Threshold

A Note from the Author

Those of you who know me know my dedication to teaching. Whether it's with my teen Bible devotions some twenty years ago, or "McGee and Me!" "Forbidden Doors," "Journeys to Fayrah," or even the children's comedy series, "The Incredible Worlds of Wally McDoogle," my purpose is always to instruct. (You can imagine how thrilled I was when a Bible professor from Concordia Seminary said he was making Blood of Heaven required reading for all of his theology students next year).

Although I write to teach, I'm also dedicated to making sure there's enough entertainment in the story so the reader doesn't feel he or she is sitting through a 300-page sermon.

That's the case with Threshold.

RESEARCH

As I say in the Foreword of Threshold. "If I've learned anything in writing this book it's that truth can indeed be stranger than fiction." I've tried to make the science as accurate as possible-including the research into the paranormal currently being conducted in laboratories around the world. The same can be said for many of the supernatural experiences described in the novel. When it comes to these two areas, I'm afraid what fiction I've added only pales by comparison.

My research was extensive, starting as early as 1976 when Keith Green and I were involved in delivering a famous West Coast psychic from intense demonic activity. It was then the story began to take shape. I wanted to show how crafty and deceptive our adversary can be and yet how pure and powerful the Lord is.

But that was only the beginning of the research.

I learned more while directing numerous missions films around the world. The spiritual warfare some of these men and women are waging could fill a book.

Then there was my lengthy, on-camera interview with David Berkowitz, a serial killer better known as the Son of Sam-an ex-demoniac who was charged with shooting thirteen people and who is now a committed brother in Christ.

There were extensive and gracious conversations with leading psychic researchers, including Dr. Edwin May who for twenty years headed up the CIA’s secret psychic research program and who also provided information on current Russian progress in this field.

There was also a lengthy visit to a leading psychic research lab, as well as to a UCLA medical research facility, along with conversations with many pastors, physicists, professors, medical researchers, and followers of Eastern mysticism.

Their stories and research were both encouraging and chilling. Encouraging in that ongoing scientific studies are clearly showing the presence of a supernatural world and the power of faith. Chilling in that many of these well-meaning men and women are exploring the occult without even knowing it.

TEACHING ELEMENTS

There are three areas I want to tackle in this book:

• To explore what real faith in Christ is.
• To demonstrate spiritual warfare and our authority as believers in Jesus Christ.
• To expose the occult elements in New Age, Eastern Mysticism, and contemporary psychic research.

If I can accomplish these goals, then I feel the book is, as they say, "worth its tree." In any case, the prayer I send out with this as with all of my work is that you, the reader, will be drawn more closely and intimately toward the heart of the Lord Jesus Christ.

Sample Section

Brandon couldn’t sleep. It had been nearly three hours since Momma had helped him up to his room. The medication she'd given him hadn't even taken the edge off his torment. How could it? How could two little pills be expected to stop a living nightmare? The storm, the vaporous head with horns, the fountain of blood, the lampstand, the sign, they all seemed vaguely familiar, like pieces from forgotten dreams or stories he'd heard as a small child. But nothing made sense. His mind raced a thousand miles an hour. To where, he wasn't certain. How to stop it, he hadn't a clue. The only thing he could be certain of were the tears, his increasing confusion, and his ever growing anger.

Sometime after midnight, he'd got up, dressed, headed out to his pickup, and quietly drove it down the lane and into town. Unsure where to go, he eventually found himself back at the church. He didn't expect to find any answers there, but he did expect to vent some rage.

The doors to the building were unlocked. They always were. It had been a policy his father started way back when the church had first opened. And, over the years it was a policy that the potential thieves and vandals usually respected. Brandon stepped into the foyer. Everything was deathly still. He looked to the sanctuary doors. This time they were open. There were no fountains, no olive trees, no lamp stands, and definitely no hanging sign. Everything was real.

He entered the sanctuary and made his way down the slight incline of the aisle toward the alter. He didn't bother turning on the lights, he didn't have to. He'd practically grown up here and knew this place like the back of his hand. The diffused glow from the outside street lamp provided what little illumination he needed.

