Novelist Mike Duran joins us for a two-part conversation to share the stories and themes of his new nonfiction work about Christians-exploring-horror, Christian Horror.

ESB: Mike, thanks for joining us. You’ve written supernatural/paranormal/fantastical novels, such as The Ghost Box and The Telling, as well as shared prolific thoughts at MikeDuran.com. What led to you branching out into this nonfiction book, and why explore the topic of horror?

Mike: Well, it’s an idea that’s been fermenting for a while.

Back in 2007, I attended a Christian writer’s conference in nearby Orange County, California. Dave Long, who at the time was an acquisition editor for Bethany House, hosted a workshop on the state of the Christian fiction market. He mentioned T.L. Hines’ then-newly released novel Waking Lazarus. The story is about a man who dies, is resuscitated multiple times, and as a result, discovers he possesses clairvoyant-like powers.

During his lecture, Long referenced Hines’ novel as horror, with this caveat: “Christians don’t like the word ‘horror,’ so the book is labeled as Supernatural Suspense.” It got me thinking about why the term was so oft-putting for evangelical readers and publishers, especially when so many horror tropes are rooted in a biblical worldview.

Over the years, observing the Christian market and interacting with writer fans and friends has reinforced the tenuous relationship between evangelicals and the horror genre.

Much of it relates to the branding of contemporary Christian fiction. Horror is a tough fit in a market where “safe,” “inspirational,” and “family-friendly” have become monikers for our brand. But I also discovered something more troubling: a lack of compelling arguments for the incompatibility of a biblical worldview and the horror genre.

I wrote Christian Horror with the idea of building a case for evangelicals reassessing the genre while attempting to answer some of the most common objections.

ESB: For my part, I’m not a horror-genre “buff.” I don’t care for films about zombies, demon possessions, or poor folks chained in prisons and forced to play games. But I know this book is necessary because other stories include horror images; also, horror is so prevalent in our culture. What could you say to Christians who are open to fantasy but recoil from “horror”?

Mike: In a way, people should recoil from horror. I mean, the genre often aims to stir visceral and powerful emotions. Frankly, I’d be more concerned about someone who delights in the dark and horrific than someone who is repelled by it.

To those who are open to fantasy but reject horror, I would point out that some fellow Christians also reject fantasy as a viable genre for believers. Ironically, they do so by making similar objections as the ones used against horror — “Scripture condemns the occult, magic, sorcery, witchcraft, etc.” So Christians who enjoy fantasy are often forced to develop their own apologetic to justify their enjoyment of the genre.

In both cases, what we’re dealing with is a certain approach to art and culture. The lines are just drawn differently per group.

I’ve discovered that in many cases what people are repulsed by is a caricature of the genre, not what actually comprises the entire genre. For example, when they think of horror they immediately think of slashers, gore, or torture porn. But these represent a fairly small segment of the canon of horror.

For those who reject horror simply on the basis of gore, it’s helpful to point out “classic” novels like The Picture of Dorian Grey, Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde, I Am Legend, or Something Wicked This Way Comes which contain little graphic content.

Likewise, there’s plenty of contemporary horror films that veer away from excessive blood and guts. Films like Signs, Rear Window, Misery, or even the Blair Witch Project contain minimal to no gore. Point being, it’s unfair to lump all horror into the category of “gore.”

ESB: What horror-genre stories — films, novels, television — have captivated you? Why might these interest you more than other genres popular with Christians, especially fantasy?

Mike: I’m a fantasy fan, so I’d have a hard time favoring one genre over the other.

In reality, horror elements occur in many fantasy novels and films. Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings trilogy contains many horrific images: the Ring Wraiths, the Dead Army, and Saruman (portrayed fittingly by horror film veteran Christopher Lee), just to name a few.

As a kid, I was weaned on The Twilight Zone and Ray Bradbury, both which regularly veered into the horror genre. Perhaps what fascinated me — and continues to fascinate me — is the way so much horror assumes a real spiritual dimension and explores the realm of the supernatural. Sure, some of those ventures are anything but orthodoxy. Nevertheless, in many horror tales there is an assumption that we live in a supernatural universe, one filled with bizarre phenomena and non-human beings. This jibes with Scripture.

