Christian Short Stories

Copyright © 2019 Jon Truman. All rights reserved

Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, English Standard Version, copyright © 2001 Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Christian Short Stories is a work of fiction. With the exception of some actual locations, unless otherwise stated—all incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance beyond that is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-54396-065-5 eBook 978-1-54396-066-2

OTHER BOOKS BY JON TRUMAN

Cadaver

Angel

Adryel

Going Home

Contents

PREFACE

THE OUIJA BOARD

OLD MAN SUTTER

ANTARCTICA

EMMA’S ANGEL

THE BOOK BURNING

LUCIFUGE ROFOCALE

I’ll PRAY FOR YOU

MY GIFT

NOTHING TO FEAR

MICHAEL

WHAT IF?

TOLERANCE

TO KILL OR NOT TO KILL

A WHITE WITCH

NEVER AGAIN

A CANDLE FOR JOEL

TO JUDGE OR NOT TO JUDGE

THE HERMIT JONES’ PLACE

SAMPSON

XEZBETH

REJOICE AND BE GLAD

JUST BELIEVE

TO HELL AND BACK

GATHER OR SCATTER

SUCCESS

AN ANSWER TO PRAYER

THE SIGN

BLESSED ASSURANCE

WHY BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE

DARWIN WAS RIGHT

YOU DID IT TO ME

AAFA SHAHEEN

LET’S GO HOME

THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

THE ENFORCER

GOD HAS MADE US ONE

NDE

DEAD WRONG

THE LAST DAYS

JUST ASK

THE BEGINNING

THE PUPPETEER

THE WRITER

ROOM FOR ONE MORE

CONSEQUENCES

ANSWERED PRAYER

BEST FRIEND

GRACE

THE PARTY

SEE YOU IN HEAVEN

ONE HUNDRED PERCENT

REAL LIFE

PREFACE

The short stories that follow are approximately five-hundred to fifteen-hundred words each. That places them in the lower to upper range of a growing popular form of storytelling called Flash Fiction. Although the name is relatively new, short fiction is not. It dates back to the 6th century B.C. That’s when Aesop wrote his classic Aesop’s Fables.

It became quite popular during the glory age of magazines and is now experiencing a resurgence. That’s due, in part, to the explosion of digital devices, and the current desire for instant gratification.

In response, some airports are beginning to add vending machines with flash fiction stories enabling passengers to enjoy their time between flights. Online Flash Fiction publishers offer authors a venue for their writing featuring some of the best short fiction you’ll find anywhere. More and more commuters, those waiting in doctors’ offices, and others with brief periods of time to fill are increasingly choosing short or flash fiction over full length novels.

That’s why after writing one non-fiction book and four full-length novels, I have chosen to write a book of shorter, flash fiction stories. My hope is that each will seize the attention of every reader, hold him or her to the end, and hopefully add some scriptural inspiration or insight.

I close with a thank you for purchasing CHRISTIAN SHORT STORIES. In the Author’s Notes at the end of my novel, Cadaver, I close with this line: I’d like to thank you, the reader, for a book with no reader is like a body with no breath. Nothing more than a—Cadaver!

The same is true for this book. Truly, thank you for reading— CHRISTIAN SHORT STORIES!

THE OUIJA BOARD

For the third time in a month, a serial killer struck young co-eds on the campus of the University of Tennessee. His latest target were three female students who lived off campus in a rundown Victorian house. Residents nearby said they could hear screams a block away.

Like before, the killer bound his victims’ hand and foot with duck-tape. He stuffed soiled rags in their mouths, glued their eyes shut, then slit their throats.

A week later.

1:00 a.m.

Riker’s campus bar had given its last call for drinks. Patrons slowly left, many on unsteady feet. Tom and his best friend and college roommate, Brad, were the last to leave.

They stepped onto the dimly lit sidewalk amidst the flashing blue and red lights of beer signs that bookended Riker’s metal barred door. They took a shortcut down a nearby alley, lined with rickety back yard fences and garbage cans. Ten minutes later, they arrived at their campus housing.

Their room was on the seventh floor of a once abandoned, now refurbished hotel. It was advertised as reasonably priced housing for college students. The reason for the reasonableness was immediately clear to anyone who dared gaze on its once white, now gray and pocked siding. Located at 2500 Munson Road, many called it Ghoul House.

I’ve got an idea. Tom slurred, as he stepped up to the front door.

Brad was slow to respond. When he did, hindered by the inebriated synapses of his brain, it came out sounding like, Wuts-yr-ida?

Let’s find out who the killer is.

That drew a good ten seconds of silence. When, finally, Tom’s suggestion soaked in, Brad said, How are we going to do that? And…why would we want to?

