine yard. What did it mean?

He fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand and rose. Moving slow, always mindful of his heart, 46-year-old Simon Dalton slipped on his robe and shuffled out into the living room. He didn’t turn on the lights but moved to his favorite overstuffed chair near the window.

Vine yard. Vine yard.

He snapped on the table lamp and reached for his address book. He’d give Dr. Randall Haun a call. As a devotee of Carl Jung, symbols and archetypes were the doctor’s specialty. Granted, it wasn’t yet 6:00 in the morning, but the psychiatrist owed him. After the insight and information Simon had provided him on several of his patients, the doctor owed him dearly.

It took eight rings before he picked up, groggy and annoyed. “Hello?”

“Randall? Simon here.”

“Simon?” The voice cleared. “What’s wrong? What can I do for you?”

“I have a question . . .”

CHAPTER TWO

Santa Monica, California

Sunday Morning

“DON’T ANSWER IT,” BRENDA said as we headed for our front door.

“But I’m on call,” I said. “What if it’s important?”

The phone rang again.

She opened the door. “Kenn says he wants the leaders to start showing up for church on time.”

Of course my wife was right, but I wouldn’t let a little thing like that stop me.

The phone rang again.

I looked at Brenda and hesitated. She looked at me and sighed. Then she shut the door and waited.

“It’ll just take a minute,” I said as I dashed across our tiny apartment. I scooped up the phone in my makeshift office and answered, “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was thin and feeble. “Hello. I was given your number by an answering service. I have been calling various places throughout the morning. Could you tell me, what is a vine yard?”

“Oh, you mean Vineyard,” I said. “Yeah, it’s this cool place where people go to hang out and love on Jesus.” (It was the ‘70s, all right? The term “church” was way too establishment.)

He cleared his throat. “What exactly do you do?”

“We’re like this non-denominational . . . well, kinda church thing, but we really love Jesus and trust Him to be our savior and cool stuff like that.”

There was no reply.

“Hello?” I said.

“When you use the term “savior,” what do you mean?

“You’re not sure what I mean by savior?” I threw a helpless look to Brenda, who slowly set down her purse with just the right mixture of patience and “I told you so.”

I learned the man’s name was Simon. Carefully, I explained to him how God wanted to be our buddy, but that our sins were way too heavy and outrageous for us to hang out in His cool presence. (I did mention it was the ‘70s, right?) I explained that’s why Jesus came, to pay for all of our mess-ups so we wouldn’t have to. And that all we had to do was to ask Him and to let Him be our boss. After a few minutes, I concluded. “So, what do you think? Pretty awesome, huh?”

“Are you saying He has paid for every immoral action I have ever committed?”

“And ever will. That’s right.”

“But . . . you don’t understand. I have a past that is far too heinous to be forgiven.”

“No, that’s just it. Jesus wasn’t just some guy. He was God’s only Son. That means He was big enough to pay for everything . . . and for everybody.”

“I’m afraid you don’t realize the magnitude of my—”

“It doesn’t matter, man. He’s got it covered.”

“But, I’ve participated in terrible things.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“How is that possible?”

“Because He’s God’s Son.”

“You don’t seem to understand.”

And around and around we went—Simon telling me his past was too dark and ugly to be forgiven, and me insisting that Jesus’ sacrifice was big enough to pay for everything.

Finally, after twenty or so minutes, I cut to the chase. “Listen, man, it all starts with a prayer. If you’re interested, why not give it a shot and just talk to Him—you know, ask Him to forgive you? What have you got to lose?”

I heard a slight groan through the receiver.

“You okay?”

“My head,” he muttered. “It’s throbbing. It’s hurting so bad, I can barely think.”

I’d never heard of such a thing happening and reached for what I thought was an obvious explanation. “That’s ‘cause it’s a big deal. It’s like this spiritual struggle. All you have to do is say the prayer. Things will get way better after that, I promise.”

But he wouldn’t or couldn’t believe me. And the more I pressed the issue, the worse his pain grew. “Look,” I finally said, “why don’t I say the words. And if you agree, you can just repeat them after me. How’s that sound?”

I was answered by a quiet moan, followed by heavy breathing.

“Simon? You okay?”

The breathing grew more labored.

“Simon?”

Then, very faintly, I heard, “Yes . . .”

“Cool.”

Bill busy writing his first novel at his makeshift desk.

And so, after reviewing the facts and making sure he understood, I said a brief prayer and Simon repeated my words . . . confessing that he wanted to be forgiven and asking Jesus to be his Lord. I remember the prayer being quick and to the point and I remember Simon’s sincerity.

I also remember his response when we were done . . .

Silence. I waited several seconds. Then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked, “So, Simon, how do you feel?”

He took a long, deep breath and blew it out.

“Simon?”

Finally he said, “This is remarkable. I feel . . .”

I waited.

“I feel . . . wonderful.”

I grinned.

“I’m happy.” His voice grew stronger. “I never feel happy. Forgive me, Mr. Myers, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I have to laugh.”

“Well, go ahead,” I chuckled. “Don’t let me stop you.”

When he had finished, I began to wrap things up. “Listen, it’s really important you start reading the Bible, okay? I mean, it’s like God’s way of talking to His kids. And you’ve got to start talking to Him. Communication, that’s the thing. You can’t fall in love with someone if you don’t get to know them. And you don’t get to know someone without communicating. He talks to you through His Word. You talk to Him through prayer.”

He assured me he would and we said our goodbyes. I hung up, not only pleased for Simon, but pretty smug about the excuse I’d give our pastor when he nailed me for being late.

Little did I realize how quickly that smugness would disappear . . .

CHAPTER THREE

Glendale, California

Saturday Afternoon

“ANTHONY!”

The young man threw open the front door and stormed outside.

Simon called after him again, “Anthony!”

But Anthony ignored him and slammed the door shut behind him.

Simon stood a long moment in the silence, his eyes dropping to the papers scattered on the floor, the ones he and Anthony had been preparing for the startup restaurant in Burbank. He hesitated, unsure what to do. The problem had started several minutes earlier when they’d been sitting at the dining room table going over the paperwork.

“What’s wrong with you?” Anthony had demanded. “Is this or is this not the right location?”

“I told you,” Simon pushed up his glasses, “I don’t know.” He gave Anthony a weak sort of smile.

It was not returned. “What do you mean, you don’t know? You always know. Ask your guides, they’ll tell you.”

Of course, he was right. The voices were always there offering Simon advice and giving instruction. They had been for nearly as far back as he could remember. Whether it was to frighten the children who used to taunt him as a little boy, or paying his college tuition by playing the horses at Santa Anita, they always knew.

Until now.

Now, they were strangely quiet. They had been all week. Ever since he’d said that prayer with the young Jesus Freak on the telephone Sunday morning. Truth be told, he knew they were angry. And if it wasn’t for the peace he’d been experiencing, along with the giddy feeling of lightness, their silence would have concerned him. But the joy was worth their silence. Almost.

Unfortunately, there was the matter of his friends who were not so quiet. No one seemed to understand. After all, he was an intellectual. A scholar who, thanks to the voices, always had uncanny wisdom and much-sought-after insight. Until last week. Was he really going to throw all of that away? And for what? To join the mindless masses who were calling Jesus Christ their Superstar? It was a prospect that embarrassed everyone—most of all dear, kind-hearted Anthony.

“You haven’t been listening to me,” Simon said. “What I’m experiencing is far more important than starting a restaurant. If you would put away your preconceptions. If you would simply pray with me you’ll under—”

“Stop it,” Anthony exclaimed. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

“I’m merely proposing—”

“Did you or did you not agree to help me with this?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“And did you or did you not agree to check with your spirit guides for their counsel?”

“Yes—”

“Then ask them.” Anthony’s voice grew high and wavy, the way it always did when he was upset. “Just ask them if this is the right location.”

“I told you,” Simon said as gently as possible, “they’re not talking.”

“I don’t believe that. Not for a moment.”

“Anthony, I . . .” He hesitated, debating whether to tell him he knew his guides were upset.

But Anthony saw the hesitation and misread it. “You’re impossible.” He started gathering the papers from the table.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s obvious you’re no longer interested in helping, so I’ll find someone who is.”

“Of course I’m interested.”

“Yes. Well, you have an interesting way of showing it.” He rose and Simon reached out to his hand.

“Anthony, I do want to help. You mean the world to me, you know that.”

The young man stopped and looked down at their hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. You’re all…” his voice filled with emotion. “This Jesus business has completely ruined you. It’s messing up all of our plans.”

“I won’t bring it up again. I promise.”

“And your guides?”

Simon hesitated.

“And your guides? You’ll ask for their help?”

“I . . .”

“That’s what I thought.” He shook off Simon’s hand and finished straightening the papers, preparing to leave.

“I can still help.” Simon pushed back his chair and rose to join him. “We can do the research on our own. Together. You and I can—”

“No, we can’t!” In his haste, Anthony’s papers caught the edge of the table and cascaded to the floor. He stooped down to retrieve them. “You can’t do anything. Except break your promises.”

“You talk as if I’ve betrayed you.”

Anthony shot him a look. “Haven’t you?” The comment cut deep. But he wasn’t finished. “You’re betraying all of us.” He finished gathering the papers and stood.

“You’re behaving like a child.” But even as Simon spoke, he knew Anthony was telling the truth.

The young man’s voice grew higher, thinner. “This restaurant’s been my life’s dream, you know that.”

“And I can help. I want to help. But I also want you to know I have found something better.”

“Better than what? Keeping your promises? Being true to those you say you care for?” He tried holding Simon’s eyes, but could not.

“Anthony, I am simply trying to explain that Jesus Christ—”

“Will you stop! Just stop it!” Anthony turned toward the living room and Simon grabbed his arm, succeeding only in knocking the papers out of his hand and back to the floor.

Anthony swore as he ripped his arm free. He’d had enough. Refusing to retrieve the papers a second time, he turned and headed across the living room toward the front door.

“Anthony? Anthony!”

But the door slammed shut and Anthony was gone.

Now Simon stood all alone. He stared down at the papers—a suitable ending to a very difficult week. Yes, there had been the peace and freedom. But what of his friends, their disapproval, their contempt? What of their cutting him off, one by one? Or, as Anthony had said, his cutting them off?

He thought of returning to his essay, the one he’d been writing on prayer. It had pulled him through some of the tougher times that week. But he knew even that wouldn’t be enough. Not now. Everything was building, pressure piling on top of pressure. The feelings of guilt, confusion, and ever-increasing loneliness. He needed a release. He needed—

A thought surfaced. The wine. The bottle his brother had left in the refrigerator just last night. Simon turned and slowly shuffled toward the kitchen. Before the operation, whenever the day-to-day stress grew too great, good, vintage wine always gave him some comfort. Of course, Simon’s cardiologist had forbidden it. Besides changing eating habits—he still had an extra twenty or so pounds to shed from his rather short frame—Simon could have no alcohol. For the most part, it hadn’t been an issue. Until now. Now, with the mounting pressures, the guilt, the feelings of isolation, he needed something to calm him, to take off the edge.

