Father Ray Curran was receiving divine revelation from the audible voice of God Almighty on Wednesday night when he was jarred from the dream.

BAM!

He was still vibrating all over from the sound of the Lord’s voice when he awoke.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Father Curran rubbed sleep from his eyes and climbed from his sleeping bag on the floor of the assembly hall.

“What is this?” he asked, eyes turned to the ceiling.

He grabbed his robe and pulled it on while walking through the short connecting hall and flipping on the lights in the chapel.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“Hold on,” Father Curran admonished the oaken door at the front of the chapel, but not opening it. “Who is it? It’s very late.”

“Please help me!” The voice through the door was muted, but filled with urgency.

Father Curran sighed and opened the door. He couldn’t get it open before a wild-eyed man with a shock of red hair burst through and grasped him by the shoulders.

“Father! I am in great danger. So are you. You must help me!” he screamed.

The man was a fright, dripping water on the floor of the nave. Lightning split the sky, flashing through the open door. The sound of thunder boomed after it.

Father Curran reached out and put a hand on the man’s arm, hoping to reassure. “You must calm yourself, my son. Nothing good can come from this upset.”

“There’s no time! There’s no time!” The man never blinked.

“Come in,” the young priest said, closing the door on the storm. “I will make us tea.”

“We won’t be safe,” the man hissed, “not even here.”

“If we aren’t safe anywhere,” Father Curran reasoned, “we might as well have tea here, right?”

Something went out of the man then. He deflated like a balloon with a slow leak, and nodded.

Father Curran led the man to the back room, which might one day be a rectory, but in the meantime served as the meeting place for the local AA group. It was also where Father Curran laid out his sleeping bag until other arrangements could be made. New to the parish, he was unsure if the man was a parishioner.

“There’s the lavatory,” the priest said gesturing at the door. “Go and dry yourself, son, while I put the kettle on.”

The man disappeared into the bathroom. While the water boiled and the tea steeped, Ray Curran wondered what spiritual crisis could be so urgent, so dangerous. Inside the bathroom the wet stranger was muttering to himself. The muttering was punctuated by an ejaculation of, “Stop it! Shut up!” By the time Father Curran had two steaming cups on the long folding table in the center of the room, the redheaded visitor emerged from the bathroom.

“Come, sit,” Father Curran said. He stared at the man. Something was different, somehow wrong, but the priest couldn’t figure out what it was.

Again the man nodded and sat on the other side of the table. He sipped the tea, then said, “It’s good, Father. I think I needed this. I’m starting to give out. I can’t take the pressure anymore.”

The redhead reached inside his overcoat and took out a small vial of clear liquid. He poured this into the tea cup and then downed half of the whole steaming cupful in a swallow. As he did this, Father Curran realized what was different. The man was completely dry—hair, clothes…everything.

“How…” Father Curran started to ask, but the man interrupted him.

“What would you say, Father,” the man asked, setting the cup back on its saucer, “if I told you I could prove the existence of God?”

“I would say I need no proof.” There was a touch of hurt in his voice. The question offended him.

“Not even tempted?” the man asked.

“Not a bit.” Now his voice held only conviction. “Who are you, my son? Are those drugs?”

The man gave a name, then continued. “Who I am doesn’t matter, but what I am endangers us both.” He picked up the empty vial and screwed the top on it. “And as to this. No, it’s not drugs in the way you mean.”

“In the way I mean?”

“Not cocaine or heroin, no seratonin inhibitors here, no alkaloids or amphetamines…nothing illegal.”

“Then what is it? What are you?” Father Curran rubbed his eyes again. It was late, and this game was becoming tedious.

“I’ll tell you everything, but it requires patience, and a leap of faith. I’m just afraid you won’t believe.” Father Curran thought he saw tears welling up at the edges of the redhead’s bloodshot eyes.

“Both are in my job description,” the priest said.

“I’m a research biochemist at Vanderbilt, a tenured professor.”

“And that?” Father Curran pointed at the vial.

“A synthetic neural peptide.” The man still did not blink.

“A…a what?”

“It’s better if I start at the beginning.”

“Then start.” The priest was getting antsy. He wanted to go back to sleep, but the man was intriguing—clearly troubled.

“The stuff makes you pee,” the man said. “I’ll be right back.”