Because...we can?

Really? Brad said. "How?

Ouija Board.

Tom pulled open the front door and he and Brad stepped into the dimly lit lobby. As usual, it was empty. Thirty feet in front of them was the elevator. With Brad close behind, Tom stepped up to it and slid open the iron gate. Together they entered. As it clanked shut, Tom pressed the button for the seventh floor.

The elevator jerked, then slowly began to creak upward. As it shimmied and shook, Tom was struck with the same unnerving thought. When was the last time anyone inspected the cable?

A little less than a minute later, the elevator ground to a halt on the seventh floor. Tom and Brad exited, entered the hall, and turned left. Their room was two doors on the right.

Tom reached for the glass doorknob, then stopped. He spun around, took three steps to the door opposite theirs, and knocked. That’s where Aaron and Shane roomed. They were the only other residents on the seventh floor.

Tom asked if they’d like to join them in their search for the serial killer. Bored and with nothing better to do, they readily agreed.

Soon all four were sitting on the floor of Tom and Brad’s room, the Ouija board in front of them. The only light came from six flickering votive candles that danced about the room.

Who wants to go first? Tom said.

No one volunteered.

It was your idea. Brad said. You start.

Okay…okay. Tom gingerly laid the tips of his fingers on the pointer. When Brad hesitated to do the same, Tom said, Come on. I can’t do this alone.

Like one about to stick his finger into an electric socket, Brad touched the other side of the pointer. Nothing happened. And no one said anything for thirty seconds. Well, Brad said, I think you’re supposed to ask it a question.

Yeah. Right. Okay…is the killer on campus right now?

Suddenly!

The pointer jerked, then slid upward to the word YES!

You moved that, Brad said.

I did not.

Okay. Ask another question.

Uhhh…where is the killer now?

Once again, the pointer glided across the board. But this time, it began spelling out the words, O-U-T-S-I-D-E, followed by Y-O-U-R, then H-O-U-S-E.

Simultaneously, as if it had burst into flames, Tom and Brad jerked their fingers off the pointer.

No one spoke.

They just stared at one another.

Shane was the first to break the silence. No way, he said.

Tom sucked in a deep breath, put his hands back on the pointer, and nodded for Brad to do the same. Reluctantly he did.

Where is he now? Tom asked.

The pointer skated to the letters O-N, then T-H-E, followed by E-L-E-V-A-T-O-R.

Aaron expressed what they were all feeling. I think…maybe… we’d better quit."

But Tom didn’t. Where is he now?

Once again, the pointer sprung into action. It quickly spelled out the word T-H-E, followed by S-E-C-O-N-D. It ended with the word F-L-O-O-R.

Tom and Brad again jerked their fingers off the pointer.

But—

The pointer didn’t stop. As if guided by invisible hands, it continued to slither and slide across the board.

T-H-R-E-E…

F-O-U-R…

F-I-V-E…

You hear that? Aaron whispered.

They all had. It was the creaking of the rising elevator.

S-I-X…

S-E-V-E-N…

And then—it stopped.

It was followed by the soft clanking and grating of the bars of the metal elevator gate as it began to open.

Silence.

Total silence.

They all froze. Only their heads moved as slowly, collectively, their eyes turned toward the door. Each held his breath, fearing that whatever or whoever on the other side might hear them.

Suddenly!

There was a BOOM, BOOM, BOOM as a heavy fist slammed the door.

And then—it flew open!

"And when they say to you, ‘Inquire of the mediums and the necromancers who chirp and mutter,’ should not a people inquire of their God? Should they inquire of the dead on behalf of the living? (Isaiah 8:19).

Be sober-minded, be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.

(1 Peter 5:8).

OLD MAN SUTTER

Want to do something cool? red haired, freckle-faced Jimmy said to his best friend, Bobby. They were sauntering down the railroad tracks toward McCorey Holler, a town nestled in the Tennessee valley near the village of Etowah.

Bobby was a year older than Jimmy. Thirteen-and-a-half. For some reason Bobby couldn’t figure out, he was three inches shorter. Just five-foot.

Like what? Bobby said.

How about we go see old man Sutter.

Are you crazy?

Not as crazy as you, bug-breath.

You know, they say he’s likely to kill anyone who steps on his property.

You believe that?

Yeah. Don’t you?

I know one way to find out.

Let me guess, we just go to old man Sutter’s house and see if he kills us. Swell. Great idea.

So…you want to?

Bobby paused, then said, Yeah. Let’s do it. But I’ll walk behind you so when he blasts us with his shotgun, you’ll be the first to get hit.

