And over all the righteous and holy He will appoint guardians from amongst the holy angels

  To guard them as the apple of an eye,

  Until He makes an end of all wickedness and all sin,

  And though the righteous sleep a long sleep, they have nought to fear.

  And (then) the children of the earth shall see the wise in security,

  And shall understand all the words of this book,

  And recognize that their riches shall not be able to save them

  In the overthrow of their sins.

  Woe to you, Sinners, on the day of strong anguish,

  Ye who afflict the righteous and burn them with fire:

  Ye shall be requited according to your works.

  ~ Book of Enoch, 100:5-7

  ––––––

  BOROUGH OF MANHATTAN, NEW YORK CITY

  - Late April -

  ––––––

  Jason exited the elevator at precisely 5 PM, his tall, lean frame cutting a purposeful path through the elegant triple-height lobby of 425 Park Avenue. The cool, gray April evening cast everything in muted tones through the floor-to-ceiling windows, mirroring his somber mood. His light brown hair appeared darker in the dim light, the receding hairline more prominent. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his blue-green eyes, usually sharp and analytical, were clouded with worry and fatigue.

  He pulled his olive trench coat tighter as he crossed the polished marble floor. His black Ferragamo shoes tapped a steady rhythm. A leather backpack, containing his laptop, hung over one shoulder.

  "Mr. Reynolds, it's starting to rain. Can I order a car for you?" the security guard called out.

  "No thanks, Eddie. I have an umbrella, and it’s only four blocks to St. Thomas," Jason replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

  "You take care out there. That wind's picking up something fierce."

  Dr. Cuellar’s recommendation for institutionalizing Anne had shattered his normal routine. Instead of heading home for dinner before a scheduled video call with his Asian team, he felt an urgent need to attend the 5:30 Evensong service. As an active parish member, he sought solace in familiar rituals during this crisis.

  Jason stepped out into the drizzle, unfurling his umbrella with a snap. The cool air felt like a balm against his heated thoughts. He turned south on Park Avenue, moving without conscious direction, muscle memory navigating the familiar route while his mind grappled with alternatives.

  The analytical precision that had made him indispensable at Alcazar Capital Management felt utterly useless when faced with his sister's deteriorating condition. Algorithms and trading strategies couldn't solve this problem.

  The weight of responsibility pressed against his shoulders: Anne's deteriorating condition, his wife’s growing distance, the relentless demands of his position at Alcazar. His pace quickened as 53rd Street drew closer.

  His thoughts drifted to Anne's face, pale and drawn from the medications—her vacant stare, her trembling hands. The woman who once laughed at his terrible jokes now seemed a ghost of herself. The thought of his sister locked away, drugged into compliance, filled him with dread.

  A taxi blared its horn nearby. Jason barely registered it as he turned west, his feet carrying him toward Fifth Avenue.

  His phone ringing broke him from his reverie. “Jason, I need your approval to distribute the daily trading reports,” his assistant’s voice cracked.

  "Handle it. Family emergency." Jason ended the call and pocketed his phone.

  Crossing Fifth Avenue, Jason's gaze lingered on the towering spires of Saint Thomas Episcopal Church, their limestone surfaces weathered by decades of New York winters yet still magnificent against the overcast sky. The intricate Gothic architecture stood as a beacon of stability amidst the chaos of Manhattan.

  Jason climbed the stone steps as he had so often. The heavy wooden doors yielded to his push, and the noise of the city fell away. Warm air washed over him, scented with incense and beeswax. The vastness of the nave opened, with soaring stone arches and jewel-toned light filtering through the windows. Only the occasional rustle of clothing and prayer books from scattered worshippers broke the profound stillness.

  He found his usual seat, a pew halfway down the nave, positioned to immerse himself in the evening service. He slid into the bench, knelt, and bowed his head. "Dear Lord," he whispered. "Please guide me on your path and help me to serve your will."

  The organ began its prelude, a rich tapestry of sound that wrapped around him. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the music wash over him. In this sacred moment, surrounded by century-old stone and soaring melodies, Jason sought guidance from a higher power.