While the redhead was in the bathroom, Father Curran had just enough time to switch the teacups. Ray didn’t know what drug the redhead was taking, but he clearly didn’t need any more of it.

“To start with,” the man said, taking his seat, then rapping on the folding table loudly, “this table is not what you think it is.”

Ray sighed. He might have to call the police if it kept going this way. “What do I think it is?”

“You think it’s solid. You think it’s real. You think it exists outside your perception of it. None of that is true.”

“Son,” Father Curran said, “it’s late, and I think you need a different kind of help than I can…”

“Don’t!” the man shouted. He picked up the vial in one fist and banged his hand down on the synthetic tabletop with great force. The whole table shook. “Just listen. If you listen, you’ll understand.”

“All right!” Father Curran said. “Stay calm. I’ll listen.”

“What’s it made of?” the redhead demanded.

“Uh, aluminum and plastic, I guess.”

“More basic than that.”

“Atoms?” Ray guessed.

“And what’s an atom?”

“I’m just a priest,” Ray said.

“I know.” The redhead said. “That’s why I’m here. But I’m a scientist, and I can tell you that an atom is composed of a tiny nucleus of protons and neutrons surrounded by a fuzzy cloud of charged electrons.”

“I seem to recall what you’re saying my schooling,” Ray admitted.

“Your schooling probably didn’t tell you that those electrons, even the particles making up the nucleus of the atom, are popping in and out of existence all the time. They aren’t always there.” The redhead lowered his head, exhausted. He relaxed his fist, and Ray saw a trickle of blood spill out between his fingers. He must have broken the glass vial when he struck the table.

“None of it’s really here.” The redhead looked up again. “Quantum physics tells us there’s as much nothing in this table as there is in the space between galaxies. The amount of actual matter in this table represents an insignificant percentage of its volume, and the matter there winks in and out of existence like lights blinking on a far shore. It’s on or off. Zero or one, get it? This is nothing but raw information.” He banged the table again for emphasis and a drop of blood splashed on the plastic tabletop.

“What has all this to…” Ray started, but again the redhead didn’t let him finish.

“It’s the first of three things you need to grasp.”

“And the second?” If he could hurry this along, perhaps Ray could get to the point where he could convince the man he needed professional help from someone other than a priest.

“The Maharishi effect,” Redhead said bluntly.

“I don’t know about Eastern mysticism,” Father Curran said.

“It’s a scientific term.”

“Oh.”

“It refers to the documented phenomena of mind over matter—documented evidence that people change physical reality by a conscious act of will.”

“I’ve seen Uri Geller bend spoons on Johnny Carson,” Ray allowed.

“I’m talking about science, damnit!” Redhead almost screamed again.

“Stay calm, son, or we can’t talk.” The man’s eyelids were static, and Ray found himself feeling uncomfortable under the unwavering gaze. He began to wish that the man would blink.

“I’m sorry, Father. But listen, I’m not talking about some sideshow. I’m talking about serious scientific research.

“Fact: In 1993, 4000 people gathered in Washington D. C. in an experiment. They predicted, based on the results of forty-eight previous experiments, that by collective concentration, they could lower the crime rate by twenty-five percent. They did.

“Fact: Prayer affects the recovery rates of the sick and injured, even if they don’t know anyone is praying for them. If you do a search on ProQuest®, you’ll find more than two-hundred-fifty peer-reviewed references to this proven phenomenon just between 1999 and 2002.”

“I wouldn’t be a priest if I didn’t believe in the power of prayer,” Ray said.

“This isn’t faith, Father. It’s scientific fact. You may believe in prayer, but do you know why it works? Never mind.

“Fact: Photographs of the molecular structure of water by Masaru Emoto show that human thought affects the physical structure of water molecules. The photos are compelling.” Blood was now welling up from the man’s clenched fist in alarming amounts, but he didn’t seem to notice, and Ray was afraid to say anything.

“Now we come to my research,” he said. “I had become obsessed with the notion that the Maharishi effect was an actual realignment of reality as an act of will. If the material world is nothing but a series of possibilities, and human thought chooses a particular reality from all those possibilities—if thought creates reality, then in humans it’s a biochemical process.”

“I don’t quite see what you mean.” Ray was starting to get confused by all the jargon.