Horror may be the one genre that regularly emphasizes a supernatural, non-materialistic view of the world. Hell, heaven, the afterlife, demons, sin and divine judgment are recurrent themes in the horror genre. Coincidentally, they are all tethered to a biblical worldview.

To be continued Friday, June 5. You can read a preview of Christian Horror or purchase the book on Amazon.

Marvel’s Daredevil series on Netflix quickly gained a reputation of being dark, brooding, and not your usual Marvel Cinematic Universe story. You might expect this series review to explore the story’s themes of confronting evil, but not with the added themes of conquering evil and maintaining one’s idealism. But I’ll argue that Daredevil explores all of these themes as an integral part of the plot.

The series is about idealistic young lawyers Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson. The two want to help their neighborhood — a New York City section informally called “Hell’s Kitchen” — by using their knowledge of the law to aid the residents. It should be noted that Hell’s Kitchen seems to have changed, just as the sections would in real life, but its current state is almost as bad as it was in the original comics many years ago. This is explained in-universe by the Chitauri invasion that occurred during The Avengers film.¹

After the invasion, the people of Hell’s Kitchen are trying to rebuild. But the constant corruption controlled by the criminal elements of the city makes this difficult. To combat this, Matt Murdock decides to fight crime on his own, outside the law, in a vigilante disguise. At first he makes some progress in his efforts to clean up the city. Then he bumps into a massive wall.

A shadowy force is manipulating the neighborhood’s underworld, and until he finds a way to stop them, all of his efforts are in vain. The main person controlling these elements is ruthless crime lord Wilson Fisk.²

Speak of the Devil

Newcomers to Daredevil will quickly discover that Matt is blind. So how can he fight crime? The story soon reveals the cause and nature of his blindness and other senses. As a boy, Matt saved an elderly man from an oncoming truck and was doused by chemicals all over his face and eyes — chemicals that stole his sight but increased his other senses. His new abilities allow him to “see” a vague picture that, by itself, leaves him at a disadvantage to others. But Matt can also use his other heightened senses that give him a vast sensory advantage over normal people. He uses these abilities to fight for justice — both in the courtroom as lawyer Matt Murdock, and on the streets as the vigilant who soon becomes known as The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

As Matt struggles more and more with his desperation to stop the increasingly triumphant Fisk, he considers violating his morals and murdering Fisk. This is a real struggle for him, and he almost makes a grave mistake.

In the midst of this, he consults at times with a priest (Matt is a lifelong Catholic) with whom he speaks about the nature of evil. It turns out the priest, Father Lantom, has already figured out that Matt is “the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen” or “the man in the mask,” among other names.

Father Lantom discusses with Matt his own past skepticism and theological liberalism — and when Matt quietly snarks about how Lantom doesn’t sound “very Catholic,” the priest has the good grace to admit the strangeness of his past beliefs.

Lantom then goes into a philosophical examination of the origins of the Devil and discusses how in the past, he didn’t believe such a malevolent being existed. Interestingly, he doesn’t use typical arguments, but historical ones about the development of the figure from the Bible. Originally, the Devil was just an “adversary.” He wasn’t known as one mythic figure of evil.

(Of course, Lantom is right. You see, just as with resurrection, the truth of the Devil wasn’t known to the ancient Hebrews. Therefore, the Old Testament Jews recognized him wrongly before the prophets and the revelations of the New Testament showed his true nature and history.)

But when Matt begins to assume Father Lantom doesn’t believe in the existence of the Devil, the tells a story about when he worked with poor people in Rwanda. He once saw a good man whom no one, not even enemy soldiers, wanted to kill. For hours an enemy commander spoke to the good man to learn about the one whom even his own soldiers refused to kill, or asked to kill more mercifully than the warlord wanted. After this talk, the commander brutally murdered the man and his family. When that happened, Father Lantom says, “I saw the Devil. So yes, Matthew, I believe he walks among us.”