  The weight of his responsibilities felt momentarily lighter as he surrendered to the ancient ritual of Evensong, hoping for some divine intervention in navigating Anne's troubled path.

  Father Kenneth Cote began the service with an invocation, and Jason raised his head to listen. The familiar words brought some comfort, a reminder of rituals shared with Anne during better days.

  "Jesus said, I am the light of the world, whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life,” intoned the priest.

  The choir’s harmonies enveloped Jason in a comforting cocoon of sound. Yet his mind kept drifting back to Anne's vivid recounting of the voices. She had described them in harrowing detail, their relentless presence an unending torment.

  He remembered her words. “They shout at night, Jason. Telling me terrible things.” Her eyes had been wide with fear, a shadow of the vibrant sister he knew. The sanctuary’s peace seemed a mockery of her turmoil.

  The organ’s music swelled, lifting his spirits momentarily before the weight of reality pressed down again. What if there was more to Anne's condition than the psychiatrist could grasp? His sister’s descriptions were too detailed, too consistent. The voices claimed to be beings from another planet, entities with names and histories.

  His skepticism wavered. Could these voices be something beyond mere hallucinations? The idea seemed absurd and yet...

  Jason’s gaze wandered to the stained glass windows, some depicting stories of divine intervention and spiritual battles. Anne's ordeal felt like a clash between worlds, one that science alone might not resolve.

  Jason's thoughts churned. The medications dulled her senses but never silenced the voices entirely. They offered temporary relief but left her disoriented, disconnected from herself.

  He shifted in the pew, the polished wood creaking under his weight. Could there be a spiritual dimension? he mused, grappling with the notion. He'd always trusted in reason and logic, but this situation defied conventional understanding.

  Math and music had always been his refuge, his tools for making sense of the world. But Anne's experiences defied rational explanation.

  Jason considered alternative explanations. Paranormal phenomena? Spiritual warfare? These ideas seemed outlandish yet strangely fitting given Anne’s accounts.

  Jason watched an acolyte swing the thurible, releasing a cloud of incense, and inhaled the sweet aroma. Throughout human history, people had experienced phenomena beyond scientific understanding. Visitations. Voices. Messages from beyond. Modern medicine labeled these as mental illness, but what if some cases were genuine encounters with something beyond the material world?

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The possibility troubled him. If Anne’s torment had supernatural origins, then psychiatric treatments alone would never help her. She needed something the medical establishment couldn’t offer.

  He felt a pang of guilt for doubting her reality. If her afflictions transcended medical science, then he owed it to her to explore every possibility, even those that defied his understanding.

  The final chords of the organ reverberated through the sanctuary, echoing his resolve. Jason remained seated as the congregation rose and filed out, his thoughts unsettled. He waited until most had departed before making his way toward the church offices, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor.

  #

  Father Cote's office door stood slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the dimly lit corridor. Jason knocked gently.

  "Come in," Ken's familiar voice called.

  Jason pushed the door open to find his friend writing at his desk. The priest's face brightened upon seeing him.

  "Jason! What a pleasant surprise." Ken rose from his chair, extending his hand; his thin build was evident beneath his charcoal gray clerical shirt and collar. Curly auburn hair, touched with silver at the temples, was cut short. "I noticed you before the service but didn't want to disturb your meditation."

  Jason shook Ken's hand, feeling a small measure of tension release from his shoulders. The office enfolded him in its familiar comfort—dark wooden bookshelves lined with theological texts, the subtle scent of old books and furniture polish, a round stained-glass window casting colored patterns across the floor.

  “I hope you don't mind me dropping by without an appointment.”

  “Not at all." Ken's warm hazel-green eyes, framed by laugh lines that revealed his ready smile, shifted to a deeper shade of green as he focused on his visitor's obvious distress. He motioned toward two comfortable leather chairs positioned near the window. The soft glow from a brass desk lamp cast gentle shadows across the room's furnishings. "Please, sit. You look troubled."

  Jason sank into a chair, setting his backpack beside him. "It's about my sister Anne. I mentioned her condition before—the voices she hears."

  Ken's expression sobered immediately. "How is she?"

