Chapter 19 – The Church of the Holy Visage – Transcript

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Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“The Church of the Holy Visage”

            As Dad flew along Route 666 full-tilt, he dug through one of the bags we filled at the gas station and tore into a big bag of chips. When he was nervous, he liked munching on things.

“James, you need to stop eating and keep your eyes on the road,” Mom said.

            “I can eat and drive at the same time, Mary.”

            That was true. My old man could eat Thanksgiving dinner in his lap while flying down the interstate a sixty-five miles an hour. Forget cup holders; he just shoved his drink between his legs and didn’t care if it looked like he wet himself when he got up. His flat lap served as a tabletop where he could lay out a cheeseburger, French fries, and catsup on some napkins and not be distracted by less-important things, like the traffic before him. On those occasions he pulled a sixteen-hour haul and needed more food than the average drive-thru could provide, he used everything from the armrest on the door, the space between him and Mom, to the dashboard for holding food and drink.

            There was no stopping his appetite for eating and driving at the same time—he believed in moving down the highway at all costs. The only thing he stopped for were side-of-the-road attractions, and those times we could no longer hold it and really had to use the bathroom (even then, he’d see if we could “hold it another fifty miles to the next rest stop?” even if we were a mile from one at the time. And if it was Elvis or me simply needing to pee, he was known to pass back a bottle or cup and tell us to fill it. He stopped that practice, though, the time we were driving to Yellowstone and Elvis decided it would be funny to “accidentally” spill a Coke bottle full of urine on me. The ensuing fight was one of the rare instances I actually defeated Elvis, and it took everything Dad had to separate my hands from my little brother’s throat!).

            Mom normally asked Dad to stop on the side of the road when he wanted to eat on a trip, but to pull over would be admitting some kind of defeat in my father’s mind. As long as he had a car packed with the children he sired and a fast-food meal in his lap as he maneuvered a huge, gas-guzzling American-made automobile down the road, he was a man!

            Dad used Lucky’s possession as a valid excuse to see just how fast the Inferno would go. Mom was so concerned about Lucky’s well-being, she wouldn’t have cared when he brought the car over one-hundred miles an hour had he not been munching on chips while struggling to open a can of soda. She prayed out loud when he had us going one-forty on a straightaway, though.

            “James, I’ll open the pop for you; hand it here. Just keep your eyes on the road.”

            “I’ve got it,” he said. Right as the pop-top made a little FWOOSH sound, Dad lost control of the Inferno!

            We bounced from one side of Route 666’s shoulder, to the other at over a hundred miles an hour! Dad dropped his chips and drink on the floorboard; he gripped the steering wheel like Gilligan and the Skipper on their fated three hour tour, just holding on for dear life and hoping for the best. He totally lost control, sending us into a spin. I don’t know how many three-sixties we did; all I remember was hearing Mom pray. We skidded to a sudden stop in a poof of dust, and when it cleared, we found ourselves safe and sound in the parking lot of The Church of the Holy Visage.

            “Is everyone okay?!” Dad said.

            None of us could speak. He looked at Mom, then in the rearview mirror at the rest of us, seeing we were all fine, just very shaken. We stared at the church.

It was a tiny mission at one time, the kind of place most towns restore and turn into tourist traps, but years of neglect told the story about this old church. Even the sign, a painted face of Christ meant to look like a stained glass pattern, looked ancient.

Dad grabbed the sleeping bag with Lucky inside and stepped from the Inferno. He looked back at the highway, smiling. Racing along a lonely old road with the engine wide open and living through an out of control skid with the needle on the speedometer almost pegged as far as it went made him feel manly, I’m sure—the kind of thing he only dreamed about. When the rest of us regained our composure, we piled out of the station wagon and went inside the church.

            The interior was a continuation of what greeted us outside. The place echoed, creaked, and had a dusty look that reminded me of a movie set. Scavenged pews, chairs, and a podium before the altar were taken from other churches. As we walked up the center aisle, antique, ornate Catholic pews sat beside plainer, Protestant pews. Folding wood chairs with faded, stenciled names like “FIRST METHODIST CHURCH, BISBEE,” and “MARY IMMACULATE” sat beside dented steel folding chairs. There were definitely plenty of places to sit, but I had the feeling none of the pews and chairs had seen the backside of a disciple in decades.

            The altar consisted of a podium that was probably scrapped from one of the churches where the old chairs or pews were found. Behind the altar, a plain, white T-shirt was placed on the back wall about ten feet up. I thought I was seeing things, but if you looked hard enough, you could see a faint—almost glowing—image of Christ on the T-shirt. The image didn’t appear to have been printed on the shirt; I looked around to see if there were any stained glass windows in the church where maybe a beam of light was shining through from outside, casting a stained glass image on the shirt. All the windows were boarded up—only a couple cracks let tiny beams of light shine through, illuminating particles of floating dust.

            Flanking each side of the podium were pedestals surrounded by clear, acrylic cases. I walked up the aisle to see what the cases contained. In one case was a tortilla with a Shroud of Turin-looking Christ face on the surface. The other case contained a red mechanic’s rag with Christ’s face appearing in an oil stain. I almost laughed.

            “Hello?!” Dad said. “Hello?!”

            Nothing.

            “Is anybody here?!” Mom said.

            A figure in a hooded robe stepped out from behind the altar, startling me. I wanted to run back down the aisle and into Mom’s arms, but stood my ground and looked. The robe was fashioned from the rag-tag dregs of what appeared to be holy robes from several denominations. As the figure stepped toward me, I could see the rubber fronts of green canvas sneakers poking out with each step.   

            “Greetings, weary travelers and welcome to the church,” the figure said. “How may I help you?”

