The Immortal Body Read online

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Two

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part Three

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part Four

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Part Five

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  EPILOGUE

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also from Horrific Tales Publishing

  The Immortal Body by William Holloway

  First published in 2012 by Uneak Press

  This version published in 2015 by

  Horrific Tales Publishing

  http://www.horrifictales.co.uk

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  Copyright © 2014 William Holloway

  https://twitter.com/HollowayHorror

  The moral right of William Holloway to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  eBook Edition

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  For my wife Brenda, who doesn't read fiction but believes in me.

  Part One

  The Healer

  Chapter 1

  “And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house.”

  Sunday. Atlanta Georgia.

  Sanctuary.

  That’s what this place was to these people. This was where they came to be relieved of the burdens of life, of work, of society, and of self. This was where the clamor and tyranny, the meanness and smallness of contemporary America was lifted as they turned their eyes to heaven and their voices to God.

  “And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and they were all filled with the Holy Ghost and began to speak with other tongues. Devout men, out of every nation under heaven.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  Exclamations of unity and purpose, of hope and hope’s fulfillment.

  The clapping and singing gave way to dancing. This was not ceremony, even though everyone knew exactly when everything would happen. This was not ritual, even though the parishioners believed in its power.

  “The multitude came together and were confounded because every man heard them speak in his own language. And they were all amazed and marveled, saying one to another, Behold, are not all these which speak Galileans?”

  The speaker’s name was Reverend Ezekiel Hill – Brother Zeke to his friends and family, most of which were seated in the pews before him. The reading today was from the Book of Acts where Peter tells the Miracle of the Pentecost. The listeners have heard this one before. Heard it many, many times.

  “And how hear we every man in our own tongue, wherein we were born. Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites, and the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judaea, and they were all amazed, and were in doubt, saying one to another, what meaneth this?”

  Brother Zeke finished the couplet on a quiet note, closed the Bible and patted the front of it gently. He removed his spectacles, giving his flock a knowing smile.

  “Can I get a hallelujah?”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Can I hear you say Glory?”

  “Glory!”

  “How about Praise Jesus!” He slid the glasses back onto his sweat sheened face.

  “Praise Jesus!”

  He took the microphone from its stand on the lectern, grabbing the cable so it wouldn’t get caught, and walked down the steps of the dais. It was important to be at eye level with his flock. Many of them were old like he was, but just as many were young. He removed his glasses once again so they could see his kind eyes. “We’ve seen a lot together, have we not?”

  They all nodded quietly.

  Yes.

  They’d seen police dogs, they’d seen fire hoses. They’d seen unemployment and welfare lines. They’d seen the triumph of Dr. King give way to the tragedy of his death. They’d seen the worst years since slavery – the years of crack cocaine, gangs and AIDS – all give way to a day when Black Americans sat in the highest offices of power.

  Through all of this, they’d been together.

  “And we know the truth. Yes, certainly we do. We know that all things can be done through the love of Jesus Christ. We have seen it.”

  Then a pause – a warm little chuckle.

  “Have we not?”

  Some smiled, some laughed.

  “As most of you certainly know, today we will have a special guest with us. He’s a man who needs little introduction. Brother Thaddeus Johnson.”

  Indeed, to the flock, Brother Thaddeus Johnson needed no introduction. He showed up about once a year, and people were happy when he came, but many were happier when he left. In cultures of poverty, forgiveness of the defects of others is a prerequisite for survival and sanity. Puritan piety has no place for those who can’t afford it.

  Johnson wasn’t a threat to anyone but himself. A cheap hotel drunk with a low level crack habit. Never got out of control, never got arrested. He came into town, stayed at a cheap motel, and emerged for these Sunday Services. He got his cut and got high. He never showed up to Church in disarray, but the whites of his eyes were stained a permanent dreary yellow and his hands shook.

  Those same hands were the reason he was tolerated.

  Thaddeus Johnson was a healer.

  Not a quack or a fake, yet no real miracle worker, either. He’d never healed a cripple or lifted a fatal disease. What Johnson could do was relieve pain, but he never took credit for it. He gave all the credit t
o Jesus.

  Reverend Hill greeted Thaddeus as he walked in from the side of the stage, warmly shook his hand and embraced him as a brother.