He opened the refrigerator door. Bottles of salad dressing and condiments rattled against each other. And there, on the bottom shelf, was a bottle of Chardonnay. Unsophisticated by his standards, but it would have to do. He removed the bottle and set it on the counter. Opening the drawer, he reached for the corkscrew. But he barely had it in hand before he heard the voice. Not the voice of his guides. This was more powerful. This was the voice from his dream. And it was just as clear and full of authority as it had been then:

“I AM. YOU DON’T NEED THAT.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Santa Monica, California

Saturday Evening

“ARE YOU SURE THOSE were the words you heard? ‘I am’?”

“Yes.” Simon’s voice was a little unsteady. “Is that significant?”

I glanced at the paper in my $49.95 portable typewriter, grateful I’d found yet another excuse to postpone writing. It was my first contracted book, pretty heady stuff for a 22-year-old. But even then I’d discovered that writing wasn’t nearly as exciting and glamorous as it sounded—especially when your desk was a thin sheet of plywood stretched between two empty moving boxes. Actually, the office furniture was pretty ingenious, particularly if you’re going for the got-no-bucks, newlywed look. But typing could be a problem. The little bounce the plywood gave with every keystroke didn’t always work to my advantage. But, thanks to Liquid Paper, I was slowly making progress. Emphasis on the “slowly.”

It had been a week since Simon’s first call. I rose from the borrowed kitchen chair and walked around my desk. “I am,” I repeated. “That’s the name God used when He spoke to Moses up on Mount Sinai. It’s also what Jesus called himself when He told the people, ‘Before Abraham was born, I am.’”

There was only silence at Simon’s end. I wasn’t sure what was going through his head, so I continued, “Actually, that’s pretty cool. It means, like, maybe it really was God talking to you.”

He cleared his throat. “And that would certainly explain . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Explain what?” I asked.

“My writing. I’m working on a fascinating paper dealing with prayer and the power of God. That is to say, I am, but I’m not.”

“How’s that?”

“I hold a pen on a piece of paper. Then I close my eyes and—well, then I lose consciousness.”

“You lose consciousness?”

“Yes, partially. My hand starts to move across the page and I write these remarkable passages . . . although I have no idea what I’ve written until I have finished and read them.”

“Awesome,” I said. “Maybe that really does make you like a prophet or something.”

“Would you like to hear it?”

I glanced at my typewriter. “Sure.”

So, for the next 30 to 40 minutes, Simon read me his paper. Quite frankly, many of the words and concepts were too lofty for me to understand—though I was struck by his constant use of the phrase, “The Christ,” and his repeated reference to, “letting God rule by deflating our egos.” What I did understand, I found to be insightful and very spiritual.

When he finally finished, I told him what I thought. As I recall, I only made one suggestion. “But you left out an area,” I said.

“Really? And what is that?”

“Worship,” I said. “Instead of just talking about prayer and God’s power, why not include something about worship?”

“I don’t—what do you mean?”

“You know, spending time telling Him how much we love Him and how cool He is? That’s part of prayer, too.”

“I don’t entirely understand.”

His answer caught me off guard. Not only had we discussed it during his first call, but worship had become such an important part of my life, I was always surprised when others didn’t get it. But, knowing he was one week old in the faith, and not wanting to embarrass him, I said, “Well, here, let me show you. I’ll just start to thank and praise Him over the phone, and then when you feel like it, you can join in. How’s that sound?”

He agreed and we began. Well, I began. He said nothing. I finally stopped and encouraged him to join in. But he remained silent.

“Simon? Are you there?”

Ever so faintly, I heard a quiet groan.

“Simon, what’s wrong?”

“Cramps,” he moaned. “I have terrible cramps. I must—I have to . . .” The receiver clattered to the ground.

“Simon? Simon!” I waited several more moments before he returned. When he spoke, his voice was raw and husky. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong? What happened?

“I had to vomit.”

“Are you sick?”

“I’m okay,” he answered. “It’s just . . .”

“What?”

“When you were praying I saw these . . . creatures.”

“Creatures?”

“Yes. They were circling me.”

“What do you mean, “creatures”? What did they look like?”

“Some were beautiful, but the others, they were awful. Grotesque.” I heard him give a little shudder. “One was half animal, half human.”

Always the optimist (after all, we had been praying) I asked, “Did they have wings?”

“No. They were frightening. Horrifying.”

I thought back to the Bible and remembered how nearly every encounter with a supernatural entity from God was filled with terror. It seemed everyone’s first response to the holy was a face plant on the ground . . . until they were told to get up and, “Be not afraid.” I figured this put Simon in some pretty good company, so I encouraged him to join with me again.

“No,” he said, “you don’t understand.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Telling God how much we love Him is a cool thing. I don’t know what’s going on, but worshiping Him is good.”

Simon was still pretty shook up and it took several minutes of arguing and encouragement before he finally agreed to try again. But I’d no sooner started to pray before the moaning resumed, this time with words. “No,” he pleaded. “Please, please . . .”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Just let yourself go. Just worship God.”

“No . . . you don’t understand.”

“Let go, Simon. Trust Him.”

“No, please . . . please—”

Suddenly, his voice stopped and I heard a different one. It was still Simon, but now it was deeper, more confident and in control. “Hello, Bill . . .”

I gripped the phone a little tighter. “What’s happening?” I said. “What’s going on?”

The voice continued, “I am an emissary of the Christ.”

“What are you talking about? Simon, what’s going on?”

“Simon is here, but now I am the one speaking.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Listen very carefully, for I have come to deliver you a message from the Christ.”

If I said anything, I don’t remember. If he said he was an angel, I don’t recall. I only remember that for a very long time he explained in great detail the paper Simon had written. I also remember Brenda coming in and asking if I wanted to join her and a friend. They were going to the Daisy, a Christian Nightclub in Beverly Hills where an acquaintance of ours, Keith Green, was performing.

I shook my head. And when she persisted, I covered the mouthpiece and said, “Brenda, please, I’m talking to an angel.”

She looked at me kind of funny, but, hey, it was the ‘70s and we were new to California. Maybe these sort of things happen.

The voice continued speaking, but gradually my suspicions rose—especially when he said Simon and I would deliver this great, earth-shaking message to the world. It wasn’t so much the words he spoke, as the pride I felt rising up inside of me. I was chosen by God. I was somebody special. I was going to become a person others respected and even revered. It was a terrific feeling and pretty exciting, but not exactly what Jesus had in mind when He called us to meekness and humility.

And with that realization came the first red flag.

Cautious, but still hoping I was hearing a real angel, I began to quietly whisper words of praise to God. The voice never acknowledged what I was doing and I remember thinking it odd that a holy “emissary of the Christ” would not join in the worship. I also remembered a Bible verse that said something like, “Don’t believe every spirit, but test them to see if they’re from God.”

So finally, at an appropriate pause, I asked, “Can you say Jesus Christ your Lord?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. And then, very clearly, the voice replied, “Yes, he is my Lord.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was it. He’d passed the test. I had all the proof I needed. Still, I couldn’t shake my suspicions, particularly as he continued to feed my pride and ego.

Eventually, Simon’s voice came back on the line. He sounded like he’d been drugged or was half asleep. “What happened?” he asked.

I explained as best I could, but in the middle of my explanation he dropped the receiver a second time and raced away to throw up.

When he returned I had no idea what to think or do. Actually, I did have an idea what to think . . . but I didn’t like what I was coming up with. I was way out of my league but knew when all else fails, prayer and worship is never a bad idea. So I asked Simon if he would join me again.

“Why?” he asked. He was leery and exhausted. Who could blame him?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just not so sure I like what’s going on.”

After several more minutes of coaxing, I again convinced him. But I’d only prayed a few words before he started to groan, “Please, don’t hurt him. Bill’s my friend. Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t—”

Suddenly, another voice broke in. It was stronger and far more commanding than the first.

“Hello, William.” Before I could answer, it continued, “There is no need to ask, because Christ is my Lord . . . and my brother.”

Red flag number two. Wasn’t claiming to be Christ’s brother close to claiming to be His equal?

The second voice repeated much of what the first had said about me, but in even greater detail. With suspicions continuing to rise, I again dropped into quiet praise and worship. But unlike the first voice, this one stopped and waited until I had finished before it continued. We did this, starting and stopping, half a dozen times.

Then came another twist . . .

“One more thing, William,” he said. “You are too hard on yourself. You are human. Like the proverbial coin, you consist of a good side and a bad side. Do not be so demanding of yourself. The bad side is merely part of the same coin. You must learn to embrace both sides.”

Red flag number three.

He continued. “I shall give Simon a dream tonight and you will have the ability to interpret it. That will be the beginning, the first stage of your new partnership.” He went on to repeat how great I was and how our teaching would change the world as we spoke of the love of Christ. Finally, after another long monologue, he ended the talk and Simon resurfaced, once again asking what had happened.

By now I was confused, suspicious and, like Simon, pretty tired. So I gave him a quick recap and promised to call in the morning. In all honesty, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted and moved by all the predictions of my greatness, especially the promises of drawing people closer to God. After all, wasn’t that why I’d studied acting and directing at the University of Washington? Wasn’t that why I went to film school in Rome—to learn how to tell of God’s love through the media? Wasn’t that why Brenda and I moved to LA?

But there were those flags.

I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 11:00 p.m. We’d been on the phone over four hours. Time flies when you’re being tempted to sell your soul. I took a deep breath, said another prayer, and reached back for the phone.

It was time to call in the big guns.

CHAPTER FIVE

Santa Monica, California

Saturday Evening

I WAITED AS KENN Gulliksen’s phone rang. I knew it was late but figured this was important enough to bother him. Still, even as I sat there, waiting for my pastor to pick up, a not-so-little voice in my head kept whispering, “You know he’s going to be jealous . . . he’s going to hold you back . . . you’re the one called to change the world, not him.”

After the sixth or seventh ring, I finally hung up. Maybe it was God’s will that Kenn wasn’t there. Maybe Kenn really would be jealous, or at least misunderstand what was happening. Either way, he could become a stumbling block and hamper my great and glorious future. After all, wasn’t that exactly what the religious bigwigs tried to do to Jesus when He told them—

There it was again. Now I was comparing myself to Christ. Not exactly humility. The truth was, I could dress it up, disguise it all I wanted by saying it was only about serving God . . . but I knew what I was feeling inside, and I knew it wasn’t right.

Then there was the pain Simon felt whenever we worshipped. And the vomiting. Not to mention the weird voices. Pain, vomiting, voices . . . weren’t those right out of The Exorcist? At least that’s what I’d heard. I’d never seen the movie. In fact, it had been one of the very few times I’d ever felt a direct impression from God. The film had been released a year or so earlier when we were still up in Seattle. Brenda was working and my classes had been cancelled, so I drove downtown from our apartment in the University District to see it. I parked the car and was about to cross the street to the theater. But as I waited for the traffic to clear, I felt this indescribable feeling of, “No.” It wasn’t an audible voice. It wasn’t even a thought or word. It was simply a feeling that I shouldn’t go into the theater.