Devil in the details

This understanding — that hideous evil does exist — strengthens Matt in his desire to defeat Fisk. But the old priest cautions him not to cross the ultimate line. Perhaps some of his actions can be defended, or perhaps they can not, but do not cross that final line. Do not kill the adversary, or you risk becoming like him.

But Matt can’t see how he can defeat the corrupt Fisk in a non-lethal way. Fisk has already successfully turned most of the city against Matt’s alter ego, has gained media adulation and the praise of Hell’s Kitchen residents — and controls a great deal of the police department and justice system. At this point, Matt honestly believes he must resort to actions that contradict his Catholic beliefs.

One issue that really caught my attention was how the series makes clear that Matt is not entirely pure. At night he goes out and beats up people — bad people, yes, but human beings with whom the story frequently sympathizes. How does Matt reconcile this with his oaths as a lawyer? Can his crossing of so many moral lines justify his crossing more? Is he good just because Wilson is bad? This moral struggle is encapsulated by a brief exchange between Mattew and his priest.

Matt: I know my soul is damned if I take his life. But if I stand idle, if I, if I let him consume this city, all the people that will suffer and die …

Father Lantom: There is a wide gulf between inaction and murder, Matthew. Another man’s evil does not make you good. Men have used the atrocities of their enemies to justify their own throughout history.

So the question you have to ask yourself is: Are you struggling with the fact that you don’t want to kill this man, but have to? Or that you don’t have to kill him, but want to?

“Like a muddied spring or a polluted fountain is the righteous man who gives way before the wicked.” Proverbs 25-something. I never can remember.

Matt: Meaning righteous men have a duty to stand up to evil.

Father Lantom: One interpretation. Another is that when the righteous succumb to sin, it is as harmful as if the public well were poisoned. Because the darkness of such an act, of taking a life, will spread to friends, neighbors, the entire community.

During this time of uncertainty, Matt’s success rate is increasingly spotty. He just can’t find the means to defeat Fisk. And indeed, when he tries to cross the line, it doesn’t work. It is only when, with the help of his best friend and partner Foggy (who knows his secret) and his and Foggy’s secretary Karen (who does not know his secret) that Matt finally finds his moral foundation and begins to actually succeed in stopping the villain.

Foggy and Karen are also crucial to this story and its themes. The fact that they are there for him, and he and the two of them forgive each other for their mistakes, is what, along with his faith, helps anchor Matt so that he does the right thing in the end.

If I had more space, I would sing Foggy’s praises, because he is really such an awesome character on the show. Karen is also someone who bravely fights for justice and is very fun. I’ll settle for this exchange in which Foggy pulls Matt from the brink:

Matt: Ben is dead, Foggy! Because he got dragged into this, and now you’re doing the same with your ex.

Foggy: We’re being careful.

Matt: This has to stop. Fisk has to – I have to stop this before there’s no one left to bury.

Foggy: Matt. Matt! Last time you went after Fisk, I found you half-dead. More than half. You go after him in the mask again, he might kill you. Or you might kill him! Which would probably have the same effect on someone as Catholic as you are.

Matt: What am I supposed to do?! How do I stop him?

Foggy: By using the law, Matt, like you told me and Karen to do. That’s how we take him down.

This journey matters. This is just some average “there are some things I can’t do as a hero” concept reflected in many stories about a hero’s reluctance to kill. It is a morally grounded idea that evil exists, and no hero should want to become that evil.

A time to kill?

At the same time, the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) doesn’t portray all forms of killing as evil. This is Scriptural. The Bible does differentiate between acts and purposes of killing other human beings. It shows that murder, self-defense, accidental killing, and war are all entirely separate acts — not the same action, universally right or wrong, but different actions, though all the result of sin.

In the MCU, the heroes sometimes need to kill bad guys, but they are separate acts of accidental killing, self-defense, or war. But this is not true of Matt, who would do the specific act of murder if he tries stop Fisk outside the law.

Finally, Daredevil like many stories frequently compares its hero and villain. For Matt and Fisk, their motives seem the same: They want to improve Hell’s Kitchen. But ultimately, they choose opposite ways to meet their goals. Matt and Fisk both use morally murky means at times, but in the end, Matt refuses to cross his moral boundary after truly wrestles with his beliefs in a way that Fisk, who rejects religion, never considers. The ends do not necessarily justify the means for Matt, but for Fisk, they do.