  The parishioners smiled toward the front, but many exchanged bemused glances from the corners of their eyes. They were patient with this man. The Reverend handed Johnson the microphone and departed the stage.

  Thaddeus was nowhere the speaker that Brother Zeke was, but he did okay, first thanking Jesus, then thanking the Parish, then taking out a list given to him by Brother Zeke. It was the list of all the people to lay hands on at this service. A chair was brought to the front and a parishioner sat while Brother Johnson laid hands and prayed that Mrs. Solomon’s Arthritic Knee be relieved of its pains and swelling, or Mr. Jackson’s Angina not stop him from taking the grandkids to the Zoo this weekend.

  Johnson hadn’t smoked any crack the day before, and took four Benadryl’s to knock himself out so he wouldn’t have to drink himself to sleep. So all in all, he was feeling as good as he could possibly feel.

  He glanced at the list.

  “Yolanda? Are you there, Yolanda?”

  She was a twenty-six year old mother of two, and wife of seven years. She was a part-time hairdresser, specializing in older black women. A lovely woman; very well liked in the community. She suffered horribly from migraines.

  Yolanda walked to the front and embraced Thaddeus warmly.

  He had prayed over her before and she was convinced he was a miracle worker. According to Zeke, she didn’t have a migraine for two months after the last time.

  She sat down on the chair, and he squatted down on his hunkers in front of her with an audible “oofing” noise that was picked up by the microphone. That was always good, loosened up the crowd a little.

  He took her hands. “Do you believe in the healing blood of the Lord Jesus Christ?”

  Tears of gratitude welled in her eyes.

  “Yes, and I believe in you, too, Brother Thaddeus!”

  “You’re too kind, I’m just a pretty face, stage dressing for Jesus to do the real heavy-lifting.”

  This was another of his stock lines, and it always got a laugh. He even heard Yolanda’s husband chuckle. Thaddeus found it good to say things like that for the husband of the woman he was about to put his hands on, especially when that husband happened to be a policeman.

  But even as Rodney Carver laughed, he kept his arms folded and his eyes firmly on Thaddeus’s hands.

  The healer took a quick look back at him, then spoke again to Yolanda.

  “Okay… are you ready?”

  “It’s always a good day to get rid of these headaches, Thaddeus.”

  He got up slowly, his knees not being what they used to be, and let go of her hands. She closed her eyes, and he touched her head.

  He closed his eyes and focused.

  Something was wrong.

  He knew it instantly.

  Something’s terribly wrong.

  His chest heaved. His eyes flew open and it felt like a blood vessel burst in his left eye. He staggered as if something inside his chest had given him a shove. The crowd was staring at him, murmuring. Brother Zeke was halfway out of his seat on the front row with a serious oh shit look on his face.

  He’d been staring blankly at the crowd, completely gone, for about two seconds. His heart was pounding. He had a slick sheen of perspiration. Struggling for words, he managed to speak.

  “Well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes, he gives his vessel a little kick to show him who’s boss.”

  He glanced out and saw Rodney Carver looking at him like he had just puked in the back of his Police Cruiser.

  Thaddeus quickly turned to Yolanda. “Are you OK?”

  She looked at him and muttered a word he couldn’t understand. She nodded her head and smiled, then stood up, still smiling. “Never better.”

  A palpable relief came over the crowd as she walked back to her husband. Zeke looked up at him with concern. Thaddeus nodded, but the look of pain hadn’t left him.

  Thaddeus saw something was very, very wrong with Yolanda Carver as she walked back to the pew. Her posture, her bearing, was completely unlike her. Yolanda was a woman who exuded warmth and mirth, but the person who sat down next to Rodney Carver wore the thin lipped smile of calculated cruelty, of intent.

  No.

  No, don’t think about that.

  Just get to the next person on the list. Get this done and get out of here, get what you need – a drink and some rock.

  Next was Frank Wilson, a thirty-eight year old divorced father of three, and like a lot of other black men, he had heart trouble and chest pain way before his time. He worked for the county waste department.

  He shook Thaddeus’s hand and took a seat, smiling. He’d never done this before, but Brother Zeke had encouraged him to. Zeke got him out of the pen, got him a good job, and most importantly, gave him his life back through Jesus. He would do what Zeke told him to do. He wanted to be a deacon.

  Thaddeus squatted down in front of him and took Frank’s hands in his own. “Do you believe in the healing blood of the Lord Jesus Christ?”