I figured I was just being silly. It was probably my distaste of horror movies. But as I waited for the traffic, the sensation did not go away. It wasn’t heavy or condemning. I knew I could still go inside and watch it if I really wanted. But I also knew for some reason I wasn’t supposed to. And by the time the traffic finally cleared, I’d made up my mind and turned back to the car. I felt more than a little stupid, driving all the way downtown, just to turn around and go home. But the sensation had been so strong. At the time I had no idea that if I’d gone in to see it, I would have its frightening scenes running through my head, instead of what I knew took place in the Scriptures.

After a few minutes I tried calling Kenn again. And after another six or seven rings, I hung up. That clenched it, didn’t it? Wasn’t this proof that I shouldn’t talk to him? That I didn’t need some old guy (Kenn was pushing thirty) messing things up? After all, the promise had been made to me, not Kenn. Me. At least that’s what my mind said. But there was something deeper inside of me that kept ringing up, “No Sale.”

Brenda was still at the Daisy so I had time to sit and ponder, trying to remember if I’d read anything else about this sort of thing. I did recall a low budget Christian film produced by Heinz Fussle called The Enemy. It dealt with an exorcism from a Biblical perspective. I really didn’t remember much, except how the weird voices kept trying to take the people’s focus away from Jesus Christ and the authority He’d given them.

Pastor Kenn Gulliksen talking with John Smalley

I glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. I decided to try Kenn one last time. Once again I let his phone ring six or seven times. Then, just as I was about to hang up, I heard him answer. “Hello?” He sounded out of breath and just the slightest bit annoyed.

“Sorry, Kenn. It’s Bill Myers. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“No, I’ve been out in my garden. The phone keeps ringing and every time I run in to answer it, the person hangs up. That wasn’t you, was it?”

“Oh, uh,” I cleared my throat, “maybe.”

“What’s going on?”

I told him all that had happened. When I finished, I waited, hoping for something positive.

“Bill, when prophets spoke in the Bible they never lost control of their faculties.”

So much for the positive.

He continued, “Cramps, throwing up, losing consciousness—that’s not how God operates.”

“But,” I countered, “how can you be so sure?”

“For one, the Scriptures say, ‘The spirits of prophets are subject to the control of prophets.’”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means God never invades a person’s free will. He will impress prophets on what they should say, but they always have the choice whether or not to obey Him. And what you’re describing—well, that’s anything but free will, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but . . . well, what about the paper he’s writing?”

“It’s called automatic handwriting. It’s an occult practice. People turn their will over to demons and allow them to use their hands to write.”

“But the stuff was so beautiful,” I argued. “And it’s true. I mean, yeah, some of it’s pretty complicated, but it’s all true.”

“That’s another common tactic of Satan. He uses 99% truth to get people to swallow his 1% lie.”

“But I tested the spirits like the Bible says. I asked if they could say Jesus was their Lord?”

“You’re taking that a bit out of context.”

“I am?”

“What was their response?”

“The first one, the weaker one definitely said Christ was his Lord. And the second one said . . .” I hesitated.

“The second one said what?”

I felt the air being let out of my tires. “He said . . . he was Christ’s brother.”

“Claiming equality to God. I’d say that pretty well settles it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah . . . I suppose.”

“Praise God.”

“Yeah,” I replied sarcastically, “Praise God.”

“No, seriously, Praise God. You’re way over your head.”

“Tell me about it.”

“No, that’s a good thing. It means you’re really going to get the chance to trust Jesus. You’ll get to see Him in action and learn.”

“Me?” I croaked.

“You bet. Call one of the guys—how ‘bout John Smalley. Call John and you two go over to the man’s house and pray with him tomorrow.”

“Me?” I repeated. “Isn’t this something you should be doing?”

“No. You’re the one God brought in on this, you’re the one He wants to teach.” “You’re not serious?”

“Absolutely. This is a terrific learning opportunity for you.”

I spent several minutes trying to convince Kenn otherwise, but he would not budge. (Only weeks later did he laughingly admit part of his stubbornness was because he didn’t want the “terrific learning opportunity.”) When it was obvious I couldn’t change his mind, we finally ended the conversation—with me checking one final time.

“You sure I wasn’t talking to angels?”

“I’m sure.”

“But—”

“Good night, Bill.”

I sighed, “Good night,” and grudgingly hung up the phone. I don’t remember how well I slept, but I’m betting I had better nights.

CHAPTER SIX

Glendale, California

Saturday Evening

“YOU’RE STILL NOT ANGRY, are you?” Simon asked. He was grateful the strongman had decided to resume speaking.

You should never have called.

“He’s just trying to help,” Simon said.

You should never have called.

He’s right, a second voice agreed, you should never have called. No surprise there—the others always agreed with the strongman. They tried not to anger him. Because when the strongman was angry, everyone suffered, including Simon—as evidenced by the cramps and vomiting.

The guide hadn’t always been that way. In fact, the very first day they met, he was just the opposite—gentle, kind, understanding.

Little seven-year-old Simon had been crying as he ran through the woods screaming, “Help me! Somebody, please?” It was Pennsylvania, late autumn. A thin band of smoke hung in the air, sharp and sweet smelling, from neighbors burning leaves. And it was cold. Bitterly cold. “Boy!” He heard his father shout from the porch. But Simon could not return. Not when the man was like this. Granted, he had no coat, only a t-shirt, and he shivered fiercely. But the welts covering his little body were clear indications he could not go back.

He staggered through the undergrowth crying, “Help me! Help me!” But no one answered. At least no one he saw.

Do you want help?

The voice was so clear and present that Simon looked over his shoulder to see who was behind him. No one was there.

Are you certain you want help? It was tender and compassionate. Not at all like his dad’s.

“Boy!” He heard his father stumbling down the steps “I swear to God, if you don’t get your ragged butt back here—”

Do you want my help? the voice repeated.

“Yes!”

“Boy! Where are you?”

“Yes, please . . . please, help me.”

Then do exactly as I say. The voice gave careful instructions, directing Simon through the woods, until he arrived at a small cabin. It was well kept, recently painted, but definitely showing age.

“Here?” Simon asked.

Knock on the door.

“But—”

She’s expecting you.

“But I don’t know who she is,” he whined.

The voice did not answer.

“Hello?”

There was only silence.

“Hello? Are you still here?”

Again, no answer.

He was shivering hard, puffs of steam rising from his mouth. “I don’t know who she is. I don’t know her.” But no amount of complaining drew a response. Finally, mustering all of his courage, he raised his hand and knocked on the wooden door.

A thin, older woman, with neatly brushed gray hair, opened it. “Well, hello there.”

He stood, shivering, unsure what to say.

“Dear me.” She opened the door wider. “You must be freezing.”

He hesitated, then stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around him. The only light came from a stone fireplace hissing and popping from across the room. The place smelled just a little dank, like the forest on a hot, humid day.

She’d closed the door and quickly crossed to some cabinets. “Here, let me get you a blanket. Poor thing.” She pulled one from a pile. “I can’t believe anyone would let you outside dressed like that. Please,” she motioned to the rocker by the fireplace, “come, sit. Please.”

And so began their friendship.

The woman, he called her Aunt Lily, was a student of mind control and the power of thought. He had no idea what that meant, but he was an eager and willing learner. And until her death in his mid teens, she was able to teach him much. What she couldn’t teach, the spirit guides that she introduced him to could.

“You’re sure you’re not angry?” Simon asked the strongman, as he pulled back the covers and slipped into bed. “I wasn’t trying to make you angry.”

I will repair the damage.

The words left him unsettled. “And Bill,” he asked, “you won’t harm Bill?”

On the contrary, William will soon be our ally.

Simon frowned, but before he could ask any further questions, he was given the command: Sleep.

Immediately Simon Dalton fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Glendale, California

Sunday Afternoon

JOHN LOOKED OVER TO me and asked, “You ready?”

I took a deep breath. We’d driven the 45 minutes from Santa Monica to Glendale, listening to and singing along with some worship tapes. (It should have been 30 minutes but, to this day, my navigational skills are, how shall we put it, a bit challenged.) We’d parked one block away from Simon’s house where we’d spent the last 10 minutes praying—asking for God’s wisdom, His protection and, after Simon’s recent open-heart surgery, that he’d be physically able to survive whatever happened. We also spent time confessing our sins to each other and to God. I wasn’t sure, but if we really were dealing with demons and if they really could see things normal folks couldn’t, I didn’t need the embarrassment of them pointing out any stuff hidden in my closet.

“Okay,” I took another breath. “Let’s do it.”

We opened the doors of my little Datsun (little because I’m 6’ 2” and John was 6’ 3”) and stepped out into the afternoon light. I was glad John was there. We attended his home Bible study and he and his wife, Dee Dee, were one of the first to befriend us when we moved to L.A. Several years later, Brenda and I were devastated when their entire family died with Keith Green in a private plane crash.

I don’t remember walking to Simon’s house. It had already been a long day starting with his call to me around 7:00 that morning. He’d been excited about the dream he’d had. Again, I don’t recall the details, just that it involved a lot of high-class clergy decked out in fancy robes and official garb. I also remember it had a strong anti-authority theme—stressing the importance of not trusting any Christian who held a high position in any church. Of course, I was struck by the similarity of the dream to my fears of trusting Kenn. But it was so obvious and heavy-handed that it actually helped me put more stock into Kenn’s words.

When Simon had finished, I gently broke the news to him. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I think . . . what I told you last night, I think it was wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean those weren’t angels that were appearing and talking through you.”

“Then what were they?”

“Simon, I think they were . . . demons.”

There was a moment of silence before he responded. “I don’t understand.”

But he did understand, I could tell by the tone of his voice. And he was upset. Not angry, but upset. “How can you be so certain?” he asked.

I explained my conversation with Kenn—that what was happening to Simon was not something a God of free will would do. And that the only way to deal with the situation was for John and I to come to his house and pray with him.

“But how can you be so certain?” he repeated. “You were so sure last night.”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

“So how can you be certain now?”

Again, I explained what Kenn had said and, again, he questioned me. Around and around we went. And when he grew tired of that argument, he started another.

“If Jesus is so powerful then I can call upon Him myself. I don’t need assistance from you or your friend. I’ll simply ask Jesus, myself.”

I explained that from what I understood of the Bible, it was not a solo, do-it-yourself thing. He needed others to come along beside him for support.

Again, he disagreed and, again, we argued. And after exhausting that line of reasoning, he began a third:

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“It will work, Simon. Trust me.”

“I trusted you before.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” I rubbed my forehead. “But you can trust Jesus.”

“What if He doesn’t want to help? You don’t know the terrible things I’ve done.”

“Simon, we’ve been through all this before. God’s already forgiven you. That’s what His death on the cross was about. He’s on your side. He wants to help.”