You see, evil and good are opposites. In every one of us, they both exist. There are no completely good or evil people, other than Jesus Christ who is completely Good. We all have sin natures, we know right and wrong, and we all have free will. How we as Christians use that free will to act, whether to serve God or not, is our choice, guided by God’s Holy Spirit.

The existence of evil, not giving into that evil impulse ourselves, keeping our idealism and ethics intact, and seeing the incredible choice we all have to make — these are themes Daredevil honors.

In the last year of the Civil War, Confederate leaders in Charleston, South Carolina turned the city’s horse-racing track (the Race Course, they called it) into a prisoner-of-war camp. They herded Union soldiers into the track’s interior, forcing them to live there without any shelter. In these miserable conditions, 257 Union soldiers died. The Confederates buried them in unmarked graves at the Race Course.

On February 18, 1865, the mayor of Charleston surrendered to Union forces. A mass exodus of white citizens surrounded the fall of Charleston, but thousands of blacks remained in the city, most of them newly freed slaves. And they remembered the suffering of the soldiers at the Race Course.

In April of 1865, twenty-eight black men from one of Charleston’s churches re-buried the dead, turning the hasty graves into neat rows. They erected a fence around the gravesite, ten feet high, and whitewashed it; over the gate they built an arch and inscribed on it: “Martyrs of the Race Course”.

On May 1, a procession of 10,000 people marched to the graveyard and dedicated it with prayers, Bible readings, and songs. They laid spring blossoms on the graves until “the holy mounds – the tops, the sides, and the spaces between them – were one mass of flowers, not a speck of earth could be seen; and as the breeze wafted the sweet perfumes from them, outside and beyond … there were few eyes among those who knew the meaning of the ceremony that were not dim with tears of joy.” (a newspaperman who witnessed the event, quoted by David W. Blight)

There were other ceremonies, other commemorations of the Civil War dead, and in 1868 Major General John Logan established Decoration Day. In his order to his posts to decorate the graves of the fallen, he wrote, “Let no neglect, no ravages of time, testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten as a people the cost of a free and undivided republic.”

Like the freed slaves of Charleston, he not only gave recognition to the soldiers’ suffering; he gave it meaning.

An effective, if grim, teacher of how vitally that matters is the special bitterness of those wars regarded as pointless – the Vietnam War, for example, or the First World War. Rightly or wrongly, but undeniably painfully, the dead in such wars are felt to be not only lost but “wasted” (as one Vietnam veteran put it).

Paul Johnson captured the bitterness of apparently meaningless suffering in his essay on T.S. Eliot:

It [WWI] was a war without hope or heroic adventure – just a dull misery of loss and pain – which induced in the participants, serving in the trenches or suffering vicariously at home, an overwhelming sense of heartache. The times seemed to have no redeeming feature; mankind appeared to be undergoing the agony of the war with no compensating gain in virtue but merely the additional degradation that the infliction of death and cruelty brings. It was unmitigated waste. So, equally, was Eliot’s marriage, both parties to it enduring suffering without a mitigating sense of redemption, just two wasted lives joined in sorrow. [Paul Johnson, Creators]

Which I bring up not to make a historical statement on the meaning or consequences of any war, let alone to make valuations of suffering; I only want to show how the human heart recoils from suffering without meaning.

Conflict is vital to stories. So, in a way, is suffering, however slight it may sometimes be. The very nature of the story pulls to give it meaning – by giving the root and final end of the suffering, by weaving it into a much greater whole.

This is one of the great satisfactions of fiction. All too often, in the real world, suffering has no point anyone can see and struggles are barren, yielding no fruit. But we hope – sometimes we can even believe – that if the whole story of the universe were told, if the tapestry of the million threads could be unrolled, then maybe we could find some redemption for the things that have none.

Of course, that story isn’t told; it isn’t even over yet. But in the finished stories of fiction, we see the ultimate ends and, with them, the ultimate meaning.

