“And they never will figure them out because NDEs are of a spiritual nature. And spirituality defies scientific knowledge,” Maddix said.
“You do have a point there,” Triplett agreed. “I’m curious, Andrew, before your near-death experience, were you a religious person? Did you spend much time thinking of God and spiritual issues?”
Maddix smirked and shook his head. “You can ask any of the guys in SEAL team 8. I was a hard-drinking, skirt-chasing frogman. I never had any use for God or the Bible.”
“But now you do?”
Maddix nodded his head. My out-of-body NDE has affected me on a visceral level. It forced me to rethink my religious beliefs and to make some lifestyle changes.”
“Now you’re a strictly business Navy SEAL, a frogman in touch with his spirituality.”
Maddix looked down at his prosthetic leg. He shook his head sadly. “I’m not a SEAL anymore. The PEB declared me unfit for military duty,” he said softly. “I just wish they would’ve held off making their decision a little longer. I went for my first run early this morning. I almost made it a mile. And my prosthetic hasn’t affected my swimming at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear about the Physical Evaluation Board’s decision. But I’m not surprised about their recommendation to retire you from the military. Even though you have made amazing progress, they’ll always err on the side of caution.”
Maddix frowned. “The government has spent a lot of money on my training. And now they’re going to cut me loose just like that? I could be an instructor, if nothing else.”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. America is not as safe without you defending our interests. I mean that.”
Maddix manipulated his prosthetic leg, bending it back and forth with little effort. “The Navy says I’m disabled. But I don’t feel disabled.”
Triplett smiled. “You’ll do just fine in your civilian life with an attitude like that. I know you will.” Triplett reached into the pocket of his medical smock. “Before you go I have something to give you.” He retrieved a small pill bottled and tossed it to Maddix.
“What is this?”
“Medicine for PTSD,” Triplett answered.
“But I don’t have any of the symptoms, sir. I’m not depressed. I’m not dreaming of my accident, and it doesn’t bother me to talk about it. And I haven’t had any flashbacks.”
“You may yet. Post-traumatic stress disorder is sometimes delayed and doesn’t start until many months after the initial trauma. So keep these pills handy. But don’t tell anybody you got them from me. This drug hasn’t been approved yet by the FDA,” Triplett explained. “So far it has outperformed lorazepam and phenelazine in clinical trials.”
Maddix shoved the pill bottle into the front pocket of his athletic pants. “Thanks, I guess,” he said as he rose to his six-foot-two height. “Is that it? Am I done?”
Triplett looked at a clock on the wall. He stood and extended a hand for Maddix to shake. “Yes, you’re done with me, Andrew. But if you ever need to talk, look me up. My contact number will be on your discharge papers. Don’t be shy.”
Maddix released the psychiatrist’s hand and smiled. “I’ll keep you in mind in case I go completely nuts.”
“Have you given much thought to what you’re going to do in your civilian life?”
Maddix nodded. “I’m thinking about enrolling in a seminary. If the hell I saw truly exists, I have to warn people about it,” he said right before raising his right hand up to his brow.
Major Triplett returned the crisp salute and watched Maddix limp out the door. I hope America treats you well, Petty Officer Maddix. You deserve it after the hell you’ve been through.
Chapter 2
Four years later
Like most mornings in Felicity, Utah, the sun rose bright and hot. The brilliant orb inched its way higher into a cloudless sky as blue as ripened blueberries and promised to bake the dusty resort town with unrelenting desert heat.
Andrew Maddix left his modest apartment above the town’s drugstore and began his morning run. His ritual always took him to Zion Baptist Church located near the town’s east end. The small church was a tick over a mile from his apartment, and Maddix usually covered the distance in five minutes.
Everywhere he went he ran. He wanted to retain as long as possible the rock-hard body he’d developed during his stint in the Navy SEALS. It wasn’t easy. The bi-monthly potluck dinners his congregation put on made it hard not to pack on flab. But his determination couldn’t be extinguished, and so far the running regimen was working. He only wished he could find a place to swim. He longed for the daily four-mile ocean swims he used to partake in while in the SEALS.
Maddix ran swiftly along the shoulder of Highway 9 and directly into the sun. Dressed in athletic pants and shoes, Body Armor shirt, and Ray-Ban sunglasses, he looked nothing like a pastor. But then he had always bucked the trend. Things were no different now, even though he’d recently turned thirty-two.
Maddix settled into a consistent stride. His arms pumped evenly at his sides, and he hardly noticed the rhythmic impact of his feet impacting the ground. Today’s run was turning out to be one of the better ones of the week. He felt strong, could feel the runner’s high approaching.
Nearing the half-mile point, Maddix glanced at his watch. Two-minutes and twenty-one seconds had elapsed. If he kept this pace up he would shatter his pre-injury personal best for the mile run.
Sweat filmed on his body, cooling him from the sunbeams flooding the sky. He could see the church now—a humble yet quaint structure with a steeple and a few stained glass windows. Surrounded by enormous cottonwoods, the church looked innocuous enough on the outside, but a dysfunctional mess churned inside. The small congregation was at odds with most everything he did. The pews were too hard, the music too loud and his sermons too long. And on and on it went.
Two months on the job and he sensed that most of the members despised him. They didn’t like his take-charge demeanor and pointed sermons. Almost every day he got a letter or call from a disgruntled member, chastising him for the way he led the church. Their judgmental eyes disapproved everything he did.
His professors at Dallas Theological Seminary warned him about taking on a small church reeling from a catastrophic split. But like a fool, he didn’t heed their sage advice. Now he had serious doubts as to whether he was the right man for the job. Discord bled so freely that he didn’t know if the flow could ever be staunched. Like a plate of broken glass, disharmony fractured the church into a thousand pieces.
But more sinister than backbiting conversations and a clash of wills was something that a degree in divinity hadn’t prepared him for.
Paranormal activity haunted the church.
The occurrences were too plentiful to explain away as coincidences, and happened to trustworthy people he knew would never fabricate such disturbing events.
The bedevilments ranged from deacons shoved down flights of stairs by invisible attackers, to the church pianist being struck in the face by a flying hymnal. Even Maddix himself had a run-in with a poltergeist. Two weeks ago he had been in his office, working late on a sermon outline. After finishing he had walked back through the sanctuary and happened to look back toward the pulpit. That’s when he saw the heavy wooden cross over the baptistery hanging upside down.
He had personally locked all the doors before retiring to his office that night, and had heard no unusual sounds that could be associated with vandals. The cross was constructed of burr oak and would take a couple of lumberjacks to heft it into a different position. But in his opinion, the cross had been moved into its blasphemous position by something lacking human hands.