John and Dee-Dee Smalley with their twins

And so it continued as he jumped from one topic to another, only to return to the first until finally, after putting in a good two hours on the phone, I heard Simon begin to mumble, “No, no . . . don’t hurt him. Bill’s my friend. Don’t—”

Then another voice came on the line. It was the stronger, more commanding one: “William . . .”

I felt my mouth go dry.

“William, don’t you know I am from the Christ? The Christ is my Lord.”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear. Remembering that low-budget Christian film I’d seen, I chose not to argue, but focused on Christ and began praising Him.

Suddenly, the voice exploded in rage—a rage directed entirely at me. Even with the receiver away from my ear, I could hear it swearing and calling me all sorts of names. (I’ll spare the vulgarities, though I will say its favorite expletive had something to do with the legitimacy of my birth.) I felt myself growing cold. I had never experienced such hatred, let alone focused solely on me. I don’t know if this is common, but I was so frightened that the saliva in my mouth was actually foaming and turning into dry froth at the same time. But, for whatever reason, I didn’t stop. Kenn had said even if a man is possessed he still has free will. And since Simon had never said no, between my praise and worship, I kept asking if we could visit.

Other voices besides the first took turns coming to the surface—some screamed and threatened, others praised and tried to reason. But I refused to listen. I was like a little child plugging his ears and singing “La-la-la.” Only the “La-la-las” were my praises to God. Not exactly the most mature response.

Then again, maybe it was.

Whenever the voices paused, I’d ask Simon if we could visit. Several times he fought to the surface, but instead of giving me permission, he’d plead and beg the others not to hurt me. This continued for another two hours bringing the total length of the call to nearly four hours. We were both approaching exhaustion.

Again I heard Simon surface and again I said, “Simon, you’ve got to give me permission. Can we visit you? Will you give me your address?”

And then, finally, in a faint whisper, I heard, “Yes . . .”

My heart leaped. I pressed the receiver tight to my ear. “Where?” I asked. “Where do you live?”

There was no answer.

“Simon?”

Even more faintly, I heard “2234 . . .”

“2234 what? What street do you live on? Simon?”

“Ventu Lane.”

I quickly repeated, “‘2234 Ventu Lane?’”

One of the voices returned, shrieking and swearing.

“Simon,” I repeated just to make sure. “Simon, did you say 2234 Ventu Lane?”

More swearing. Then, through the screaming I heard a breathy and feeble, “Yes . . .”

I had my answer. Of his own free will, Simon had given me permission. “I’ll be right there!” I shouted and immediately hung up. Then, looking at the phone, I disconnected it from the answering machine; lest he should call back and cancel.

That had been just over an hour ago. And now, here we were—John and I standing on the sidewalk in front of the house of a man supposedly possessed with demons. I double-checked the address with the scrap of paper in my hand. It was a small place, cute, with yellow and white trim. Then, before either of us lost our courage, we started for the front porch. I arrived first and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

I was about to knock again when the door slowly opened.

And there before me stood a small, pudgy man with glasses, in his late forties. I was struck by how young he looked, compared to how old his voice had sounded.

“Bill?” he asked.

“Hi, Simon.” And then, before I could stop myself, I reached out and hugged him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because of all the time we’d spent together on the phone. Or because he had been through so much. Whatever the reason, I held him tight, feeling a real love and compassion. Though he didn’t return the embrace, he quietly endured it. Only later, after everything was finished, did he tell me that it was the hug that did it. From the moment he felt that love, he said he knew everything would work out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Glendale, California

Sunday Afternoon

JOHN AND I SAT on the small sofa in the front room. Simon was in his easy chair near the picture window.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he repeated.

“It will work,” I said.

“But what if you’re wrong? What if they really are from God?”

It was old, familiar territory—questions we’d been through a dozen times on the phone. John and I had arrived at the house just a few minutes earlier and Simon was already back to his tried-and-true Q&A’s. But remembering how we’d broken the cycle before, I said, “Okay, if you don’t mind, let’s try this. If they’re really from God, let’s just sit back and worship Him. I mean, if they’re really angels, they won’t mind, will they?”

Simon pushed up his glasses, “No . . . I suppose that would be all right.”

And so we began to pray. Nothing fancy, we just closed our eyes and started thanking God for His goodness. But no more than ten seconds had passed before Simon’s head began rolling from side to side. “No . . .” he whispered, “Please, no, no…”

“Simon?” I asked. “Are you okay?”

A low, guttural growl came from deep inside his chest as he began to squirm, then twist.

John and I traded looks and immediately crossed the room to join him. Fearing he might hurt himself, we dropped to our knees and held him down. (I suppose if we had more faith, we would have just sat comfortably on the couch, but we were definitely new to all of this.) Suddenly his eyes popped open and he glared at me with the same hatred I’d heard over the phone . . . along with the same swearing and comments on the legitimacy of my birth. His entire body began to writhe. Despite John’s and my size, it was all we could do to hold the little man down. And because of his recent heart operation I kept thinking, “Wonderful, how am I going to tell Mom and Dad I’ve been convicted of murder while casting out demons?”

The swearing grew louder and we amped up our own volume of praise. It was time. We were about to practice what we’d read in the Scriptures. I forget who was first, but either John or I shouted, and perhaps a bit too dramatically, “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, come out of him!”

Simon immediately stiffened. He threw back his head, screamed an oath, then suddenly went limp.

“Simon?” I threw a glance to John. “Simon, are you there?”

Slowly he opened his eyes. He blinked once or twice before focusing on us.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely. It was his own voice.

“What happened,” John asked. “Where did it go?”

Simon paused, as if listening, then he shook his head. “I don’t know, but he’s not here anymore.”

I relaxed a bit. This was easier than I thought. And then, with a writer’s curiosity, I asked, “What was it like? What happened?”

Simon shook his head again. “He sure hated that name.”

“You mean Jesus?” I asked.

“Not just Jesus, several people have that name. But when ‘Christ’ was added to it, everything turned chaotic.” He paused. “It felt as if I was being held down, deep inside myself. But whenever I called out Christ’s name, I was allowed to surface.” He glanced up to me. “And you two—whenever you spoke using His name, well, you saw what happened.” Again he shook his head, quietly marveling. “You have no idea who you are. No idea at all.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“They’re scared to death of you.”

It was supposed to be good news, but I’d heard something else. “They?” I slowly repeated.

Simon nodded.

“There’s more than one?”

“Yes. But you’re doing the correct thing. It is absolutely imperative that

you—” His eyes fluttered. His face twitched, then began to contort. Suddenly his entire body convulsed. Still on our knees, John and I grabbed his arms again and pinned them to the chair. The eyes exploded open. They were filled with the same rage as before. But when he spoke, it was with a different, higher voice:

“You can’t send me away,” it said. “He wants to keep me.”

“That’s not true,” I answered. “He just told us—”

“You are nothing!” The eyes shot to me and the voice sneered. “You have no authority.”

I shook my head. “You’re wrong. You saw what just happened. We have plenty of authority.”

“Liar.”

“You’re the liar.” I was getting hot under the collar. “Satan is the author of lies. That’s all you know how to do. Just last night you told me—”

John interrupted, “Bill.”

“—you were some sort of emissary.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Bill.”

“You’re such a liar. But you know what? You’re going to spend an eternity rotting and burning in—”

“Bill!”

I looked over to John.

“Don’t debate, remember? That’s what it wants, to take our eyes off Jesus.”

Simon turned toward John and hissed. “You think you’re so clever. Well, you’re nothing. You have no—”

“You take that up with Jesus Christ,” John said, “not us.”

“Do you honestly believe that—”

“You talk to Jesus, not me.”

“That’s right,” I said, having finally caught on. “Jesus is the one who gave us the authority. You take that up with Him.”

Simon spun back to me and spat in my face. He was a pretty good shot. But instead of making me angry, I broke out laughing. If this was the best he had, bring it on.

“What’s your name, demon?” John said.

Simon’s turned to him, “That’s none of your—”

“What’s your name?”

“You are so incredibly ugly.”

“What is your name?”

“You know nothing of real beauty.”

“Your name,” John repeated, “what’s your name?”

“My name . . .” Simon raised his chin slightly. “My name is . . . Vanity.”

“Then, Vanity, by the power and authority of Jesus Christ, I order you to come out of Simon.”

“He wants me. I don’t have to leave if —”

“Come out of him,” I said.

It turned back to me “You have no—”

“Now,” John ordered. “By the power and authority of Jesus Christ, we order you out of him, now.”

“You are so incredibly ugly. If you only knew—”

“Now.”

And so we continued—the thing trying to engage us in a debate, and John and I sticking to our guns—until, finally, Simon tensed, screamed, and slumped into his chair.

I sat back on my knees, catching my breath. When Simon surfaced and turned to me, I asked, “You okay?”

He nodded.

“Why was that one so much harder?”

He glanced away and shrugged.

“Is it true?” John asked. “Did you really want to keep him?”

At first Simon gave no answer, but we continued to press him until, finally, he nodded and answered a bit sheepishly, “Yes.”

“Is that it?” John asked. “Are there any more?”

“I can’t tell for certain. I think perhaps two, maybe three. They’re hiding behind each other so I can’t see.”

I nodded and began wiping the spit off my face.

Obviously embarrassed, he said, “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” I grinned. “I wash.”

“You ready to try some more?” John asked

Simon nodded, dabbed the sweat from his face, and we began.

After several minutes, another one came out—same tensing of the body, same screaming, same Simon going limp. And then another. And another. Each one taking a little longer than the last. Each one swearing, writhing, and using me for spitting target practice. After each was expelled, Simon would surface and we’d take a break to talk. That’s when he told us how the first spirit, he called it the strongman, entered him in the old lady’s cabin. And how, gradually, one by one the others joined the cluster.

“But you were just a little boy,” I said.

“It was still my choice,” he replied. “And they were true to their word, they did give me power.”

He went on to explain how, as a little boy, he’d entertain and frighten his siblings with tricks. “I remember terrifying my older sister one time when I concentrated on an egg in the frying pan and was able to separate the yolk from the white. And sometimes,” he looked down, “sometimes I did far worse things.”

I said nothing, remembering how guilty he felt during our first phone call; how he’d been so sure God could never forgive him.

“What about your parents?” John asked. “How did they handle all this?”

“My father was not at home much. And my mother, she was a devout Christian.”

“Did she know what was going on?” I asked.

He nodded. “She would warn the others to stay away from me. And when I frightened or hurt them, she took me upstairs to explain why what I did was wrong.”

“How did you respond?”

“I’d scream and threaten, often throwing a fit. But she never gave up. She was always there—instructing me, guiding me as best she knew.”

“So she was teaching you right from wrong in spite of them,” John said.

“Yes.” His voice grew softer. “And the day she died . . . it was right after my 18 birthday. She used all of her strength to come downstairs to the basement where I was stoking the furnace and she said . . .” He took an uneven breath. “She said God had spoken to her and that He had promised to answer her prayers. She said He promised that my life would be hard, but before I died, I would become a Christian.”