Not, of course, that all stories do end with redemption of suffering, or hope; some storytellers prefer the poetry of World War I, the mood caught by T.S. Eliot. (“We are the hollow men …”) But the greatest beauty is found in, well, the freed slaves’ memorial to the Union soldiers – where suffering has meaning and tears are iridescent.

Today is Memorial Day here in the US—the day set aside to remember the men and women in the armed forces who sacrificed their lives in the performance of their duties. It has special meaning, of course, for those who are grieving the loss of a friend or family member, but even those of us who have no immediate connection with such a tragedy nevertheless have a sense of gratitude that others put their lives on the line because those in authority deemed it necessary—for the protection of our nation or as part of the moral obligation we have to the world (think Germany, Korea, Kosovo, Sudan)—to send troops where they would be in harm’s way.

In thinking about Memorial Day and speculative fiction, I wonder which writers have applied this reality of our experience—soldiers dying in battle and a national commemoration established in their honor—to our speculative worlds.

In the past I’ve discussed celebrations in general and Thanksgiving Day in particular. It only seems right to add Memorial Day as a holiday that could deepen the world-building of a culture—whether fantasy or science fiction.

It doesn’t seem to me that speculative stories are short on wars, and therefore people serving the rest of their culture or nation or species by marching into danger and possible death. What novels actually show beloved characters dying as part of their commitment to fight for right? I can think of several.

Frodo might be the most well-known character who marched into danger and possible death, but of course, he survived. Similarly Harry Potter either died and came back to life or survived, depending on your particular view of the ending of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Other beloved character, not the protagonist, however, did die: Dobby, Sirius Black, and Dumbledore in the Harry Potter books, and Reepicheep (though not in battle, per se) in Narnia.

The greater question: what books have some type of ceremony or observation or tribute to those who gave their lives? Especially to those who gave their lives in some time past, before the events of the present story?

In reality, a type of Memorial Day accomplishes several things in speculative fiction. First it acknowledges the reality of death even as it underscores the danger of confronting the evil at hand. But such a commemoration day also anchors a story to the past. It requires a history of this make-believe world—past wars between nations or people groups, past leaders, past heroes, perhaps past songs or paintings or statues constructed in their memory. It also requires present ceremonies and special days and acknowledgment of grief and loss, of national pride or shame, of bitterness or inspiration. There is an emotional reaction to days like Memorial Day.

Here’s your turn, writers and readers: what books have you read that incorporate death on the battle field and/or the commemoration of those who have fallen? Are you writing a book with such a scene? Care to share it with us?

Parents take many different forms in literature. From Mrs. Weasley, warm and nurturing, to Darth Vader, who gives hugs via Force Choke. However, there’s been a quiet trend, at least in some of the popular fiction I’ve read, of parents who are killed off or written as weak and flaky. This seems to be an attempt to accelerate the maturity of the young protagonists—but does it? I find I lose interest when the ignorance of the parents serves only to increase the so-called worthiness of the main character. It’s like giving the protagonist a sign that says, “Look at me! I’m so legit because I’ve risen above those narrow-minded fuddy-duddies with the negative attitudes!” It feels like we haven’t graduated from 7th grade.

Real life, instead, has proven that who we are is who we are, and if we want to be someone different, it’s more complicated than severing ties with our parents. How we are raised is powerful. That example of when everyone comes home for the holidays is common for a reason. We all tend to slip back into our “place” that we occupied when we were younger. I go back to being the people-pleasing youngest child, even though I am a competent mother in my “real life.”

As fiction writers, we want to draw readers into our new worlds with a string of reality that will help our audience accept our character who has blue hair and six arms. So we strive to create a real person, with real struggles and characteristics. And a struggle with or against how the characters were raised is a natural way to do that.

Parents aren’t always the adversaries—always writing them as such is an easy way out. We are cheating our readers—and ourselves—if we never explore our character’s relationship with their parents. They deserve more than an existence as two-dimensional antagonists.