“Every human state is chemical.” Redhead insisted. “If you’re happy or sad, if you’re angry or in love, those are just the effects of proteins produced by the hypothalamus. Each emotional state is associated with a particular chemical. The neural net in your brain reacts to a stimulus, and the hypothalamus produces the appropriate neural peptide or hormone. They course through your body and chemically change your physical makeup…just like adrenalin in an emergency. We’ve all heard of the small woman who lifts the car off her child.”

“Yes.”

“By working with transcendentalists from India, snake handlers from Alabama, Buddhist monks, and every kind of mystic, psychic and religious fanatic I could find, I managed to isolate and synthesize the neural peptide produced by the hypothalamus during manifestations of the Maharishi effect.”

Redhead opened his hand; shards of broken glass in a welling of blood. “God in a bottle,” he said. “With the synthetic peptide, we’re no longer limited to small effects from large collective efforts. One person infused with the protein can make dramatic changes to reality.”

“I cannot accept this,” Ray told him.

“It’s fact. Quantum mechanics dictates it is so. The very small determines all else. Didn’t Jesus say the kingdom of heaven was like a mustard seed?”

“Yes, but—”

“It was the smallest example his audience would understand.”

“You’ll have to go now,” Ray told him. “You need help I can’t give you.”

 “I evaporated the water with my mind,” the man said.

Father Curran stared at the man.

“You wondered why I was dry?”

Ray didn’t speak. As he watched, the biochemist closed his bleeding hand on the broken glass, making a tight fist. When he opened it again, the once-broken vial lay intact in his bloody palm. The priest was so startled that he leapt to his feet.

Father Curran began to tingle all over. It was the same feeling he’d had in his dream while hearing the voice of the Lord. He reached for his chair, stumbling and missing it twice. When he managed to sit again, he took deep breaths and tried not to hyperventilate. His throat was dry. Forgetting that he’d switched the cups, Ray grabbed at his tea and drank the contents of the cup in one long swallow. “Are you…are you…a messenger from God?”

“I am a god, but just a little one.”

The red-haired man still didn’t blink, and suddenly, Father Curran wished desperately that he would blink. Please God, he thought, let him blink.

“I’ve just proved to you the existence of your God—the biblical God of wrath and fire,” he said, slowly closing his wide bloodshot eyes and opening them again.

“I don’t understand,” Ray said.

“If people physically alter reality,” the man said, “and I can do this.” He stood the bloody vial on the table. “If our collective consciousness, over time, has sculpted our physical reality, then has not the belief of millions of Christians, over thousands of years, created a Trinity even if one had not existed before?”

Ray was reeling now. Too much information threatened to knock him from his chair. He grasped the table firmly, feeling its solidity and taking small comfort. He was afraid to pray. “Then what is the danger you are in? That you say I am in? Surely the existence of God is not a problem?

“No,” he said, “the existence of God was predictable…even the existence of gods! It was in the equations. If consciousness creates reality and we are all linked, then God is the Superposition of all Consciousness: a foregone conclusion.”

“Then what is the danger?”

“What separates us from God if we are all little gods, each creating the universe as we go?”

“So you really believe you’re God?” Ray asked. He couldn’t keep a train of thought. Everything was getting away from him.

“You see,” he said, “you do know what separates us from God!”

“The belief that you are God?” Ray couldn’t guess where he was going

“Yes,” he said. Tears began to reappear in the corners of his red eyes, “and I’m not the first one to find it out.”

“What do you mean?” Ray felt the hair start to prickle on his neck.

“When I started to change things, I found something I wasn’t expecting. One person changing reality, directly and radically, is unusual. I was noticed.”

“By Jesus?” Ray was sweating now, staring at the bloody palm of the scientist. He wanted so badly to believe now, anticipating the touch of divinity, but suddenly afraid.

The man shook his head and began to tremble. All confidence gone from his voice, he sounded like a guilty little boy wanting to avoid his spanking. “I thought it was just all science, but I was a fool. When belief is made real, myth becomes concrete. I touched another—one who discovered the sin of hubris and rebelled against the natural order long before me.”

The man stopped pacing and stared at Ray. His eyes burned. “I was noticed by Lucifer, Lord of the Demons of the Air. He whispers to me now, Father. Science is useless. What am I going to do?”

His face was pleading, but the eyes remained cruel.

Father Curran wanted to get up, to run, but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.