John and I looked on quietly.

“It took 38 years . . .” Simon swallowed and continued. “But, here we are, just as she said.”

The three of us sat in silence—each, no doubt, considering the power of a mother’s prayers. Prayers that were answered long after the grave.

I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 5:00. By our count, at least six different spirits had come out of Simon. “How many more of them do you think there are?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I’m not certain. But, please, there is no need to worry so much about my heart.”

I looked at him in surprise. “You read my mind?”

“No, that’s one thing they can’t do, at least with Christians. And one of the reasons they hate you so much. But they are experts at observing and analyzing. They look for tiny, barely discernable behavior traits to discover what you are really thinking. And . . .” he smiled gently, “they know you are concerned for my health.”

I nodded. Guilty as charged.

“But there is something else you should know as well.”

I looked on, waiting.

“In the back bedroom there are sketches. Sketches I’ve been making of you.”

I felt the hair on my neck rise. “That’s pretty freaky,” I said. “You’ve never seen me until today.”

“I know. But I knew you’d be the one to help.”

“Since last week?” I asked. “You’ve been sketching me since last week?”

He shook his head. “No. Since you were a little boy.”

CHAPTER NINE

Glendale, California

Sunday Afternoon

IT WAS DIFFICULT TO keep track, but by early evening we’d removed another two or three of the things. Each one seemed a little more difficult and took longer than the last. In every case, John would call it up to the surface in Jesus’ name and demand to know its identity. Neither of us was sure if this was necessary, but we remembered Christ doing it with the demoniac in Luke 8, so we figured it wasn’t a bad example to follow.

The oddest was the one who called itself Lust. As soon as we brought it to the surface, it started coming on to us, rubbing our hands and speaking with a lisp so affected it was almost comical. What was not comical was how it continued to remain. No matter what we said or did, it would not go.

“Oh, I’m never leaving him, handsome,” it said, doing its best to flirt with me. “He wants me. He thinks I’m love.”

I realized how sad and true that must be for so many people. And I realized something else as well. “Simon,” I said. “Let Simon come up. I want to speak to Simon.”

“Oh, Simon won’t be able to—”

“In the name of Jesus Christ, I demand to speak to Simon.”

After a moment or two of resistance, the spirit fell back and Simon surfaced, gasping and calling upon Jesus as he always did. When he was finally in control I asked, “This one is harder than all the others. Is it because you want to hang onto it like you did that vanity one?”

“No. Why would you say—”

“Simon, be honest. Is the reason this one won’t leave, is it because you want to keep it more than the others?”

He glanced away, refusing to look me in the eyes, and I had my answer. It wasn’t something John and I were doing wrong. And it wasn’t for lack of power on Jesus’ part. As before, it all had to do with what Simon wanted, what he really wanted. Just as Kenn had said, it was all about free will.

After several minutes of convincing Simon of the obvious, that love was much greater than lust, that lust was just Satan’s twisting of God’s deeper gift of intimacy, we began again. Still, Simon’s words claiming he wanted to be rid of the spirit were much different from his will, and it took nearly an hour of our ordering it to leave and of Simon’s squirming and thrashing before it was finally expelled.

By now the day was growing late and we were all exhausted. Still, keeping a precautionary hand on Simon’s arms—we’d been fooled a couple times by one or two of the spirits playing possum and then suddenly getting wild—I sat back on my heels and lowered my head onto my shirt to wipe away the sweat and spit.

That’s when the front door opened.

I looked up, startled. But not nearly as startled as the slight young man with a bag of groceries who stood in the doorway. Apparently, seeing his friend sweating and pinned down by two big men was not a normal, everyday occurrence.

“Oh, hi, Anthony,” Simon said, doing his best to sound casual.

The young man continued to stare.

Unsure what to do, but always the affable type, I smiled up at him and said, “Hi, I’m Bill.”

“And I’m John,” John said.

We would have shaken hands but we were too busy holding his friend down.

“What’s going on?” Anthony asked.

“It’s okay,” Simon answered. “These are my friends.”

For obvious reasons, Anthony had his doubts and he started toward us. Because of our differences in size (and number) he probably figured it was a suicide mission, but he was still going to defend his friend. And he would have, too. But then, the strangest thing happened. An odd expression came over his face and he slowed to a stop. I wasn’t sure what was going on and continued to sit there, looking up at him and grinning like the village idiot.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh . . .” He adjusted the bag in his hands. “I just came to drop these off.”

“Thank you,” Simon said. “That’s very thoughtful.”

He continued to stare.

I continued to smile.

“And, uh, maybe make a sandwich, if that’s okay?”

“That’ll be fine,” Simon said. “Help yourself.”

Anthony nodded. He looked at John, then at me. “Do you guys want anything?”

“We’re fine,” I said.

“But thanks,” John said.

“Well, okay then. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything or . . . anything.”

“We’ll be fine,” Simon repeated.

“But thanks,” John said.

“Thanks,” I said.

Anthony nodded and slowly turned to head into the kitchen.

When he was gone, Simon explained. “We met in New York several years ago. We are planning to open a restaurant.”

John motioned toward the kitchen. “Is he going to be okay in there?”

“He’ll be fine.”

It was several days later, over lunch, that Simon asked Anthony why he hadn’t come to his defense.

“I was going to,” Anthony said, “but then . . . well, I got this strange sensation.”

“Sensation?”

“Yes. I know this sounds weird, but . . . were those two men . . . were they angels?”

Apparently that was the reason he hadn’t attacked us. It was also why he never returned to the front room and joined us. He simply put away the groceries, made his sandwich and ate in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, he passed through the room, wished us a good evening, and left.

Although his arrival had been more than a little awkward, the timing couldn’t have been better. Again, we weren’t sure how things worked, but we figured for Anthony’s safety, and maybe our own, it was best he not be around when things got crazy. So we waited until he left. Those twenty minutes gave us the perfect opportunity to rest and catch our breath.

Once Anthony had left, and after more prayer and worship, Simon began rolling his head back and forth, again begging the spirits not to hurt me. Then he suddenly stopped, opened his eyes and we met another.

“What’s your name?” John demanded.

It looked at John and simply sneered.

“What’s your name?”

The voice was deep and authoritative, like the one I’d first heard over the phone. “My name . . . is Simon.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “What’s your real name?”

Its eyes shifted to me. “I told you, William, my name is Simon.”

I threw a look to John. This didn’t make sense.

John repeated, “What is your name? We order you to tell us your name.”

“I am the spirit of intellect. I have more intelligence than the three of you combined.”

Remembering not to argue and to put our focus on Christ, I agreed. “Yeah, probably, but you’re no match for Jesus. Now, what’s your name?”

It ignored me and continued. “I am the reason the LAPD contacts Simon to find missing bodies. I am the reason celebrities seek his counsel. Did he tell you about Katherine Hepburn?”

I was impressed, but John would not be sidetracked, “What’s your name?”

“Without me, he would be nothing.”

“What’s your name?”

“I have told you, my name is Simon.”

“You’re lying,” I said.

It turned to me and smiled. “I have been with him since the beginning. His personality is so mingled with mine that he has no idea where I begin and where he leaves off. He has no idea who he is. He cannot exist without me.”

This sounded pretty serious, though John and I had no idea if it was true. Unsure what to do, we returned to worshipping. After several minutes, Simon fought his way back to the surface.

“Is it true?” I asked. “Is this the first one, the one that you called the stronghold?”

“Yes,” Simon said, “he’s—” Suddenly he winced.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded and gasped, “He’s the one.” He took another breath, fighting to continue. “He was ducking behind the others . . . shoving them forward for protection.”

“So, it’s the last?” John asked.

“Yes.” He winced again in obvious pain. Then he surprised us with a question.

“It’s just this one. Is it possible to allow him to remain?”

John and I traded looks and fidgeted. Like I said, we were pretty tired.

Simon persisted. “Please, it is just one.”

John finally shook his head. “No. If you keep him, he could invite the others back, just like he did before.”

“No, he won’t,” Simon argued. “He promises he won’t.”

“Simon,” I said, “you can’t trust him. You know that.”

And so began another long, circular debate—Simon wanting to keep the final spirit, the one that had been his companion for over 40 years, and John and I trying to convince him he needed to be completely free. Eventually we prevailed and Simon agreed, giving us permission to continue.

But this one, this stronghold, was the most difficult of all to expel. And it took

the longest. When it wasn’t pointing out our ignorance, it was insisting that without its presence, Simon would be a mental vegetable. We refused to believe it, but Simon wasn’t so sure. As a result, the struggle lasted well beyond the first hour and dragged into a second.

And then, as we approached 9:00 p.m., the breakthrough suddenly happened. Like so many times before, we were commanding the spirit to leave and finally, finally, Simon threw back his head and screamed. It wasn’t quite like the other screams—a bit stiffer and more reserved, but it was a scream. And as it faded, Simon’s body relaxed until he eventually opened his eyes.

“Was that it?” I asked. “Are we done?”

“Yes,” Simon took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yes.”

“They’re gone?” John repeated. “All of them?”

Simon nodded. “Yes. There’s just the one in white who—” He stopped, then resumed nodding. “Yes, they have all left.”

“Are you sure?” John said.

“Yes. Every one. They are all gone. All of them.”

Too exhausted to question Simon any further, and wanting to believe him, John and I rose stiffly to our feet. With some help, Simon stood to join us. We shared hugs all around and headed to the kitchen for a snack and some water.

Before leaving, we had another round of prayer. And, even though Simon had asked Christ to take charge of his life a week ago over the phone, I asked if he’d do it again. “Just to make sure it stuck,” I said.

He humored me by agreeing, and we prayed some more.

After finishing, we promised to stay in touch. I said I’d call him the next day. I also encouraged him to find a church; if not ours, then somewhere. There was another round of hugs and finally John and I stepped outside and headed for the car.

It had been a long, long day, but we had succeeded. We were victorious. Just like Jesus’s disciples. Unfortunately, like His disciples, we didn’t always get things right . . .

CHAPTER TEN

Santa Monica, California

Monday Evening

“SO YOU’RE FEELING PRETTY good?” I asked.

“I feel wonderful,” Simon exclaimed.

“That’s terrific.” I looked across the room watching and listening to Brenda as she quietly sang. Although money was tight, we were preparing to go out for dinner. The restaurant was only a step or two above McDonald’s, but for us it was a big deal. The last couple of days had been hard and I’d promised Brenda that as soon as she got off work, we’d go out.

I directed my attention back to the phone. “So what have you been doing all day?” I asked.

“Mostly resting.”

“I hear that,” I chuckled. “We really ran you through the wringer. Are you getting a chance to read the Bible?”

“Not yet. But I am writing some more.”

I paused. “Simon—”

“No, no, this time it is in my own handwriting. I am completely awake and cognizant.”

I relaxed, but only slightly. Operating in my usual O.C.D. mode, I asked, “And it’s in your own words?”

He hesitated.

Bill and Brenda in 1976

“Simon . . . is the writing in your own words?”