All parents have a direct influence (positive and negative). Biological parents engrave traits that are written in DNA. When I’m reading and see this inherited aspect, it helps me connect with the characters. We connect with Luke Skywalker because he has this innate desire to be like his father—as many of us do. We see that he has skill with the Force and he is good at making things, like his father. And even when his father is revealed to be Luke’s opponent, he goes further, hoping to change that relationship. This creates another dimension of Luke, allowing us to see how the Jedi training has brought him from a boy to a man who handles his power differently than his father.

Having a character struggle against his natural urges and win is an effective way to build a believable person, and also encourage readers.

We can also explore the dynamic effect that death has upon children. How do parents influence a child, even if they’re not physically present? Just watch your social media feed on Mother’s Day weekend—it is proof that whether or not people have their parents in their lives, they are affected. On that basis our fictional characters should be affected, too. Harry Potter wanted to find out as much about his parents as possible—and probably got more than he bargained for. He is repeatedly told how he is like his father. Harry is even treated differently because of his parents’ actions. Yet this strengthens the bond Harry feels with his parents.

Have your character find out during her journey that her parents weren’t who she thought they were. Allow that to either make or break the bond she feels with them.

Then there are the relationships that are truly destructive. Physical, verbal, and emotional abuse will always damage a relationship far beyond what humans can repair. But even that is an area that readers and writers may benefit by digging into. Seek out the reason for the abuser’s viciousness. Seek a healing for the person who is hurt. Forgiveness is a powerful story. One that we all benefit hearing about in a realistic way.

Write real mother-daughter/father-son relationships. Don’t just use the parental units as pawns to tick off your protagonist. Well, yes, use them to do that, but then go deeper. Explore it. Go into those uncomfortable places none of us want to go when we must confront people who are able to wound us to the core. Heal or break the relationship further.

Why go to that trouble? Because it is real. And in the midst of elves and superheroes and dragons, that thread of reality will keep your reader turning the page.

– – – – –
Amy Davis is a writer, mother, lover of hot drinks and nerdy things. She is one of the founding members of Crosshair Press—an indie publisher—serves as the Acquisitions Manager, and blogs on that site monthly. She occasionally tweets on Twitter.

I began writing what would become my first published novel, The Age of Apollyon, the week of Halloween in 2011. In the months prior, I had become enchanted with Gothic architecture after reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame, my musical sustenance was a steady diet of symphonic heavy metal, and I made the snap decision to finally write the story that had been simmering in my imagination after watching Underworld for the 10th time.

The Age of Apollyon was spawned from a very dark place. The story itself is an ultra-Gothic nightmare of cathedrals, graveyards, demons, and violence. The protagonist is actually a professing Satanist. I don’t know what exactly compelled me to write this grim tale and its sequels, but compelled is exactly what I was.

And it freaked me out.

I admit that there has always been a seed of darkness in my imagination. I’m attracted to Gothic imagery and things that are traditionally labeled “dark” (wearing black clothes, tattoos, extreme metal music, Gothic novels, etc.). However, I am not, nor have I ever been, a “Goth,” and in fact I consider myself to be a very laid-back and positive person. But in the deep places of my mind lies a shadow, one that I know I cannot indulge.

That’s why I was so apprehensive about writing a story like The Age of Apollyon. I’ve never been an addict but I’ve seen the struggle firsthand and I know the reluctance to “go there,” especially if it has had a negative effect on your life in the past. Since my story would incorporate many Satanic and occult elements, real and fictional, I had to open the gates and let the ghost and ghouls run free.

But that wasn’t the hardest part. I also did a lot of research on various forms of Satanism and the occult. I combed through books like The Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey and The Book of the Law by Aleister Crowley. I examined symbols and images (who knows the difference between the sign of Baphomet and a simple pentagram?) and the names of demons, since in my story, Christian churches have been seized by the Church of Satan and renamed in honor of their infernal masters.

As I read and wrote, I was intrigued and repulsed at the same time. I felt a profound disturbance in my spirit, but I never felt convicted to stop writing. Despite the above description, the story is one of hope and redemption, and in order for the light to shine brightest, the darkness has to be pitch black. The Satanic world I created was certainly theatrical and infused with dramatic license, but I wanted the foundational truths to show through. Satan may disguise himself as an angel of light, but at his core, he is, to borrow Mickey Rourke’s descriptive phrase from The Expendables, “Dracula black.”