He stopped just a few feet from the pew, the one he'd sat in every Sunday for over twenty years. He glared up at the cross hanging on the wall. The same absurd symbol he'd seen all of his life. The symbol of death and sacrifice and futility. When he spoke his voice quivered with rage. "What do you want from me?"

Silence.

Again he spoke, much louder. "What do you want?"

But, of course there was no answer. Just his own echo as it faded into the silence. A tightness grew in his throat. He tried to swallow it back but it wouldn't go away. Tears again sprung to his eyes, but he fought them back. Not here. Not here.

He spoke again -- a final, harsh whisper. "What do you want?"

"Maybe he just wants you to believe."

he sound spun Brandon around. He peered into the darkness, searching its source. There. Almost at the back, near the center, a small sitting figure.

"Who's here?" he demanded.

With some difficulty the figure rose from the pew.

"Who are you -- what are you doing here?"

Slowly, it made its way toward the center aisle. "I'm here 'cause I knew you'd be here." It was a woman's voice -- craggy and old. It sounded familiar, but Brandon couldn't place it.

He continued staring, straining to see into the dimness.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"I s'pose I could be askin' you the same question, Brandon Martus." A brief pause followed, then, "Who are you?"

The figure stepped into the aisle. A faint pool of light spilled across her face. Now he recognized her. "You're the old woman. The one who stopped by the house yesterday."

Gerty started toward him, hobbling painfully down the aisle. "And you're the boy who refuses to believe."

Brandon watched in silence as she continued her approach. She spoke again. "I'm sure gonna miss this place. Hear they're gonna be tearin' it down for a, what'd they say? Some sorta bank building?"

Brandon said nothing. She continued forward.

"Did you know that right there, right where you're standin' in front of that alter, your Momma and Poppa dedicated you to the Lord? You musta been only seven, maybe eight days old." She stopped half way down the aisle to catch her breath.

Brandon said nothing.

Then she continued. "Believe you me, that was one special morning. Course we knew before that, before you were even born we knew that the Lord had his hand upon you." She chuckled softly. "Yes sir, that was one special day. We were all standin' around singin' and believin' somthin' real special was gonna happen, right then and there. Course nothin' did. But still..."

Her voice trailed off and Brandon spoke up. "There's lots of things people believe that don't happen."

At last she arrived and looked up to him. "But that don't mean you stop believin’."

Brandon carefully eyed her.

"Your belief, that's the catalyst, Brandon Martus. All you need be doin' is the believin'. He'll take care of the rest. But you gotta believe. Do you hear me, son. You've got to believe. Faith, that's your only shield."

"Well then I'll have to do without."

She looked to him.

He glanced away, almost mumbling. "I know nothing about faith, 'cept I don't have any."

The old woman continued watching him, but said nothing. Finally she looked past him to the cross on the front wall. "There are two types of faith, child. Earthly faith and heavenly. The earthly faith, that don't mean a thing. It's just man made, just tryin' to manipulate the good Lord with its own selfish imaginings." Her eyes fell back to him. "But there's another type. The type that surrenders to His will. Completely. And once it learns what that will is, it speaks it into existence. And that type of faith, anyone can have."

Brandon closed his eyes. He'd heard religious double talk all of his life. "Yeah," he said, preparing to move past her, "well I'm fresh out of both."

"You're wrong."

Her comment angered him. "What?"

She said nothing, which only irritated him more.

"Look, I don't have faith, okay? Not anymore." She remained silent. He needed to continue. "Maybe once, when I was a kid, sure. But I've gotten a little older now...and smarter, if you know what I mean? I understand a lot more."

"You understand nothing."

His irritation grew. "I don't have faith, all right."

The woman shook her head. "You're wrong, Brandon Martus."

This was absurd. What was he doing arguing with a nut case in the middle of the night? "I can't believe." His voice grew louder. "You got that? I can not believe."

"You will not believe."

He took a breath, holding back his anger.

"Your will is the key. If you'd turn that key, God would be given you His faith. He is the author of faith, Brandon Martus, not you. You need only surrender to Him."