His answer came softly. “No.”

I felt the joy of last night draining away.

He quickly explained, “But the topic is extremely reverent and it gives glory to the Christ.”

“But you’re telling me it’s not your own words.”

Brenda heard the tone of my voice and looked over to me. I tried to smile, but she saw through it and I watched as she wilted ever so slightly.

Simon continued, “I feel remarkably well. I have not felt this good in a very long time.”

“Simon . . .”

“As a matter of fact, I’m boarding a flight to New York in a few hours. I plan to tell all of my friends about this remarkable event and—”

I cut him off as gently as possible. “Simon . . . there’s still one left, isn’t there?” I glanced back to Brenda as she turned and walked to the kitchen.

“I’ve explained to you, everything is good.”

“But the words aren’t yours.”

“Well, no. But perhaps . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps this one really is an angel.”

“Simon.”

“He really is good. I’m certain of it.”

Unsure what to say or do, I returned to the old standby. “If that’s so, could we spend a couple minutes worshipping together?”

“I really don’t see a need—”

“Could we?”

He paused then said, “Absolutely, I see no reason why not.”

“Great. I’ll start off and you jump in whenever you want.”

He agreed and we began. But I’d barely said a word before the commanding voice, the one Simon called the strongman, surfaced. I quietly sighed. Had we worked so long and hard just to be back where we started?

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“You know who I am,” the voice said, “I am Simon.”

It made no sense. Demons are supposed to obey believers. So how could this one keep lying and dodging my command? Unfortunately, there was more.

“He spoke correctly when he told you we are going to New York,” it said. “He is mine. I am taking him to New York and you will never see us again.”

“No.” I rose to my feet and started to pace. “You can’t do that.”

“I can do anything I want. You have no authority over me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. Open your eyes, you ignorant (insert usual expletives here).”

“What’s your name?” I demanded. “By the authority of Jesus Christ, I order you to tell me your name.”

“I told you.”

“Your name. What is your name?”

“Simon. My name is Simon.”

“That’s not true. I want to speak to Simon. I order you to release Simon and let me speak to—”

“I am Simon!”

I scowled. If the Bible was true, if I had authority over this thing, then there was something else wrong. I kept pursuing. “I order you to let me speak to Simon. I command you to release Simon and let me speak to him. Now!”

Eventually Simon gasped and began whispering, “Jesus, Jesus,” as he often did when surfacing.

“Simon.” I continued to pace. “Simon, talk to me.”

The commanding voice shouted, “I AM SIMON!”

For whatever reason, Simon had slipped back under and we had to go through the whole process again—my worshipping, the strongman swearing, and Simon struggling to fight back to the surface. That’s when it dawned on me. Maybe the thing really was telling the truth. Maybe it really was obeying me and its name really was Simon. And if its name was Simon, then . . .

Another thought came to mind. “Simon!” I called. “Simon, what’s the name on your birth certificate?”

He surfaced, but only for a moment.

“What’s on your birth certificate? Do you have another name? What’s your—”

And then I heard him, a faint whisper. “Sam . . .”

“Did you say Sam?” I was practically shouting. “Did you say your name is Sam?”

“Yes . . .” His voice disappeared and was replaced by the strongman. Only this time the thing was screaming, literally shrieking and swearing, so loud Brenda could hear it across the room.

I gave my usual response—whispered praise.

“I’M HANGING UP NOW!” it shouted.

“No,” I said, feeling a surge of authority. “I forbid it.”

“YOU HAVE NO—”

“You cannot hang up.”

“I’M HANGING UP AND I’M TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK.”

“No.”

“I’M TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK AND THERE’S NOTHING—”

“No!” I shouted back. “I forbid it!”

Despite its screams and threats, the thing could not hang up—which gave me a moment to think of a plan. I’d call John and we’d race back to Simon’s (i.e. Sam’s) in hopes of getting there before he left.

The thing continued shrieking and swearing.

Then again, if I had the authority to prevent it from hanging up on me, didn’t I also have the authority to delay its leaving until we got there? I looked over to Brenda, who was pouring water into a pan and setting it on the stove to boil. And if I could delay it a little, couldn’t I delay it a lot? I watched as she pulled a box of mac and cheese down from the cupboard. Couldn’t I order it to stay at the house until I’d taken my wife out to dinner?

“YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY! I AM TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK AND YOU HAVE NO AUTH—”

“No!” I shouted.

“I AM HANGING UP!”

“In the name of Jesus Christ, I order you to shut up!”

It fell silent.

I was on a roll and continued. “Sam won’t be able to leave his house until—” I paused, and then went for broke, “until 10:30 tomorrow morning.”

“YOU HAVE NO AUTHORI—”

“Sam cannot leave his property until 10:30 tomorrow!”

“I’M HANGING UP NOW!”

“No, I forbid it!” But even as I gave the order, I remember thinking, Man, I’m tired of this. I’ve done everything I can. It really wouldn’t be so bad if he hung up now and—

And, just like that, the line went dead.

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

It was no longer there. It had hung up. I don’t know if the spirit had heard the tone in my voice or what. But it knew the words of my mouth did not line up with the convictions of my heart. Still, I wasn’t worried. Because I meant every word about it not leaving until 10:30 tomorrow morning.

And with that strange, yet absolute assurance, I unplugged the phone and turned back to Brenda. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Fixing dinner,” she said.

“I thought we were going out.”

She turned to me, about to fire off some comeback, when she saw the smile on my face . . . and the unplugged cord in my hand. Without a word she turned off the stove and crossed to the bedroom to grab her coat. We were going out for barbecued ribs, her favorite.

“Simon . . . is the writing in your own words?”

His answer came softly. “No.”

I felt the joy of last night draining away.

He quickly explained, “But the topic is extremely reverent and it gives glory to the Christ.”

“But you’re telling me it’s not your own words.”

Brenda heard the tone of my voice and looked over to me. I tried to smile, but she saw through it and I watched as she wilted ever so slightly.

Simon continued, “I feel remarkably well. I have not felt this good in a very long time.”

“Simon . . .”

“As a matter of fact, I’m boarding a flight to New York in a few hours. I plan to tell all of my friends about this remarkable event and—”

I cut him off as gently as possible. “Simon . . . there’s still one left, isn’t there?” I glanced back to Brenda as she turned and walked to the kitchen.

“I’ve explained to you, everything is good.”

“But the words aren’t yours.”

“Well, no. But perhaps . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Perhaps what?”

“Perhaps this one really is an angel.”

“Simon.”

“He really is good. I’m certain of it.”

Unsure what to say or do, I returned to the old standby. “If that’s so, could we spend a couple minutes worshipping together?”

“I really don’t see a need—”

“Could we?”

He paused then said, “Absolutely, I see no reason why not.”

“Great. I’ll start off and you jump in whenever you want.”

He agreed and we began. But I’d barely said a word before the commanding voice, the one Simon called the strongman, surfaced. I quietly sighed. Had we worked so long and hard just to be back where we started?

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“You know who I am,” the voice said, “I am Simon.”

It made no sense. Demons are supposed to obey believers. So how could this one keep lying and dodging my command? Unfortunately, there was more.

“He spoke correctly when he told you we are going to New York,” it said. “He is mine. I am taking him to New York and you will never see us again.”

“No.” I rose to my feet and started to pace. “You can’t do that.”

“I can do anything I want. You have no authority over me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. Open your eyes, you ignorant (insert usual expletives here).”

“What’s your name?” I demanded. “By the authority of Jesus Christ, I order you to tell me your name.”

“I told you.”

“Your name. What is your name?”

“Simon. My name is Simon.”

“That’s not true. I want to speak to Simon. I order you to release Simon and let me speak to—”

“I am Simon!”

I scowled. If the Bible was true, if I had authority over this thing, then there was something else wrong. I kept pursuing. “I order you to let me speak to Simon. I command you to release Simon and let me speak to him. Now!”

Eventually Simon gasped and began whispering, “Jesus, Jesus,” as he often did when surfacing.

“Simon.” I continued to pace. “Simon, talk to me.”

The commanding voice shouted, “I AM SIMON!”

For whatever reason, Simon had slipped back under and we had to go through the whole process again—my worshipping, the strongman swearing, and Simon struggling to fight back to the surface. That’s when it dawned on me. Maybe the thing really was telling the truth. Maybe it really was obeying me and its name really was Simon. And if its name was Simon, then . . .

Another thought came to mind. “Simon!” I called. “Simon, what’s the name on your birth certificate?”

He surfaced, but only for a moment.

“What’s on your birth certificate? Do you have another name? What’s your—”

And then I heard him, a faint whisper. “Sam . . .”

“Did you say Sam?” I was practically shouting. “Did you say your name is Sam?”

“Yes . . .” His voice disappeared and was replaced by the strongman. Only this time the thing was screaming, literally shrieking and swearing, so loud Brenda could hear it across the room.

I gave my usual response—whispered praise.

“I’M HANGING UP NOW!” it shouted.

“No,” I said, feeling a surge of authority. “I forbid it.”

“YOU HAVE NO—”

“You cannot hang up.”

“I’M HANGING UP AND I’M TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK.”

“No.”

“I’M TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK AND THERE’S NOTHING—”

“No!” I shouted back. “I forbid it!”

Despite its screams and threats, the thing could not hang up—which gave me a moment to think of a plan. I’d call John and we’d race back to Simon’s (i.e. Sam’s) in hopes of getting there before he left.

The thing continued shrieking and swearing.

Then again, if I had the authority to prevent it from hanging up on me, didn’t I also have the authority to delay its leaving until we got there? I looked over to Brenda, who was pouring water into a pan and setting it on the stove to boil. And if I could delay it a little, couldn’t I delay it a lot? I watched as she pulled a box of mac and cheese down from the cupboard. Couldn’t I order it to stay at the house until I’d taken my wife out to dinner?

“YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY! I AM TAKING HIM TO NEW YORK AND YOU HAVE NO AUTH—”

“No!” I shouted.

“I AM HANGING UP!”

“In the name of Jesus Christ, I order you to shut up!”

It fell silent.

I was on a roll and continued. “Sam won’t be able to leave his house until—” I paused, and then went for broke, “until 10:30 tomorrow morning.”

“YOU HAVE NO AUTHORI—”

“Sam cannot leave his property until 10:30 tomorrow!”

“I’M HANGING UP NOW!”

“No, I forbid it!” But even as I gave the order, I remember thinking, Man, I’m tired of this. I’ve done everything I can. It really wouldn’t be so bad if he hung up now and—

And, just like that, the line went dead.

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

It was no longer there. It had hung up. I don’t know if the spirit had heard the tone in my voice or what. But it knew the words of my mouth did not line up with the convictions of my heart. Still, I wasn’t worried. Because I meant every word about it not leaving until 10:30 tomorrow morning.

And with that strange, yet absolute assurance, I unplugged the phone and turned back to Brenda. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Fixing dinner,” she said.

“I thought we were going out.”