“You have to help me, Father. You can’t know what it’s like to hear his voice. You don’t know what he wants me to do. He wants me to hurt people. He wants me to hurt you! He never goes away and I can’t resist much longer.”

“What inside you calls to him? You must calm your mind and rid yourself of hate,” Ray said. “We can pray together.”

“I’ve prayed too much already,” The redhead smiled grimly.

The lights in the assembly room began to dim and flare, filaments humming in a sonic tide in sync with the surges of power. When the lights were dimmed, Ray thought he could see the outline of an immense figure behind the red-haired professor. The temperature in the room soared. Ray began to sweat all over.

“He will not let you go,” the redhead muttered.

Father Curran was out of his chair before the table burst into flames.

“Dear God!” The words were swallowed by the sound of the blaze. The burning table stood between the man and Ray. Choking smoke filled the room, but through the haze Ray saw the huge figure had engulfed the little professor, surrounding and dwarfing him. Its goat head towered above his red crown.

“The Goat of Mendes!” Father Curran hissed. He felt a trickle of urine flow down his leg into his shoe.

In tandem, both figures stretched out a hand; a tongue of fire exploded across the room, engulfing podium and sending a sheet of flame across the rear of the assembly room. The smoke filled the air like thick black cotton. Ray clapped his hand over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered so he could barely see, but he turned and ran.

“COME BACK!” the professor bellowed. It wasn’t his voice, but was deep and horrible—the voice of legend.

Eyes closed and one hand over his face, Ray ran through the short hall and down the middle aisle of the chapel. The pews were already burning. The redheaded devil was right behind him. When he reached the door of the church, it was locked. He remembered his keys were back in the burning assembly hall.

Open! Ray prayed, closing his eyes and imploring God. When he opened them again, the door had disappeared. Sheeting rain slapped his face and thick black smoke billowed past, all around him. The strength drained out of his legs as his lungs strained and he struggled to hold his breath.

Ray felt the skin on his back start to blister from the intense heat when a hand as big as a catcher’s mitt closed on his collar. Even in the thick smoke pouring through the open door, Ray could smell his hair burning. His feet no longer touched the ground. A burning hand lifted him up, and then Ray was flying through the air.

There was a moment of disorientation. Pelting rain washed the soot from his face. Terrible pain accompanied the barbecue sizzle as his flaming back pressed into the wet grass.

When he opened his eyes, the terrifying animal face hovered above him.

“You should have helped me,” the goat said, its voice booming over the sound of thunder.

Massive fiery hands encircled Father Curran’s throat. The pain was unbelievable; his vision blurred. Lightning flashed across the black sky and flames leapt up from the blazing church.

Ray closed his eyes, praying with purpose and expectation he’d never felt before. He prayed silently, because his windpipe was squeezed shut. Even though he couldn’t breathe, he kept trying to gag from the smell of his own flesh cooking. Dear God, he prayed. Please forgive me my sin. I know I’m not worthy, but take this evil dream away. Please take it all away!

Thursday morning, Father Curran climbed from his sleeping bag and made a cup of tea. He’d been having a wonderful dream in which he’d personally heard the voice of the Lord. Despite this blessing, dark thoughts began to plague him.

The sun shone and cotton puff clouds drifted lazily across an azure sky. Last night’s storm had ended, and outside the air was filled with the fresh smell of a rain-cleansed morning. Inside the church, there was an odor Ray hadn’t noticed before. It was puzzling, because Ray was a non-smoker, and the scent wasn’t like that of the votive candles at all. It had the taint of sulfur.

Shortly before noon, he called Vanderbilt University and asked to speak to one of the professors. When he was told there was no professor on the staff by the name he gave the operator, Father Curran hung up. He wasn’t sure why he had placed the call. Afterwards, he sat at his desk for a long time trying to remember where he’d heard the name in the first place.

No matter how he tried, Father Curran couldn’t overcome his unease. The church, which had seemed homey just yesterday, was oppressive now. The brimstone smell persisted in his nostrils. By the end of the day, Ray was so confused that he got down on his knees at the altar and prayed for guidance. Almost at once, he decided he could never be happy in this parish. As long as he stayed, this lingering disquiet would weigh on him. The next morning he put in a request for a transfer to a different church—one that, hopefully, would not smell of smoke.

The End