Brandon shook his head. There was no reasoning with this type. He'd run into them before. It was best just to let them go on and live out their little delusions. "Look, I should have never stopped by here in the first place." He started to pass her. "Why don't you just...go back to whatever you were doing and-"

She grabbed his arm. Her grip was weak, but he let it stop him.

"Your will is the key, Brandon Martus. You have the authority, you just gotta surrender."

He looked at her, then down to the hand on his arm. She released it and he started back up the aisle.

"Brandon Martus..."

He kept walking.

"Beware of the seducers. Be keepin' your eyes open for the counterfeits."

He slowed to a stop.

"If you refuse the Lord's way, your adversary will be tryin' to seduce you down other roads." He turned to her and she continued, "There's only one path, Brandon Martus... His path. And it's narrow. Beware of the broader ways. Don't be reachin' for Heaven with the arm of the flesh. Such ways lead to the occult, to destruction. All paths but the Lord's lead to destruction. Beware of the other paths, Brandon Martus."

He held her look another moment before turning and continuing back up the aisle. Maybe it was a good they were tearing down the place. There's no telling what sort of whackos were starting to show up.

He exited through the foyer and walked outside into the sultry night air. The moon was nearly full, but its edges were blurred by a faint haze. He headed down the steps and crossed to his pickup. It was then he heard the footsteps. Apparently the old gal could move a lot faster if she set her mind to it. He turned, speaking one last time. "Look, I-"

That's when he was hit. Someone jumped him from behind and they both went crashing into the side of his truck. By the time Brandon had recovered, his attacker was already landing punches. Brandon raised his arms, trying to block the blows, until he freed himself and staggered back, away from the truck.

He saw a young man with a shaved head, red goatee, and wild eyes. Crazed eyes, like an animal's.

"We knew you'd return," the assailant screamed, spittle flying. "We knew!" But it wasn't a single voice. It was like the patient's at the Institute. Multiple voices. Dozens of voices. Dozens of voices all shouting and directing their anger at him.

"Look," Brandon said, catching his breath, bracing for another assault. "I don't know who you are, but I don't want any trouble, all right. So why don't-"

Once again the attacker leaped at him. He hit Brandon and they tumbled to the ground. As they rolled Brandon swung his fists striking ribs, kidneys, gut, but nothing mattered. The assailant seemed oblivious to pain. They rolled one way, then the other, until the attacker wound up on top, and Brandon found himself pinned. He tried to buck him off, but the kid seemed to have almost superhuman strength.

With Brandon's arms pinned, the assailant began landing punches squarely into his face, blow after blow, sharp and powerful. Brandon did his best to resist, trying to roll, trying to throw him off, but it did little good. Lights began dancing across his vision. A loud ringing filled his head. He was starting to lose consciousness.

With the kid's blows came the swearing, vial oaths, all directed at Brandon. But they were sounding farther away, fading... as was Brandon' pain. He knew what was happening, he was passing out. Any second now and he'd-

"Get off him." It was the old woman's voice, faint and from another world. "Get off! In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to stop!"

The blows ceased instantly. At first Brandon thought he'd passed out, but no, he still heard her voice.

"By the power and authority of Jesus the Christ I order you to stop."

Brandon felt the weight of the young man shift on his chest.

"Who are you?" the voices demanded.

"Who I am is of no importance." Her voice was clearer, now.

Brandon was coming back, regaining consciousness. "In the name Jesus Christ, I order you to get up."

With a struggle Brandon finally managed to open his eyes. His vision was blurred but he saw the kid on top of him and beyond that, he saw the shape of the old woman.

"Now." she ordered.

The attacker rose from Brandon and staggered to his feet.

Brandon rolled to his side, coughing and spitting what he knew to be blood. When he looked back up he saw the young man catching his breath and speaking.

"He must wage the war... himself," the voices screamed.

"In time." the woman replied.

Slowly, unsteadily, Brandon struggled to his hands and knees, keeping his eyes on the confrontation. The woman had taken a step or two closer. She now stood face to face with the kid who towered over her by nearly a foot.

"He is ours!" the voices shouted.