She turned to me, about to fire off some comeback, when she saw the smile on my face . . . and the unplugged cord in my hand. Without a word she turned off the stove and crossed to the bedroom to grab her coat. We were going out for barbecued ribs, her favorite.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Glendale, California

Tuesday Morning

IT WAS ABOUT 10:15 when John and I, along with Brent Rue, another pastor friend, turned the corner onto Sam’s street. Of all the drama that had happened (and was about to happen), I found these next few minutes to be the most touching and, in some ways, the most revealing of a Believer’s authority in Christ.

“There he is,” I said pointing up ahead. Sam was outside on his front lawn pacing back and forth.

Brent pulled the car up to the curb and I climbed out. “Hey there . . . Sam.”

His head jerked up from the piece of paper he was staring at. His face was filled with fear and confusion. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, trying to look calm and casual. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I wanted to ease his concerns as much as possible. “So, man,” I said, “what’s happening?”

He blinked and pushed up his glasses. But instead of answering like Sam, or the spirit that called itself Simon, he spoke in a little boy’s voice. “Who . . . who are you?”

Oh brother, I thought, now what? “I’m Bill,” I said, easing up beside him.

He frowned as if he didn’t recognize my name.

“I’m your friend. Remember? You and I, we talk all the time on the phone. I visited you Sunday, remember?”

He turned away and looked down at the street’s sidewalk in front of us. I watched as he raised his foot and tried to step onto the concrete. But for some reason he couldn’t. It was as if an invisible wall blocked him. He tried again, but with the same results—he would raise his foot, move it forward, then stop before it crossed over to the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He looked down at the paper in his hands and gripped it more tightly.

“What do you have there?”

He answered in the little boy’s voice. “I’m supposed to—” he looked back to me, “I’m supposed to wait for this person.”

I craned my neck to read the paper. My name and phone number were scribbled on it. “Oh, that’s me,” I said.

He squinted at the paper, then shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Sure,” I said. “That’s my name and number.”

“No.” Again, he shook his head. “Simon says you’re not him.”

“Sure I am.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet. I flipped it open to show him my driver’s license. “See? That’s me, right there.”

He stared at my photo. Then he looked up at me and stepped back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Simon says you’re going to hurt me.”

“Me? No way.” I was clueless who I was talking to—Simon, pretending to be someone else? Another demon? The real Sam who had never matured beyond seven? I had no idea. But Sam was obviously frightened and I knew I could at least deal with that. “We’re friends,” I said. “Why would I want to hurt my friend?” I reached out to give him a little hug, but he pulled away.

“He says you’ll hurt me.”

“That’s not true. I love you. And so does Jesus.”

“But Simon says—”

“Simon’s wrong. He’s not telling you the truth. He hates you. But Jesus, He loves you. And so do I, Sam. I want to help.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Simon loves me. But . . .” He hesitated.

“But what?”

“But I’m supposed to do what you say. I’m supposed to do what you tell me.”

I glanced over to John and Brent who had climbed out of the car and stood nearby. “Okay, then. Why don’t we all go into your house?”

He turned toward the house but suddenly stiffened. “No.”

“No?”

“Somebody’s going to come and they’ll stop you.” He turned back to the sidewalk, once again trying to step onto it and once again failing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I can’t leave. It’s not time to leave.”

Suddenly, things made sense. Well, at least a little. “Yes, you can,” I said. “You can leave if I say you can. Would you like to leave? Would you like to go with me now?”

He looked up into my face, then down to the wallet in my hands. I reopened it. “Would you like to see my picture again?”

He nodded and reached for it. To be honest, I was nervous about letting him have it. I didn’t want him to see my address and know where I lived. But he was so lost and so frightened and the license seemed to be the only thing that gave him comfort, so I handed it over to him.

He took it and stared at the photo.

“Would you like to come with me?” I repeated.

He looked back to my face, then the license, comparing the two. Finally, he nodded.

“Okay then,” I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s go someplace, together.”

He effortlessly stepped off his lawn and onto the sidewalk. He looked down, amazed, as we continued walking to the car.

Brent suggested we go to the church offices and that sounded fine with me. I sat in the back with Sam. The poor man practically trembled in fear and for the entire drive he clung to my license and stared at it.

I kept patting his arm. “See,” I said, “that’s me. Everything will be okay. I promise. Everything will be all right.”

We arrived at the offices on Ventura Boulevard in Sherman Oaks. It wasn’t until we climbed out of the car and started across the parking lot that an older, more familiar voice surfaced.

“This is what he’ll be like without me.” It was Simon, the strongman.

Well, I thought, at least we’re back into familiar territory.

“He is a child. He is incapable of doing anything on his own.” The voice continued as we entered the building and headed upstairs to the second story offices. “I have performed everything for him since I first took possession. He will be helpless without me. He will be an invalid. He will be—“

“Stop it,” I finally said. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I order you to be quiet.”

For the next few moments we had blessed silence. At least until we entered the offices.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sherman Oaks, California

Tuesday Afternoon

THE NEXT EIGHT HOURS were tough as we discovered there were even more spirits. In many ways it was the same ol’, same ol’—demons ducking and hiding, pretending to be gone when they weren’t, and when Sam (the adult version) finally surfaced, we spent much of our time convincing him he had to be willing to let all of them go, including Simon.

“But if he leaves, I won’t know anything,” Sam kept arguing. “I am unable to function without him.”

I had no idea if this was true or not. Actually, I was growing less and less certain about everything . . . except the love I felt for Sam and the power we had in Jesus Christ. Still, I sensed in my gut that Simon was lying to us, and each time I managed to convince Sam to continue.

Although the drill was pretty much the same, as we called up and cast out another three or four spirits, there were a few interesting highlights; some even comical. My favorite was how Kenn Gulliksen, who was next door on the phone, had to keep covering the receiver to block out all the screaming and swearing.

Then there was our friend and soon-to-be recording artist, Keith Green, who stopped by for a while to help. Being the outspoken type who liked a good fight, Keith particularly enjoyed it when Simon came to the surface. He’d get right into Simon’s face and taunt him, telling him how hot hell was and that he’d soon be roasting there. I suggested maybe his approach wasn’t all that helpful, but Keith was Keith. And although the words were true, his gloating did come with a price. More than once, he was kicked across the room and loudly crashed into the metal filing cabinets on the other side. And Keith’s response? As I said, Keith was Keith. He’d jump up, get back into Simon’s face and with the greatest joy start taunting him all over again.

I suppose it’s time to admit I also had a few secret moments of joy. Whenever I grew tired or one of the spirits became particularly nasty, I’d start us up in a worship song . . . just for spite. The pain it inflicted was—well, let’s just say payback can be fun.

Then I discovered another little pleasure . . .

It was about 3:00. We’d been going at it nearly four hours with only a few successes. We had tried everything—worship, giving commands, checking to make sure Sam was in agreement, and prayer—lots of prayer. But the fact of the matter is, we’d run out of material. After all those hours, it felt as if we were simply repeating ourselves. Everyone was growing frustrated and exhausted. And then, for reasons I’ll never fully understand, I began to recite the Lord’s Prayer.

That’s when Simon went ballistic. It was as if we poured acid on him, the way he writhed and cursed and screamed. At first we thought it was the prayer itself. But still having that writer’s curiosity, I did a little experiment and recited some other passage from the Bible. The results were just as dramatic. Only later did we recall how among all the weapons listed for battle in Ephesians 6, there was only one given to us for offense:

“The sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God.”

We remembered how, when Jesus was tempted by Satan in the wilderness, the Lord fought back with only one thing: the Word of God. Interesting that He did not use guns, or rockets, or go nuclear. Instead, the Creator of the universe fought the most evil force in the universe with what they both considered to be the most powerful weapon in the universe: God’s Holy Word. The same Word that Hebrews says is, “Sharper than any double-edged sword.”

Finding this new weapon in our arsenal renewed our energy. We read from all sorts of places in the Bible—though, for the record, Psalm 121 was our Scripture of choice. And whenever one of the spirits irritated me or I just wanted to spice things up a bit, I’d open the Bible and read.

Was I being immature? Probably. Was it fun? Definitely. I even enjoyed it when Simon surfaced, looked me straight in the eyes and snarled, “You (insert usual expletives here) are the one responsible for all of this. I will kill you.” But instead of my first response, which had been foaming, dry-mouthed fear, I actually looked upon the hatred as a compliment. And to show my appreciation, I simply flipped to another section of Scripture and began to read. Granted, there was more than the usual amount of spit flying, and when Simon managed to free a leg, I received a powerful kick to the gut, but the satisfaction it provided was well worth the price of admission.

The only time I felt uneasy was when John’s wife, Dee Dee, swung by the office with their twin boys. They couldn’t have been much over a year to eighteen months old at the time. I remember hearing their little voices in the hallway. And I remember the sudden look of interest filling Simon’s eyes. That’s when I excused myself, stepped into the hallway and suggested Dee Dee take the boys home. She understood and left.

The day wore on. Besides Keith, a few other church members stopped by to help for a while. One of the men was Larry Myers, another pastor who would later be instrumental, with others, in leading Bob Dylan to the Lord. I recently had lunch with Larry and asked what he remembered most about that day.

“I was counseling someone next door and heard all sorts of shouting and swearing coming from the adjacent office. When I opened the door, I saw this little, chubby man writhing in a chair as you big guys were trying to hold him down. Everyone was hanging onto an arm or a leg and, despite your size, you guys could barely restrain him. I offered to relieve one of you so you could take a break, and when I grabbed a leg I was amazed. It was all I could do just to hold it in place.”

As with the earlier encounter, I’m sure we made lots of mistakes. To this day I don’t know why we thought it was so important to know each spirit’s name. And I still think that if we had enough faith, we might not have had to hold him down. But we kept muddling forward and, slowly but surely, made progress.

Nevertheless, as 6:00 rolled around, I was beat—both emotionally and physically.

“I’ve got to take a break,” I said. “I’ll be back, but I’ve got to—”

Suddenly Sam surfaced and cried out, “No! Don’t leave me, Bill. Don’t leave!”

“It’ll be just a little while,” I said. “I’ll be back, I promise.”

“No! I need you. Please don’t leave! Don’t leave me, please!”

The desperation in his voice hurt my heart, but I had nothing left to give. I knew I had to find time to recharge. “I’m sorry,” I said as I started for the door. “I’ll be back in a little bit, I promise.”

“No!”

“Just a little bit.”

I reached for the door when he suddenly shouted, “Alexander! There’s another one! His name is Alexander!”

I turned back to him.

“He’s Simon’s strategist! His name is Alexander!”

John immediately took authority, brought Alexander up, and had him out in less than a minute.

“See,” I said, as Sam returned to the surface. “You don’t need me. These guys can do the same thing.”

But he kept begging. “No, it’s you, it’s you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’ve got to—”

Suddenly, another voice cried out—the little boy I’d spoken to earlier that morning. “Let me stay,” it pleaded. “Please, I’m not hurting anyone. Please, don’t send me to the Pit. You don’t know what it’s like! It’s terrible! You have no idea!”

