Rooms - James L. Rubart [121]
He knew this voice. He’d heard it as far back as he could remember.
It continued chattering in his mind, enticing him as it had his entire life. Micah lifted his hands to his head and massaged his temples. “Lord,” he whispered, “come into this. I need truth. I can’t do this. I need Your strength.”
The voice stopped, and a soft coolness washed over Micah.
Then another Voice came, gentle, powerful. Not from the room or inside his mind. From his heart. He gasped at the contrast. The distinction between his own familiar voice and this Voice was like white hot fire next to the coldest ice.
Go. Battle. I am with you.
Micah didn’t hesitate. He took two steps directly into the inky darkness and spoke with power. “Say it. Jesus Christ is the Son of God Most High and has come in the flesh. Say it.” Another step forward, now shouting into the ocean of darkness. “Jesus Christ is Lord!”
Immediately an intense heat filled the room, the smell of sulfur filled his nose, and a low buzz started directly in front of him. It changed to a guttural snarl almost too faint to hear before it abruptly stopped.
The fear in the room became physical, pounding him, intent on grinding him into the carpet. But it wasn’t carpet anymore. He stood on a floor of massive flat stones, ice cold, that reached out with tentacles of pain, piercing, winding their way into the soles of his feet.
Micah’s tongue was thick as he spoke again. “Jesus is Lord. His cross is between us. I bind you by His power. His authority. Given to me by Him and His Father, the host of angel armies.”
The snarl returned, louder, longer this time before it again snapped off.
A razor-thin beam of light passed in front of Micah like a windshield wiper across a dirty window. In that flash a silhouette materialized like a black panther emerging from the dead of night.
Utter evil.
The light grew.
He saw the outline of a chair, black wrought-iron with ornate carvings on it.
In it sat the demon, a pinprick circle of black in the center of its pure white, unblinking, dead eyes—its ashen gray lips turned up ever so slightly in a sneer of confidence.
Its face was stunning.
Beautiful.
And horrific.
Chiseled cheekbones and thick, pitch-black hair swept straight back from a perfect forehead, above a perfect nose.
Its skin was a pallid gray, lips a shade darker, eyebrows matching the midnight tone of his hair. Its grotesque beauty stirred something inside Micah—drew him.
Revolting.
Captivating.
“Jesus,” Micah whispered. As the word came out of his mouth, an intricate series of thin, black scars started at the demon’s hairline and spiraled down its cheeks, down over his perfect chin, twisting and circling along his throat till they disappeared into a black, skin-tight long-sleeved gauze shirt.
A second later the scars vanished.
Its rancid eyes flitted around the room as if its gaze could stop the darkness from lifting, then settled back on Micah.
Micah couldn’t move. The reality of a demon sitting only ten feet away paralyzed him. His mind froze, and blood pulsed in his head as the demon’s thoughts echoed in his head.
Death.
Excruciating pain.
“Lord, help,” Micah whispered.
A flicker of peace. Only a flicker.
“I will destroy you for presuming to challenge me, Micah Taylor.” The demon drew the words out, then licked his perfect lips with a black tongue. “To throw that name at me like a weapon? No mercy now. No mercy.” The demon sat back in its chair, and although its mouth didn’t move, a shriek rang in Micah’s mind, and his stomach felt like it was being torn by a jagged blade.
Micah cried out in pain.
“That is nothing compared to what is coming.” The demon crossed its legs.
“Jesus. I need You here. I need help.”
The peace increased, as did the demon’s attack.
“I will crush you. Destroy you and everything and everyone you hold dear.” The demon spoke each word slowly, quietly with a guttural voice, supremely