The woman held her ground, unflinching. "Liar."

"He has chosen to--"

"You are the author of lies."

"He has turned. He has chosen to follow our—"

"You are the author of lies and I order you to be silent."

Everything grew quiet. The woman and the young man remained glaring at one another but the young man no longer spoke.

Brandon knew an attack was imminent. Any second and the kid would grab her. The last thing in the world he wanted was to get back into the mix, but the old lady would definitely be needing his help. With painful effort he rose to his feet. His head throbbed and the ground was still moving under wobbly legs, but at least he was standing.

Yet, instead of attacking her, the kid's head swiveled toward him -- his eyes still wild and terrifying. "You will not prevail," the voices seethed. "Victory is ours." The hatred sent shudder through Brandon.

The kid turned back to the woman. Brandon prepared himself to leap to her defense.

But she showed no fear. "Go," she commanded.

The young man glared at her, but she remained unmoving. Her voice was not loud, but it was clear and spoken with unmistakable authority. "In the name of Jesus the Christ, I command you to leave."

Brandon watched. It was amazing. Instead of attacking her, the kid's stature, his very countenance seemed to wilt.

"Now." She ordered. "Go, now."

The kid hesitated, then momentarily looked around as if trying to get his bearings. When he spotted Brandon, he tried to maintain the bravado. "I am the one. It is my season. You are the impostor." But it was only one voice, now -- a hollow imitation of the power and hatred Brandon had felt moments earlier.

"Now," the old woman repeated. "In the name of Jesus Christ I order you to leave, now."

The kid turned back to her. He shifted his weight, as if unsure what to do, where to go. Then, spotting an old beat up Volkswagen across the street, he turned and began walking toward it. Brandon and the woman watched in silence as he approached the car, entered it, and started it up. Not a word was spoken as he finally pulled away and headed down the street.

At last Brandon turned to the old woman. She was staring at him. He could feel his face already swelling from the blows and he knew some of the cuts were still bleeding. But when she took a concerned step toward him, he backed away. Whatever was going on, whatever had happened, he wanted no more of it.

"Brandon..."

He raised his hands motioning for her to stay away. She paid no attention and continued to approach. He turned, stumbled, then headed for his truck.

"Brandon Martus..."

Keeping a hand on the truck bed to steady himself, he moved along it to the cab.

"You understand now," she called out. "Do you understand?"

He threw open the door and climbed inside.

"Eli..."

He stole a look over his shoulder. She was still shuffling toward him. He reached into his jeans pocket for his keys. His right hand screamed in pain. It was either sprained or broken.

"Eli... You have the same authority, you have seen it work."

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he yanked out the keys and shoved them into the ignition.

"Child..."

He fired up the truck.

"You have the authority."

He dropped it into gear and released the brake.

"You need only surrender to His will. You need only believe."

He revved the engine and quickly pulled from the curb. She was still talking, but he no longer heard. He traveled nearly fifty yards before glancing up to the rearview mirror.

The old lady was still there, standing all alone in the road, watching after him.

"Like a leaf, floating upon the surface of a quiet pond..." Dr. Reichner sat in the Observation Room, speaking softly into the microphone. He glanced to the clock. They were twelve minutes into the session.

Down below, in Lab Two, Brandon rested comfortably in the leather recliner. His eyes were covered by the Ganzfield goggles and bathed by the four red flood lights.

Reichner continued speaking. "No cares, no worries, no thoughts. Just quiet, gentle floating..."

Sarah sat beside Reichner. She was still filled with guilt. She'd used Brandon, there was no doubt about it. At Reichner's insistence, she'd taken advantage of Brandon's trust in her and had convinced him to stay. It hadn't taken much; he was already so scared, so vulnerable.

And he had no one else but her to trust.

She winced. Once again someone had manipulated her, someone had used her to exploit another. It was an all-too familiar scenario, forcing her back to memories of the fights with Samuel, his arguments for the abortion, how having a child would hamper her career... Sarah closed her eyes. Once again she was feeling cheap and used and very, very dirty. And, once again, to ease the pain, she focused back to her work.