It was settled. Jimmy and Bobby would go see old man Sutter.

The road that led to his house was up ahead on the left. Jimmy and Bobby slid down the rocks that abutted the rails and headed for it. Actually, it was a stretch to call it a road. More like two parallel ruts that snaked and disappeared into the woods. Tall grass had grown on both sides and in the middle. And the undergrowth was so thick that, although it was noon, it seemed more like seven-thirty. That’s about when the sun would set.

How far is it? Bobby asked.

I don’t know. But if we keep walking, I reckon we’ll wind up there sooner or later.

Nearly twenty minutes passed before they reached a clearing and stopped. Knee-high grass led up to the house. Weeds, vines, and spindly pines surrounded a weathered-gray, square, three story structure. Above the sagging porch was a second floor with a mullioned window on the right and a bay window on the left. Higher still was a small attic window.

It doesn’t look like anyone lives there, Bobby whispered.

Jimmy said, Let’s find out.

Slowly.

Cautiously.

They walked up the porch steps, cringing when they squeaked under their feet. And stopping before the door, they looked at one another.

What now? Bobby again whispered.

Jimmy just shrugged his shoulders. Then stretching to his full height, he sucked in a mouthful of air and yelled, IS ANYONE HERE?

Nothing.

Jimmy looked at Bobby and nodded toward the door, signaling for him to enter. Bobby frowned and jabbed a finger at Jimmy.

Okay, Jimmy said as quietly as possible, and placing his hand on the rusty knob, he turned it and opened the door. Soon, they were standing in a foyer. Before them were stairs leading to the second floor. Some of the steps were missing. To their right was a double doorway leading into what, they presumed, was a living room.

Is anyone here? Jimmy said, his voice quivering.

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the living room. COME IN, BOYS!

Jimmy and Bobby flinched. They stared wide-eyed at each other, then slowly stepped through the double doors. There, sitting on a ratty chair was an old man in tattered coveralls. His hair was long and unkempt, and his beard fell beyond his bone-thin breast.

What can I do for you?

Once again, Jimmy and Bobby looked at each other. Both were afraid to speak. Finally, Jimmy got up his courage and said, We…we just wanted to see if you really lived here, Mr. Sutter.

Well…now you know. Have a seat, boys.

Dust plumed around Jimmy and Bobby as they nervously sat on the soiled couch opposite Mr. Sutter. To their surprise, they soon began to enjoy the conversation that followed. Old man Sutter told them all about the Civil War. He seemed to know everything there was to know about it.

An hour passed, and Jimmy said, I think we’d better go, Mr. Sutter. But thanks for letting us drop by.

"Thank you, Sutter said with the rasp of old vocal chords. I don’t get many visitors."

Jimmy and Bobby stood to leave.

Let me give you something, old man Sutter said. In his hand were several civil war musket balls.

They profusely thanked Mr. Sutter. Sir, said Jimmy, could we maybe visit you again?

Certainly, boys. Anytime.

Jimmy and Bobby did just that. They visited old man Sutter each Saturday for six weeks. And each time, Mr. Sutter gave them a civil war relic: a U.S. civil war buckle, a canon artillery lanyard, a couple fifty-eight caliber mini-balls, a brass soldier’s heel plate, and more musket balls.

Late one evening, Jimmy’s father saw his son going through his newly acquired civil war relics.

Where’d you get those?

Old man Sutter. He gave me and Bobby some.

That’s impossible. Old man Sutter fought in the Civil War. He was killed in the battle of Chattanooga in 1863. That was… He paused to count the years, …one-hundred-fifty-three years ago.

The following Saturday, Jimmy and Bobby returned to old man Sutter’s home, but—he wasn’t there.

They walked throughout the old house, yelling his name, but no one answered.

Maybe he’s outside, Bobby said.

Jimmy and Bobby stepped back through the front door, walked down the steps and around the side of the house to the back yard.

To their surprise, old man Sutter was outside. In the middle of the yard. Surrounded by a square, rusty wrought-iron fence was a tombstone. Etched and mildewed on it was the name, Private John Thomas Sutter, BORN 1802, DIED 1863.

"Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh. Is anything too hard for me? (Jeremiah 32:27).

ANTARCTICA

8:00 a.m.

Saturday, November 25th.

What’s the temp? Daniel asked Elizabeth.

Daniel, better known in academia as micro-biologist, Dr. Daniel Braden, and geneticist Dr. Elizabeth Morgan, were two of five scientists billeted at Ice Station America. The others: doctors Jane Banyon, Edward Zimmer, and Brian Caldwell filled out the team sent by the National Science Foundation to Antarctica. Known as the coldest, driest, and windiest continent on earth, it