  "Not good." Jason rolled his neck, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. "Her psychiatrist is recommending commitment to a mental health facility."

  "My God." Ken leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Based on what?"

  “Dr. Cuellar thinks Anne is psychotic and suicidal." Jason couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice. "But I don't buy it, Ken. I'm beginning to wonder if there might be something beyond medical science at work here.”

  Jason reached for his backpack, extracting a folder of neatly organized notes. He opened his laptop, fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard.

  "I've been researching the literature." Jason turned the screen toward Ken. "Schizophrenia presents with hallucinations, yes, but auditory, not visual. The delusions are typically paranoid and disorganized."

  Ken studied the screen, his brow furrowing in concentration.

  "Anne's experiences are different." Jason flipped through his notes. "Her accounts are detailed and coherent. She describes an entire civilization with consistent cultural practices, a shared language, and well-defined social structures. There's no disorganized speech, no cognitive impairment. Between episodes, she's completely lucid."

  Ken leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "You've been thorough."

  "They want to lock her away, Ken." Jason's voice cracked slightly. "The medications they've put her on—they're destroying her. She's like a shell of herself."

  "And you believe these... entities she's communicating with might be real?" Ken asked carefully.

  "I don't know what to believe anymore." Jason met Ken's gaze directly. "But I know my sister. Something's happening to her that science can't explain."

  Jason leaned forward in the leather chair, feeling a surge of nervous energy. He had been building toward this moment for days, organizing his thoughts and compiling his research.

  "Ken, what if we're dealing with something spiritual rather than psychological?" Jason met his friend's gaze. "What if this is a case of demonic possession?"

  Ken's eyebrows rose slightly, his expression unreadable. Jason pressed on.

  "The Bible documents numerous cases. Christ himself cast out demons." Jason flipped through his notes. "Mark 5, the Gerasene demoniac. Luke 8, the woman with seven demons. These weren't considered mental illnesses. They were spiritual afflictions."

  Ken nodded slowly. "The Church does recognize the possibility of demonic influence."

  "And the Catholic Church has established protocols for exorcism," Jason continued. "Even the Episcopal Church maintains rites for deliverance. Anne's symptoms align with historical accounts: the voices, the visions, the physical manifestations."

  "I understand your reasoning," Ken said, his tone measured. "But the Episcopal Church approaches such matters with extreme caution. There's a rigorous approval process for exorcism."

  "What kind of process?" Jason asked.

  "First, an evaluation must rule out mental illness. Then two priests must review the case, followed by the bishop's approval, which is exceedingly rare." Ken sighed. "Since Anne has already been diagnosed with schizophrenia by medical professionals, an official exorcism wouldn't be approved."

  Jason's hope deflated. "So that's it? I just accept their diagnosis and watch her deteriorate?"

  "I didn't say that." Ken leaned forward. "Your research is thorough, and you've presented a coherent alternative perspective. There might be another approach."

  "I'm listening."

  Ken leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Have you ever heard of Eustargio Navarro? He goes by Targo professionally."

  Jason shook his head. The name meant nothing to him.

  "He's a psychic medium with quite a reputation in the city," Ken continued. "Several members of our parish have consulted with him over the years—family matters, personal guidance, that sort of thing."

  Jason felt his skepticism rise instinctively. Psychics had always struck him as charlatans preying on the vulnerable. "You're suggesting I take Anne to a psychic?"

  Ken smiled gently. "I understand your hesitation. The field is rife with frauds. But Targo is... different. He's helped people in ways that defy simple explanation."

  "You believe in psychics?" Jason couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

  "I believe there are mysteries beyond our understanding," Ken replied. "And I've witnessed enough to know Targo possesses genuine insight. He's not the carnival fortune-teller type. He's thoughtful, educated, and remarkably accurate."

  Jason looked dubious. "Even if I were open to this, how would it help Anne?"

  "If what Anne is experiencing has spiritual or paranormal dimensions, Targo might perceive things that neither medical professionals nor clergy are equipped to detect." Ken leaned forward. "Think of it as gathering additional data. We're not dismissing the psychiatrist's diagnosis. We're simply exploring all possibilities."