In front of her were the monitors registering Brandon's heart rate, respiration, GSR, EMG, and the all important EEG. She remembered how, as a little girl, her MD parents used to discuss the EEG craze. Back then, meditation and bio-feedback were the talk of the town. Eventually interest died down, but not for the parapsychologist. In parapsychology interest in the electroencephalograph and brain waves was still very high.

And for good reason. It was still an important gage for measuring mental activity. The brain produces electrical current all of the time. Anywhere from .05 waves per second all the way up to 40. The frequencies of these waves indicate what type of consciousness we are experiencing. Generally, they fall into four categories:

The Beta wave is the highest frequency. When it is the strongest our minds are in high gear, concentrating, solving problems, having panic attacks. Next comes the Alpha wave. It's strongest when we're in that day-dreamy, half awake state. After that, there's the Theta wave. It's most predominant when our subconscious is functioning; when we're dreaming, or experiencing that inexpressible "nagging" feeling at the back of our mind, or suddenly solving a problem that we didn't even know we were thinking about. Finally, there is the Delta wave. This is the slowest and most mysterious. It's been found to be quite strong in psychics, telepathics, and others who claim to be experiencing supernatural insight.

In her parent's days, when everybody was busy achieving "inner peace," Alpha was the fad. But today, everyone from New Agers to Eastern mystics were focusing upon the Theta and Delta waves. These are the waves operating when the mind is most susceptible to paranormal energy outside of the body.

Sarah stared at the EEG and frowned. Something wasn't right. She reached over and rapped the monitor.

"What's wrong?" Reichner asked.

"We have a malfunction," she motioned to the screen. "Look how pronounced Theta is. Something's over modulating."

She reached behind the monitor, preparing to push the reset button, when Reichner shook his head. "No."

She looked to him.

"Let it go."

She pulled back, still looking him. Did he actually think that Brandon could be generating that much Theta and in such a short period of time?

"That's very good," Reichner spoke back into the mic with his soft, velvety tones, "very, very good..."

Sarah glanced back to the screen. The Theta started to shift, to decrease. She motioned to Reichner who saw it and immediately spoke, "No, Brandon, don't listen to my voice, just feel it, make my voice a part of you. Let it guide you, help to keep your mind free, help to empty it, to keep it nice and empty..."

Sarah watched. This part always made her nervous. She knew a 'free and empty mind' was essential in experiencing the paranormal. After all, the more empty your mind was of yourself, the more open it would be to others... which was okay, she guessed, except ... well, except for what assurance did they have that these outside forces were always good?

"Now, keeping your mind free and clear, I want you to tell me what you see, Brandon. Tell me what you feel..."

Brandon's voice came back as a quiet whisper. "Peace..."

"Good..."

Sarah stared at the EEG. Now, even the Delta waves were starting to increase. This was remarkable.

"What type of peace, Brandon?"

"Waves... washing over me..."

"Any colors...sounds?"

"No... Wait. There's wind -- but it's so quiet."

Sarah leaned past the console to look at Brandon through the one way mirror as Reichner quietly cooed, "Good... very good..."

But Brandon barely heard Reichner's voice. The waves of peace had completely enveloped him. He was deep inside them, floating, totally weightless. He knew the wires and sensors were still attached to his head, arms and chest, but he no longer felt them. He knew he was still in the recliner back at the lab, but he was someplace else as well. Someplace beautiful and deep and dark crimson. The only sensation he felt was a soft breeze brushing against his face, and a sound as gentle as wind stirring through pines.

At first he had been uneasy. Try as he might he still couldn't shake the old, black woman's warning. "There is only one path... all others lead to the occult, to destruction." Not easy words to forget, even if you didn't necessarily believe them. But in one sense he did. In one sense, he wondered how different all of these expensive machines and intellectual scientists were from the crystal balls and sorcerers of old? Besides spending a few extra million dollars and investing a few dozen more years of schooling, weren't they in essence attempting to accomplish the same thing? Contacting the spiritual world on their own terms.

