A Thunderous Stranger Intervenes

This story is by Ren Proulx and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

The acrid smell hits me first. I’m perplexed by the smoldering fire in the fireplace on a Saturday morning. My housemates standing in front of me seem unperturbed by the smoke curling into the living room rather than up the flue. As the haze waves past me and out the door, I glimpse half burned books. This scenario greets me, after returning home without my child, who’s gone for the weekend with his Dad.

“What’s going on? Why are there books burning in the fireplace?” I ask, unsure of whether to close the door or leave it open for the smoke to escape, or possibly for my own flight.

Laurie says, “All the unclean thoughts that we’ve let into this house need to be cleared out. We’re burning the books that don’t speak the words and meaning of the Bible and the pure thoughts of Jesus, our Lord and Savior. The books written by men and women, not by or of God and his messengers, are heresy.”

I cannot believe my ears! Is it truly my Laurie saying that? I’m appalled and can only think to say, “I hope you aren’t burning my books!”

“No, we’re hoping you’ll join us,”  Annie says as she walks to the door and locks it.

Perhaps I ought to have seen this coming. Our new housemate, Debbie, took my close friends to a church meeting a few weeks ago. I begged out. The next Wednesday, the same invite. After three meetings, of which I’d attended none, there had been hushed conversations, and I’d feel uneasy around the three of them, together.

It is the early 70s, the most anarchistic of times for women. It’s the tail end of the Civil Rights and Anti-War movements, and also the beginning of the Second Feminist Movement. The ‘Tune in, Turn on, Drop out’ lifestyle and Sexual Revolution are in full swing. Divorce and separation rates are high. We, being products of our time, are wild and unthinking. We’re always looking for the next happening, especially when the children are with their Dads. There are parties, boys, alcohol, marijuana and an occasional hallucinogen. We are young and without a lot of money, but determined to live stimulating and colorful lives.

Our home is a historic Captain’s House, complete with a widow’s watch. We’re grateful to be renting this secluded waterfront property on the bay. Laurie is my best friend, a woman I admire and revere. She has two kids and I, one. Annie has joined us with her son and although we don’t have the same bond, I feel close to her. We’re in our early twenties, part of the generation of women shaping and brandishing our liberation from under patriarchy’s thumb. It’s an exceptional, unconventional time, and I thought we were loving it. Now, I’m locked in my home where the women I have most trusted with my life and heart for over two years are speaking in a foreign tongue that my brain is having trouble processing.

My dearest Laurie says, “Since you have been unwilling to come with us to the meetings, we’ll bring the Truth to you. You are a sinner and must cast out the evil inside. Look to the Lord as your savior, for you cannot save yourself.”

Debbie continues, “We have been born again and we want you to join us.”

 

I say, “I’ve already been Baptized. My mom sent us to a Baptist Church. I thought that Baptism at 13 meant I’m saved.”

 

Debbie replies, “No, you must push evil out of your heart and allow the Holy Spirit to rush in, taking its place, so you can be saved.”

 

“Saved from what?” I ask.

Annie says, “We’ll explain it all. Let’s get coffee and we’ll tell you what we’ve learned about how we can save ourselves.”

Walking over to the fireplace, I see the remains of our radical child rearing bible. “I can’t believe you’re burning Summerhill, Laurie!”

Debbie responds, “You can’t raise kids democratically. Spare the rod, spoil the child.”

I eye Laurie, who will not meet my gaze. I swear she winces.

Sitting at the kitchen table, my skin crawls and I’m contemplating how to escape. I don’t know the neighbors and they are too far away to hear cries for help. As the coffee brews, I peek at the phone on the kitchen wall, wondering who I can call and beg to stop by, to hopefully interrupt the cult initiation in progress.

Laurie says, “You must pray, for it is only by your willingness to show God that you repent for your sins, that you will be saved.”  You must follow scripture, attend church with Zachary, and no longer engage in sinful and willful acts.

Frustrated, I ask again, “But what am I being saved from?”
Debbie says, “From going to Hell forever.”

I nearly laugh aloud. She must be kidding. I had lost my belief in the existence of an actual Hell in my teens. I say, “I was a Jesus freak when I was a teenager. Jesus was one of my heroes. He advocated being kind and loving to all, even despite the betrayal and horrible torture. I was a huge fan and still am. Although I try to be as kind and compassionate as he, loving to all, including my enemies, it’s a standard I can’t live up to. So yes, I am a sinner. However, Jesus died for our sins so we could be forgiven, is a primary conviction in the Bible. It’s a good thing, too, because sinning is kind of like breathing for us. Often, we do it unconsciously, without thinking. We hurt one another with unkind words and deeds, our good intentions can be corrupted by greed and jealousy. We argue to the point of conflict over who has the true God and we find it impossible to forgive our enemies.”

Annie retorts, “Do you really believe that you can just say, sorry, and you are forgiven? No, it is clearly stated that you must repent with your whole heart and soul and beg forgiveness for even a thought of sinning. You must obey the Commandments and not do anything outside of Church scripture. Otherwise, you will be condemned to an eternity in hell.”

My words are falling on co-opted ears. Hour upon hour they continue to bombard me with their newfound dogma, referring to the evil inside me that must be cast out, the sins I have committed for which I must repent. I must be vigilant against the Devil telling me to commit sins and always rely on the word of God. Mistrust everything, including myself, for it may be the Devil speaking within me. It is the same message over and over. No matter what I say to debate something said, the response is that my words are the Devil speaking through me. No contradiction to the creed they accepted three weeks ago is allowed. They say their newfound way will bring me joy. Joy? If I talk about a non-vengeful God, or my belief that we are essentially good, the response is, that is a lie the Devil wants me to believe.

I finally seek refuge in the bathroom. Having had little sleep last night, I’m exhausted. I can feel myself being ensnared. Perhaps they are correct. I have been committing sins with my careless lifestyle. Do I need to repent? Holding my head in my hands, I remember my Dad proclaiming, ‘Don’t go to church, they’re hypocrites.’ His Mom was a devout catholic, and he’d been an altar boy. I’d believed he probably had the inside scoop. In this moment, I can’t tell what’s truth.

Walking out of the bathroom, I am penitent, and it shows. I say, “I have to meet Jim at Dunkin’ Donuts at six. He’s expecting me.”

“He is the Devil, himself,” Laurie says.

Fear in my eyes and my spirit, I grab my coat. They’re letting me leave. It appears, even to me, that they have succeeded in snagging my soul.

Without a car, I’m walking, hitchhiking, and reciting the 23rd Psalm aloud. “The Lord is My Shepherd… I fear no evil…” I am terrified. The mesmerism is nearly complete. A car is stopping with an older man inside. I’m frightened of everything, including him, but I have to get to the doughnut shop right away, so I get in.

“How are you?” he asks.

Unable to contain myself, I immediately spew out the story of what I’ve been through over the past six hours.

“Don’t believe a word of that malarkey!” he thunders. “My wife tried to lay that on me. They’re just insecure and vulnerable, looking for something to believe in because they don’t have faith in themselves.” His tirade continues, and I’m smiling.

Abracadabra! As we drive, the spell, like the smoke from the lost books, dissipates. Whole again, I’m on my way to meet Jim, the love of my compassionate, precious, sacred life.