So I prayed. A lot. I’m not the kind of writer who gets too wrapped up in the emotions of the story that I’m writing (a “method writer”) but I could feel a shadow hovering over me as I wrote. I hope I did not bring any of that shadow into my relationships with my family and friends, and I was immensely relieved when I finished the trilogy two and a half years later.

I know my experience is not unique. Many writers go even further into darkness for their craft, often into subjects that are more grounded in reality, such as serial murder, rape, perversion, witchcraft, etc. Some have experienced them firsthand or interview people who have. I doubt they enjoy it, but as every writer knows, the story has to be told.

As I wrote, I made sure of one thing: the darkness I depicted was always portrayed as evil. I did not want to glorify Satan and his corruption, even though a large portion of my characters swore allegiance to him. But I also wanted to do this for myself. I wanted to convince myself once and for all that the light is indeed better than the darkness.

I know I’m going to “go there” again. The book I’m working on now is even more bleak, though from a historical perspective, and the book after that will go to the voodoo swamps of Louisiana. But having lived through The Age of Apollyon, I feel that I have better control over the shadows that slink and scurry through the caverns of my imagination. And darkness always flees before the light. John 1:5 reminds us: “The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it” (NASB).

If we venture into those dark places, we must always remember to keep the Light close.

Cloak Of The Light: Wars Of The Realm, Book 1

By Chuck Black

Description

Drew is caught in a world of light—just inches away from the dark

What if…there was a world beyond our vision, a world just fingertips beyond our reach? What if…our world wasn’t beyond their influence?

Tragedy and heartache seem to be waiting for Drew Carter at every turn, but college offers Drew a chance to start over—until an accident during a physics experiment leaves him blind and his genius friend, Benjamin Berg, missing.

As his sight miraculously returns, Drew discovers that the accident has heightened his neuron activity, giving him skills and sight beyond the normal man. When he begins to observe fierce invaders that no one else can see, he questions his own sanity, and so do others. But is he insane or do the invaders truly exist?

With help from Sydney Carlyle, a mysterious and elusive girl who offers encouragement through her faith, Drew searches for his missing friend, Ben, who seems to hold the key to unlocking this mystery. As the dark invaders close in, will he find the truth in time?

Young adult Christian fantasy.

Excerpt

Four Notes

His dad was gone.

Forever.

Drew might only be twelve, but he knew the sting of his father’s death would last a very long time—a lifetime. The pain of loss was a fresh wound to his young, unscarred heart. There were no life calluses to impede the searing ache of death.

He sat there, staring at the casket, sorrow hanging heavy on his soul, threatening to pull him down to where he could not breathe. Though the sun darted between the clouds, trying to peek down from time to time, the day was a dark one. Long faces, black dresses, tears, tissues, and “Taps”—the four loneliest notes ever played on a trumpet.

Drew tensed up when the colonel knelt down in font of him. He struggled to look the man in the eye. He had quelled his tears, letting them spill only in the privacy of his bedroom. Here, in front of military statues made of flesh and blood, he wanted to be brave for his dad. He stared at the colonel’s white-gloved hand covering the perfectly folded flag being offered to him. His mother had asked that the flag be given to Drew, not to her. He wasn’t sure if the gesture was for her, for Drew, or for his dad. It didn’t matter.

He just wanted it over.

The colonel’s deep and sober voice resonated through Drew.

“This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your father’s honorable and faithful service.”

As Drew reached for the flag, he looked into the man’s eyes—and saw there the same sorrow crushing his own heart. And though he knew the words had been spoken thousands and thousands of times, Drew believed the colonel meant them.

Tears brimmed his eyes as he took the flag. He pursed his lips to restrain his hurt, but it didn’t help. He felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder and knew that the pain they each bore was additive in a vicious cycle that provided no escape. He leaned in to her. He had heard that time was the salve for such a wound. If that were true, Drew wished a million years could pass in an instant to separate him and his mother from the pain of his father’s death, but instead the seconds took an eternity to pass.

The day lasted forever. Drew didn’t want to feel the pain, but he didn’t want to forget his father either.