  “No doubt!”

  Several Hallelujahs rose from the audience.

  “It’s your heart, right?”

  “Umm, yes.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Thaddeus got up, slower this time, and walked around Frank. Placed his hands on his back and took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind and relax. He paused for a moment to steel himself, he couldn’t afford a repeat of what just happened. Or at least, he had to be ready for it. Not let it show. Zeke would stop the service and call an ambulance.

  Have to finish this.

  Have to get some rock.

  Have to.

  He closed his eyes and tried to channel the energy the way he’d done so many times in the past.

  The pain came again, instantly.

  Worse now.

  The blood vessel in his left eye really did burst this time.

  He grabbed the back of the chair and held on for dear life. He would not go down; he must not go down…

  He clenched his eyes and his teeth, trying to hold on, but what flowed through him was dark.

  When Thaddeus opened his eyes, Frank stood and took a big, deep breath.

  Playing to the crowd.

  Smiling big.

  Then he turned to Thaddeus and the smile changed to something else.

  Something like before.

  Something cruel.

  Thaddeus was shaking, his mind mush. He was in such a haze that he hardly noticed the next person as she was wheeled up.

  Her name was Rashelle Lewis. She had a form of muscular degeneration. Her grandmother brought her every Sunday and never missed Thaddeus Johnson. She was fourteen years old. Rashelle may have been an intelligent, able person had her mother not smoked crack during her pregnancy.

  Thaddeus leaned over and took her hand.

  He could only see out of one eye now.

  This had to be the last one for today.

  Couldn’t take this much longer.

  Something terrible was happening.

  “Do you believe in the healing blood of the Lord Jesus Christ?”

  Her grandmother answered for her. “Yes, she does, with all of her heart.”

  A huge, sad rumbling of “Praise Jesus” from the crowd.

  Okay, he thought. Just do this. Get it over with…

  The horrible current of dark energy shot through him.

  His last thought before collapsing backwards and whacking his head on the floor was that God had abandoned him.

  He saw the huge stir from this vantage point.

  Zeke was over him, darting down to Johnson’s chest to check his heart. Next, he was peering with confusion into Thaddeus’s face. Thaddeus could see Zeke saying something, but couldn’t hear the words. He was on the hazy border of losing consciousness.

  The deacons were herding the crowd b
ackward and Zeke’s wife was at the pulpit saying Brother Thaddeus just needed some air, everything was okay, and would everyone please just have a seat.

  They returned to their seats, but still jabbered amongst themselves.

  After a few moments, something else caught his eye.

  Rashelle had moved.

  Her contorted frame relaxed, untwisted. Her grandmother was leaning over her in amazement. Rashelle’s arm raised. Her hand came up to her grandmother’s face. The fingers clutched her grandmother’s long old-fashioned hairpin.

  Then, she did the unthinkable.

  She stood up.

  With the grace and ease of a ballerina.

  She turned and regarded Brother Zeke on his knees in front of the man who healed her. The entire church was now silent. People were holding their breath in witness.

  Brother Zeke stared at her, gaping. Her grandmother made the first sound in the church as her breathing hitched in her chest. Rashelle looked down at Zeke, kneeling before her, and plunged the long hairpin through his thick glasses and directly through his eye – a sound like a tiny mirror shattering and a wet crack.

  Rashelle’s grandmother fainted dead away, and Rashelle shrieked like a cat being killed, sprinted straight down the aisle between the rows of pews, out the front doors, and was gone.

  Chapter 2

  Rodney Carver had seen bad days before. He grew up in Atlanta as a poor black teenager during the eighties. He served his country in Iraq during the second Gulf War. He had just made rookie traffic cop with the Atlanta PD when he got shipped out. He paid for his schooling in the Army and was in the reserve when that mess had started. When he came back, he had the respect of the PD and no one ever called him kid again.

  But nothing he saw growing up on the streets of Atlanta or Mosul could have prepared him for what he witnessed today. His friend and lifelong mentor, stabbed through the eye by a cripple who had never walked a day in her life. And this same cripple got up and ran out of the sanctuary. She ran straight into traffic and threw herself under the wheels of a truck, killing herself and causing the truck to swerve off the road and into a tree. Like everyone else, he had thought he was witnessing a miracle of Christ. But it turned out to be the work of the Devil.