The thought gave him little solace. But Sarah had promised he would be safe. And there was the possibility of meeting Jenny again... dear, sweet Jenny. The possibility of finding out what she was trying to tell him, of once again holding his little sister in his arms.

As Brandon continued to float, trying to push the fears aside and trying to keep his mind free and clear, he soon lost track of time. He didn't know if he'd been there ten minutes or an hour. Then finally, through the deep crimson, there was a glint of light. It came and went before he even realized it.

He turned toward its direction.

There it was again. Piercing bright. A great distance away.

The wind picked up slightly, blowing a little harder. With it, the sound also increased. But it really wasn't a sound. It was more like rapid, irregular puffs of air, like gentle whisperings. He had entered some sort of current. He could feel it pulling him -- very gently, yet very persistently. And the more he gave himself over to it, the stronger it grew.

There was another glint of light, brilliant, and a little closer. Then another. And another, closer still. Yes, he was definitely moving. The current was drawing him toward the flashes. Directly in front of the light was a shadow, a silhouette. It looked human. He squinted, trying to protect his eyes from the blinding light, yet trying to see the form. He gave more of himself to the current and quickly picked up speed until, finally, he was close enough to make out that form.

It was a child. A girl in a white gown, her golden hair blowing in the wind. Although he was still some distance away, he knew who she was immediately.

"Jenny…"

He watched as she reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out the lantern, the same one she had held out on the road. The same type suspended by the lamp stand in the foyer. This was the source of the light. It wasn't coming from behind her, but from inside her gown. Yet it was so bright Brandon still had to raise his hands to shield his eyes.

The current grew stronger and he moved faster. The sensation of speed began to frighten him. He wasn't sure why. After all, there was his sister, just ahead. He wanted desperately to reach her, to throw his arms around her, to hug her. But there was something holding him back. Maybe it was the speed... maybe it was the fear of giving up control.

Whatever the case, he began to resist the current, turning his head, willing himself to slow. It was harder than he had anticipated, but with great concentration he was able to retard his progress until he finally slowed to a halting, tenuous stop. He turned toward her. She was a dozen feet away. He wanted so badly to touch her, to hold her... but he was afraid to give up control.

The current continued tugging and pulling, but he stood his ground. Part of him wanted to give in and be swept to her waiting arms. But he was simply too afraid.

As if understanding his fear, she raised her hand, the one holding the lantern. She held it out to him, offering to let him see it, to examine it.

Brandon looked on painfully. He wanted to trust her, he wanted to let go. But he couldn't.

The light grew brighter, the current stronger. But Brandon's panic only increased. He concentrated even harder to hold his ground. That's when he saw the hurt on her face. The pain of rejection. His eyes started to burn with tears. He wanted to call out, to explain that it wasn't her, that it was him, that it was his fears, his cowardice. But no words would come.

Slowly, she withdrew the lantern.

Brandon's heart broke. He hoped she had understood, but feared she hadn't. He watched as she lifted the lantern high above her head. Then, with great purpose, she released it. The lantern dropped, but didn't shatter. Instead, when it hit the ground, it seemed to melt, to become a pool, a molten pool of light that began to churn and bubble upon itself.

Brandon and his sister stared as the light began to grow, horizontally as well as vertically. And the larger it grew, the more power it radiated. Now he understood. The light was the source of the current. And, as it increased in size and strength, so did the current. It began pulling him even harder. He dug in, struggling to stand firm, to keep his balance.

But the pool of light continued to boil, continued to expand-and the current continued to grow. Brandon fought even harder. He looked back to Jenny, pleading for her to help, to make it stop.
She watched in quiet sympathy but did nothing.

He turned from her and tried to break free, tried to fight his way out of the current. The molten light was much bigger now, taking shape, forming a large rectangle, a huge growing rectangle that looked like some sort of doorway. A doorway that towered high above him.

Brandon's feet slipped once, twice. He was losing ground. He was being drug toward the opening. He twisted and stretched, fighting with all of his will to break free of the current, until finally, with the greatest concentration...

Brandon's eyes exploded open. They darted about the room. He was back in the lab, back in the leather recliner. He was covered in sweat, trying to catch his breath, but he was back.