  Jason appreciated Ken's practical framing. It wasn't about choosing between science and spirituality, but about collecting more information.

  "Several parishioners I deeply respect have found clarity through his guidance," Ken added. "People who aren't easily fooled."

  Jason felt his resistance softening. He had already stepped beyond his comfort zone by considering demonic possession; consulting a psychic seemed a smaller leap in comparison.

  "What would this involve, exactly?" he asked.

  "A consultation. A conversation." Ken reached for a notepad, scribbling something. "No crystal balls or theatrics. Just an opportunity to gain another perspective on Anne's situation."

  Ken tore off the page and handed it to Jason. The name "Eustargio Navarro" was written in neat script, followed by a phone number and a Greenwich Village address.

  "Tell him I referred you," Ken said. "He's quite busy but makes time for my referrals."

  Jason pocketed the paper, feeling a strange mix of doubt and hope. "Thank you. I'll think about it."

  "That's all I ask." Ken's eyes crinkled with warmth. "Keep an open mind, Jason. When conventional approaches fail, sometimes the unconventional offers unexpected wisdom."

  Jason emerged from the church into the cold evening. Manhattan's cacophony surrounded him—honking taxis, chattering pedestrians, the constant hum of a city that never paused. He walked west toward Lincoln Center, his mind churning faster than his footsteps.

  Schizophrenia. Demonic possession. And now, psychic phenomena. Three possible explanations for Anne's condition, each from entirely different realms of understanding.

  He pulled out his phone, typing "Eustargio Navarro" into the search bar as he waited for the light to change at Columbus Avenue. Several hits appeared: a professional website, mentions in spirituality blogs, and a few articles in New York lifestyle magazines. No obvious red flags or fraud accusations. At least Targo wasn't operating out of a neon-lit storefront with a palm sign in the window.

  Jason pocketed his phone, quickening his pace. The familiar silhouette of his Lincoln Center condominium tower rose before him. Jason entered the lobby, nodding mechanically to the doorman as he headed for the elevator.

  Inside his apartment, he went straight to his home office. He needed to prepare. If he was going to consult a psychic medium, something the Jason Reynolds of six months ago would have dismissed as absurd, he would approach it with the same analytical rigor he applied to his work at Alcazar.

  He opened his laptop and created a new research folder: "Metaphysics and Psychic Phenomena." Where did one even begin?

  He started with academic sources, searching Columbia University's database for peer-reviewed studies on psychic abilities. The results were sparse and largely skeptical, filled with terms like "cold reading techniques" and "statistical anomalies." The scientific community had clearly relegated such phenomena to the realm of fraud or delusion.

  But Jason pressed deeper, downloading papers on extrasensory perception studies conducted at Stanford Research Institute and Princeton's Engineering Anomalies Research Laboratory. Even here, in bastions of academic rigor, researchers had documented unexplained results that defied conventional understanding.

  Jason rubbed his temples, fighting off the tension headache building behind his eyes. The irony wasn't lost on him. A man who designed systems to predict market movements was now researching whether minds could perceive information beyond the five senses.

  His phone buzzed with a text from Anne: "Feeling better today. Voices are quieter."

  Jason sighed. The antipsychotic medications were sedating her into a hollow version of herself. Each "better" day meant another piece of his vibrant, intelligent sister disappearing behind a pharmaceutical fog.

  He returned to his research with renewed urgency. Time was Anne's enemy now. Dr. Cuellar’s recommendation for long-term care hung over them like a guillotine. Once Anne entered the system, escaping institutional control would become exponentially more difficult.

  Jason bookmarked articles on mediumship, psychic assessment techniques, and supernatural intervention theories. The subject matter made his skin crawl, not from fear, but from intellectual discomfort. He was abandoning everything he understood about evidence-based investigation.

  But Anne's deteriorating condition left him no choice. If conventional medicine couldn't explain her experiences, perhaps unconventional wisdom might illuminate what doctors missed. Even if it meant venturing into territory that challenged his fundamental beliefs about reality itself.

  * * *