            “We need an exorcism,” Mom said.

            He pulled the hood back, revealing his scruffy face. I don’t think he was dirty, but he sure looked dirty. A scraggly beard stopped at his chest and when he shook his head free from the robes, waist-length hair (some of it matting into dreadlocks), flopped all about. He looked homeless and reminded me of Jesus for some reason.

            “I am Brother Rob,” he said. “I can help you. You may look at me and see a madman, but remember: there were those who believed Christ a madman, too.”

            “This has to be a joke,” I thought.

            “No, Michael—no joke,” Brother Rob said, locking eyes. “I am for real.”

            I felt sick. “How did you know my name?” I said. “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

            “There are things I just know; a gift from Him,” he said, pointing to the T-shirt. “I was bathed in His light seven years ago to the day. I was a janitor in a church and an unbeliever just like you, but that would all change.”

            He took a deep breath and went on.   “I was wearing that very T-shirt when it happened. I mopped all the floors and scrubbed all the toilets in the church where I worked. After locking the doors for the night, I went to the chapel and turned the lights out. The streetlights outside cast the images from the stained glass windows across the chapel floor. The unbeliever that I once was, I began laughing and dancing on the images of the saints and the Savior. When I stopped, I noticed his visage was cast onto my white T-shirt from the lights outside. I laughed at Him and left the chapel, but His image stayed on my T-shirt. I was bathed in His light and given sight. With His gift, I know things. That is how I know you saw a message on the wall of a bathroom stall signaling the battle that lies before you. That is how I know your name: Michael, the name of the Archangel who drove Satan out of Heaven.” He looked at Mom and Dad. “Your parents named you well.”

            I’m sure Dad thought the story was all well and good, but we were there for a purpose. “Can you help with the exorcism?” Dad said, hoping to get started before Lucky woke up.

            “Indeed. May I see the afflicted,” Brother Rob said.

            I stepped back, behind Mom and Dad. Dad opened the sleeping bag enough for Lucky to poke his head out and struggle. The instant he saw Brother Rob, his eyes glowed red and he said, “DIE!!!” in a deep, gravely voice. Had it not been so terrifying, it would have been humorous!

            “I see…” Brother Rob said. He stepped to the tortilla at the side of the altar and removed the case. He placed it in the palm of his hand and made his way toward Lucky, who started fighting Dad. The room went cold, like someone opened a door in the middle of winter.

            “In the name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord…” Brother Rob said. “…strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, Mother of God; of Blessed Michael the Archangel—“ When he said “Michael,” Lucky’s head spun around backwards and looked right at me.

            “MICHAEL…” Lucky said in the deep voice. A wind picked up from out of nowhere, almost knocking me over. “MICHAEL, IT’S TIME TO DIE!”

The whole church started shaking. The cracks in the boards covering the windows grew larger, bathing the interior of the church in white-hot beams of light. Chairs and pews flew through the air, heading straight for Brother Rob, who calmly ducked out of their path; he shouted above the wind, continuing.     

 “…of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints; and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry, we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil.” Lucky, now frothing at the mouth and snapping his jaws, flew from the sleeping bag, through the air, straight at Brother Rob, who parried with the tortilla. He slapped Lucky in the head and shouted, “Be gone, demon!”

            The force knocked Lucky back into Dad and me, sending us both to the ground. Lucky and the tortilla fell to the floor as well. The first thing I thought about was being on the floor with Lucky. I was convinced, in an instant, I’d have a possessed Chihuahua ripping my throat out and no one—not even Brother Rob—would be able to save me. There was no attack, however, but I did hear chewing.

            “Lucky, no!” Mom shouted. Lucky was wolfing down the Jesus tortilla.

            “It is okay,” Brother Rob said. “He is healed.”

            “It’s like a big holy wafer!” the twins said, laughing.

            I sat up in time to see Lucky taking his last bite of the flour sacrament. “Is he normal again?”

            Dad looked at me. “Was he ever normal to begin with?” He helped me to my feet.

            Mom bent over, clapped her hands, and Lucky jumped into her arms. He licked her face and wriggled about. He was still the rancid little creature he always was, but we all knew whatever had a grip on him was finally gone…we just sensed it and somehow knew he was free.

            “Is there anything we can do for you?” Mom said.

            “Nothing,” Brother Rob said. “Just be careful. The demon may be gone from your dog, but I see a greater evil ahead for all of you.”

            “The car!” I said.

            “What about the car?” Brother Rob said.

            Mom answered. “Our car is also possessed. ‘Least that’s what they say—I think it’s just a piece of crap.”

            “Think you can fix that, too?” Dad said.

            “I am not a mechanic,” Brother Rob said. “I only perform exorcisms on living beings. There is nothing I can do for you, there. I am sorry.”

            “That’s fine,” Dad said, shaking his hand. “You’ve done more than enough. Thank you.”

            “You are welcome.”

            We all said goodbye to Brother Rob and thanked him at least three times before leaving. I lagged behind as we made our way up the aisle. Dad opened the front door and the church flooded with radiant light, practically blinding us. I had to turn away. I thought it was my eyes adjusting, but with one turn of my head, all the pews, chairs, and other things tossed about during Lucky’s exorcism were right back in their place. For that moment, the church was one of the most beautiful things I ever laid eyes upon. It didn’t matter that the pews were mismatched; I didn’t matter that the chairs were a hodge-podge from other places. There was just something that seemed so right to me at that moment…something I couldn’t put my finger on, but welcomed.         

Brother Rob looked at me. He winked and said, “Remember this, Michael. Remember, you have the power. Godspeed…”

* * *

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