John and I exchanged looks. This was definitely not something Sam would say if he were a little boy. It had to be another spirit.

“What’s your name, demon?” John demanded.

“Please, you don’t know what it’s like in that place.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Persian Boy. I was with Alexander when—”

“Come out of him!” John commanded. “In the name of Jesus Christ, I order—”

But before John had even finished, the little voice screamed and was gone.

“There’s only one left!” Sam gasped as he fought back to the surface. “There’s only Simon. He’s the only—”

“Shut up, Samuel!” the other voice shouted.

But Sam would not be silenced. He went under only for a second before he was back up and yelling, “He has no one to hide behind! He’s all by himself. He’s—”

“SHUT UP!” Simon turned to me and screamed. “I’m going to kill him! I’m going to throw him out of that window and kill him!”

Could we have stopped him with a simple verbal command? Probably. But no one was taking chances. I quickly joined John, Brent, and whoever else was in the room, and we held him tight, praying, worshipping, giving commands as Sam kept fighting back to the surface and shouting, “He’s the only one left! He’s the only one!”

“SHUT UP! I WILL KILL—”

“He’s the only one left! He’s—”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT—”

And suddenly, amidst the screaming and fighting and praying, Sam’s body collapsed upon itself. He went completely limp.

We all stopped praying. The room became strangely quiet and still.

“What . . . happened?” I asked.

“Sam?” John said. “Sam, can you hear me?”

“Is he alive?” I asked. “Check his breathing, see if he’s still alive.”

John put his hand on Sam’s chest. “Yeah, he’s breathing. But his heart’s going a mile a minute.”

I’d turned to Brent. His face was filled with wonder and amazement.

“What’s wrong? I asked.

John turned to him. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

“I just saw . . .” Brent took a breath. “I just saw Jesus.”

“You what?” I said.

“It was only a second but, yeah, I saw Jesus.”

“What’d He do? Did He say anything?”

“No, He just . . . stood here. And He just . . . when Simon was doing all the screaming, He just . . . glanced at him.”

“And?”

“And then Simon left.”

“Just like that?” John asked.

Brent nodded. “Yeah. Jesus just gave him this glance, and the thing split. He left so fast he didn’t even have time to scream.”

We all fell silent. Was that it, then? Were we finished? No special effects? No big climax? Not even an eerie, fading scream?

Apparently so. Apparently it had nothing to do with our shouting, or its screaming, or any other type of dramatics. Instead it had everything to do with Jesus simply showing up and exercising His authority. We were amazed. Awestruck.

I don’t remember much after that. Just us sitting in quiet wonder at the power that had been displayed with so little effort. A simple glance. That was all it took. For the briefest moment, the glory of Christ had shown up, and suddenly, everything was made right. Sam had resurfaced and we rested a bit, sharing some soft drinks and discussing what had happened. Eventually arrangements were made to take him home. As I said, I don’t remember the details. Just that for the briefest second the presence of God had appeared and suddenly all darkness was gone.

EPILOGUE

“BILL, DO YOU KNOW what it’s like to feel the wind on your face?”

I glanced at my watch, fearing I was entering into another one of Sam’s marathon calls. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “We live near the beach, so the wind’s always—”

“No, no. I mean to actually experience it.”

“Sure. We feel it all the—”

“No, I mean to really feel it.”

I sighed quietly and sat back in my chair. “No, tell me, Sam, what does it feel like?”

So began another one of our long conversations. Sometimes we’d talk over the phone, sometimes over a meal. A couple times Brenda and I visited him or picked him up and brought him over to the apartment.

“And insects. Bill, have you ever stopped to look at insects? I mean really look at them? What remarkable creatures!”

Talking to Sam was like talking to someone who’d just stepped out of years of solitary confinement. It was as if for the first time in 40 years, he was able to see and touch and experience the life all around him. When he wasn’t marveling over the beauty of creation, he was marveling over the love of its Creator. And he couldn’t wait to tell everybody he knew.

One evening we were eating dinner at Jerri’s Famous Deli. I was just about to dig into my favorite, their ultra-thick pastrami on rye, when he said, “I spoke with the students taking my extension class on mind control last night.”

“What did you say?” I asked, biting into the sandwich.

“I explained that much of what I had taught them was wrong.”

I nodded, continuing to chew.

“I told them it was a Satanic trick that demons use to try and control people.”

“How’d that go?” I mused

“A lot better than when I told them it was imperative they each receive Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Savior.”

I coughed, nearly choking on my sandwich.

“And next week I will be appearing on the local psychic show.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I’m their favorite guest. I can hardly wait to start telling them everything I’ve learned about Jesus Christ.”

I nodded, silently wondering if he’d ever be invited back. Then as tactfully as possible, I said, “You know, Sam. You might want to take things just a little slower.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, let people warm up to you a little first.”

“Why?”

“So they don’t think you’re like, you know, some crazy person or something.”

“I disagree.” He frowned then shook his head. “I strongly disagree.”

“How so?”

“If some one is drowning, why does he need to “warm up” to the person throwing him a life preserver?”

I started to answer, but was too slow.

“Actually, in my opinion, you are being far too timid.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What you have to tell people is the most important truth in the world.”

“Right . . .”

“So why don’t you tell them?”

“I try.”

“Not enough. You pussyfoot around, exclaiming how ‘cool’ and ‘groovy’ Jesus is.”

“Well?”

“Well, He’s far more than that.”

“I understand, but you have to work up to it. You have to gain a person’s trust so they don’t think you’re just using them to earn Brownie Points with God.”

“Using them?” His voice grew louder. “How is saving somebody’s soul from the fiery pit of hell using them?”

I glanced self-consciously at those sitting nearby. When I looked back, Sam was shaking his head. I took another bite of the sandwich, though it wasn’t quite as tasty as I remembered.

He spoke again, this time his voice a little softer and perhaps just a little sad. “You simply have no idea who you are, do you?”

“You’ve said that before. What’s that supposed to mean?”

He gave his head another shake and quietly repeated, “You have no idea.”

Several days later, we had another discussion. It was outdoors. I’m not certain, but it might have been on the beach during one of our Sunday services. (Back then you could tell the depth of someone’s commitment by the amount of sand in their Bible.)

“I haven’t had the chance to tell you what happened yesterday,” he said. “I was visiting a friend, a demon-possessed friend and—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “You visited a demoniac . . . by yourself?”

“Of course.”

I frowned. “You should have had one of us go with you. You should have called me so I could have at least been praying. What happened?”

“Actually, it was fairly anticlimactic.”

“Anticlimactic?”

He nodded. “I simply called the demons to the surface and said, ‘I know who you are and what you want, and in the name of Jesus Christ, come out of him.’”

“And?”

He shrugged. “And they came out. It took 15 minutes.” Seeing my jaw slack, he replied, “Honestly, I don’t know why you make such a big production over it.”

And that’s how it was with Sam. He would state the facts—creation’s beauty, the need to share Jesus, our authority in Christ. Then I would gussy those facts up with something deeply theological and complicated, to which he would disagree and simply restate the obvious in simple, childlike terms. Actually, it was kind of refreshing . . . when it wasn’t humiliating.

As the weeks continued, we began to drift apart. There were lots of reasons —our differences in age, education, social status. Eventually, Brenda and I moved to help in a halfway house just off Hollywood Boulevard. Not long after that, I received my first writing/directing job on a film back in Indiana. I suppose if I have any regrets over all that had happened, it would be those months that followed—how we’d become too busy to remain friends; how we let life get in the way.

And with that regret comes a concern. From what I’ve read about people who have undergone a legitimate deliverance, the first year or two are the most critical. This is the time when the spirits often come back, pleading, cajoling, doing whatever they can to try and reenter their host. Oftentimes they attempt to convince them that they’d never left in the first place and that it’s hopeless to try and be free of them. If the person is connected to a group of Believers and is prepared for the onslaught of lies, he or she is usually able to withstand the assault. If not, they can give in, allowing the original spirits to return along with others until, as Jesus said in Matthew 12, “Their final condition will be worse than the first.”

Was Sam ever subjected to these doubts and attacks? I see no reason to believe why he wasn’t. Was I there to stand beside him? No. Did I make sure he was connected to a local body of Believers? No. And that’s the bittersweet ending to this story. I’ll never know how he fared. Of course, I’ve tried to reconnect with him, but with no success. And now, after all these years, he’s most likely gone home to be with the Lord, so I’ll never know.

But I do know this: The power we had in Jesus Christ was astonishing. Despite our youth, our ignorance, and our mistakes, we had and still have amazing authority.

I’m often reminded of Sam’s comment: “You just don’t know who you are.” And over the years I’ve seen that truth again and again. The devil’s greatest feat is not spreading his darkness throughout the world. His greatest feat is keeping the Believer’s identity in Christ a secret . . . especially from ourselves. His greatest accomplishment is convincing us to believe his accusations that we are weak, wretched sinners, just lucky to be saved—instead of trusting that Christ fully paid for all of our failures on the cross. Over and over I’ve seen ourselves paralyzed by the accuser’s voice, tied up by our own inadequacies, believing that Christ’s sacrifice just wasn’t good enough. It’s time to get over ourselves, to get on the other side of the cross and start kicking butt, so that we might obliterate the enemy’s darkness in whatever form it may take.

Reader friends say they see how this encounter has influenced my fiction. I suppose to some extent that’s true, particularly when I write about the supernatural. But I hope what’s even more true is that they catch glimpses of what I witnessed regarding the overwhelming love of Jesus Christ. And the power He’s given to those who trust Him. Power to love. Power to destroy the works of the enemy. And power to set the captives free.

Note from the Author

This is the second of what I hope to be a series of true accounts I’m writing on God’s supernatural encounters in modern day lives. If you have a true story or know of a story that can be vetted for accuracy that deals with God and the miraculous, please drop me a line. My website is: www.billmyers.com

Thanks!

Bill

Bill Myers Bio

Bill Myers is a best selling author whose books and videos have sold over 8 million copies. His work has won over 60 national and international awards including the C.S. Lewis Honors Award. His children’s books include the series McGee and Me, My Life as…, and the supernatural teen series, Forbidden Doors. He’s published over a dozen adult novels including, The Face of God, Eli, The God Hater, and The Fire of Heaven Trilogy—Blood of Heaven, Threshold, Fire of Heaven. He is also an award winning film director and producer. For a complete list and samples of his work go to www.billmyers.com or check out his Facebook site at www.facebook.com/billmyersauthor

Electronic Edition Copyright © 2012 by Bill Myers

First eBook Edition: 2012

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Published in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Praise for Bill Myers

Other Books by Bill Myers

Dedication

Quote from Jesus Christ

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

Epilogue

Note from the Author

Bill Myers Bio

Copyright Information

Table of Contents

Praise for Bill Myers

Other Books by Bill Myers

Dedication

Quote from Jesus Christ

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

Epilogue

Note from the Author

Bill Myers Bio

Copyright Information