So he walked through it all, painfully aware that his life was forever, irrevocably changed.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

 

A FEW DAYS LATER, Drew and his mother, Kathryn, received a visit from Jake Blanchard. He had attended the funeral but was silent through its entirety. Kathryn invited him in and offered an iced tea. The raw emotions of the week were still evident as he odd trio sat in the living room in silence. Jake held his glass with both hands, either to keep it from falling or to give his hands something to do while he worked up the courage to speak.

How ironic that a Special Forces soldier of Jake’s caliber, with years of combat training and experience, could be reduced to a hesitant, irresolute man struggling to say a few meaningful words.

Drew had seen his mother have this effect on other men, for she was a beautiful woman, the kind of pretty that could not be diminished with dirt, sweat, or sorrow. In fact, the worse the conditions, the more resolute her beauty shone in defiance. Her dark-brown hair usually fell loose across the right side of her olive-toned face. Deep-blue eyes framed by high brows and accentuated cheekbones captured the gaze of both men and women. Drew remembered how he’d blush when his dad talked about how beautiful she was, but he was right.

As Drew looked across the room at Jake, he realized that his mother’s beauty was not what was causing the man’s unsettled beginning. Jake finally set the sweating glass of tea on the coffee table before him.

“Ma’am, I’m not very good with words, but I do have a few I need to speak.” Jake dropped his gaze to the untouched tea and the ice still circling to find a resting place. His left hand massaged his right as he continued. He glanced at Drew and then back at Kathryn.

“Ryan and I were on a lot of missions together. We became good friends. In fact, he was the best friend I’ve ever had.” He stopped and swallowed hard.

Kathryn teared up. “He wrote of you, Jake.” She spoke with a sweet compassion. “I know Ryan considered you the same.”

“What I’m sure he didn’t tell you was that he saved my life in Iraq. I owe him everything.”

Kathryn dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex.

Jake reached into his shirt pocket and removed a folded piece of paper. “I’m sure he would have wanted you to have this. It was a letter he was writing as we got called on our last duty together. He gave it to me just before—”

Drew’s mother gasped, and tears streamed down her face. Jake leaned across to her, and she took the letter as though it were as precious as gold. She looked at Jake and mouthed the words thank you.

Jake turned to Drew. “And this is for you.” He held out his father’s Army Special Forces pin and green beret. “I know he would have wanted you to have these. He was very proud of you.”

Drew held the pin in one hand and the beret in the other. Despite all the pain that came flooding back, these things helped. They were one more connection to his dad.

Drew sniffed. “Thank you, sir,”

Jake smiled through wet eyes and nodded. He took a deep breath, as if to prep for a mission. “I don’t mean to make this difficult, ma’am, but I need you to know one more thing before I leave. I was with Ryan at the end, and he asked me to make sure that you and Drew were taken care of.”

“You’ve done that for us today. We’ll be all right.”

Jake shook his head. “I promised him, ma’am, and I intend on keeping that promise.” He leaned forward and handed Kathryn another paper. “This is my address and phone number. I will be stationed here in Fort Bragg for the next six months. No matter where you are, if you need anything, call me and I will be there for you and your son.”

Kathryn took the paper. “Thank you. That means a lot, Jake.”

He nodded, then stood up. Drew walked with his mother to the door to see Jake out.

On the porch, Jake turned. “It was an honor to serve with your husband, ma’am. He was one of those rare men of true honor and integrity.” Jake put a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “You can be very proud of your father. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but instead turned and left.

When the door closed, Drew and his mother retreated to their rooms to spend time with their new treasures. Later, Drew’s mother read the letter to him. One part stated that Drew’s dad had some exciting news to share but that it was too important to share in a letter. He wanted to tell them in person. Whatever it was, it was news that was lost forever. Worse than that was how the letter ended . . .

“Please tell Drew that I miss him and that . . .”

That was it.

News untold and a message undelivered. The letter hurt more than it helped, but it was worth it because it was a final memory of his dad. The ache in Drew’s heart was the painful tutor teaching Drew a new law that was as unbreakable as all the laws of the universe: life isn’t fair.