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  Dark Channel

  Ray Garton

  Dedicated to my loving and patient wife Dawn, whose support got me through this book and continues to get me through everything else.

  Introduction

  In 1987, something took place in Mt. Shasta, California, called the Harmonic Convergence. It was a gathering of New Age believers in everything from crystals to Mayan astrology to the bible—kind of a New Age flea market of beliefs. Mt. Shasta was only an hour away from my home. How could I miss such an event? While there, I saw a couple of “transchannels” who allegedly channeled ancient beings from other spiritual planes. These beings claimed to have humanity’s best interests at heart and shared their wisdom and experience with anyone who would listen. I listened. What I heard added up to a whole lot of nothing—little more than motivational poster captions and bumper sticker philosophy. But it gave me an idea.

  Let’s say these people really were channeling some being who claimed to be benevolent and to possess all of life’s answers. Why should we believe they are what they say they are simply because they say it? What if they had secret motives, hidden agendas? What if they weren’t so benevolent after all? That line of thinking gave birth to this book.

  Dark Channel was originally published in 1992. A lot of things have changed since then. For example, cell phones are everywhere and computer technology is a lot different these days.

  WHEATLAND, CALIFORNIA

  OCTOBER, 1962

  On the day Lizzie Dayton got a glimpse of hell, the playground of Prairie Grammar School was dark beneath the shadow of rain-threatening clouds.

  Before releasing her students for recess, Miss Randall, the fourth-grade teacher, looked out the large rectangular window that gave a clear view of the playground. Drumming her fingernails on her desktop, she said, “It looks pretty cloudy, but the weatherman says it won’t rain. If it does, though, I want all of you to hurry back inside. At the first drop, understand?”

  The class replied with a chorus of nods and uh-huhs.

  “And be sure to wear your coats,” she added. As the children hurried toward the door and forty minutes of playful freedom, Miss Randall said, “Lizzie, could I see you a moment?”

  Lizzie was still seated at her desk, as usual. She always waited for the rush to end before getting up to leave. She stood and approached her teacher’s desk, wondering if she’d unknowingly done something wrong.

  As if reading Lizzie’s thoughts, Miss Randall smiled reassuringly and stood, coming around to the front of her desk. She folded her arms and crossed her thin ankles and said, “How would you like to do a favor for me, Lizzie?”

  Smiling up at her teacher, Lizzie said, “Sure, Miss Randall.”

  “Have you noticed that Hester is limping today?”

  Her smile fading, Lizzie nodded.

  “Well, she hurt her ankle over the weekend and she can’t do any running or jumping for a few days. I’ve noticed you don’t play in many of the games during recess and I thought you’d like to keep Hester company.”

  Lizzie was no longer smiling. She had a sinking feeling inside all of a sudden, as if her stomach were oozing down into her legs.

  “Do … do I have to?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, you don’t have to. But I think it would be a nice thing to do.”

  Lizzie looked down at her shoes.

  “In fact,” Miss Randall said, leaning forward, “you two might even become good friends.”

  That almost made Lizzie laugh; instead, she nodded, said, “Okay,” and got her coat.

  Lizzie Dayton hated recess; the playground was littered with bad memories, and it seemed every time she went out there, another was made. She preferred the classroom, where, safely seated at her desk, she could quietly and confidently do the things she did best: solve math problems, spell words, write book reports or answer quiz questions.

  She was a smart girl—the school had suggested she skip the fourth grade that year, but her mother would not hear of it—but for all of her spelling and writing and mathematical abilities, for all of her “book sense,” as Mom called it, she was unable to fathom the politics of recess.

  If she refused an invitation to join in a game of kick ball or dodge ball, the other children branded her a “chicken”; they laughed at and ridiculed her for not participating. If she played, however, she was ridiculed for her inabilities and inexperience.

  Lizzie was a chubby girl, round-faced and pink-skinned, and lacked the speed and coordination required to be any good at the games the other children played. Her size not only made sports difficult; Lizzie’s entire life seemed a chore simply because of the way she looked. She did not understand how a person such as herself—a girl who had never hurt anyone and who was so willing to share her belongings and talents—could be the target of so much cruelty.

  Grown-ups seemed to see in Lizzie something special.

  “A gifted child,” they’d say.

  “Such a bright girl.”

  “She has so much potential.”

  Praise from adults made her swell with pride and think that perhaps someday, when she was a grown-up, she would be accepted and appreciated. But that day was a long way off. In the meantime, grown-ups made lousy playmates.

  Lizzie had learned that if she were to avoid the tormenting laughter, the name-calling, and the pointing fingers of her classmates, she had to avoid her classmates altogether.

  She especially had to steer clear of Hester Thorne, the most hateful of the lot.

  Hester was probably the most popular girl at school. She had the admiration of students and teachers alike. Her shiny blond hair and big blue eyes were magnets that pulled in the attention of everyone around her. Hester was always smiling, always seemed in a cheerful mood, and was never seen without a small entourage of friends.

  Lizzie was not, however, among her admirers. In fact, there were times when Lizzie was overcome with a burning hatred for Hester that was strong enough to bring tears to her eyes. It also brought a pang of guilt and the echo of her mother’s voice saying, Hating our enemies just lowers us to their level, sweetie; we mustn’t hate them. Remember the Golden Rule that Jesus gave us: “Do unto others …”

  Usually, Lizzie had no problem living by that rule. When others made fun of her or excluded her at school, they sometimes angered her and always hurt her, but she never lashed out at them. Only Hester Thorne could stir in her such trembling hatred. Sometimes that hatred was so fierce it made Lizzie want to kick or hit her, claw at her eyes, do something that would cause Hester enough pain to take that smile from her lips. Maybe it was the smile that did it. …

  Hester’s smile never went away. Even when she was angry or being cruel—and she’d been cruel to Lizzie more times than Lizzie cared to count—the smile remained as if it were a permanent feature of her face. The smile brought a glimmer to her eyes, as if she enjoyed every single thing she did.

  But everything Hester did was not good. …

  Hester had quiet
ly tormented Barry Walker, who was slightly cross-eyed. It was barely noticeable, really; in fact, Lizzie thought Barry’s eyes were nice, crossed or not. He wasn’t at Prairie anymore; he’d left the second week of school. While he was there, not a day had gone by that Hester did not, at least once, say something to him during recess or after school, only loud enough for her friends to hear. Lizzie never heard what Hester said to him, but she knew by the laughter that always followed that it was something awful. Barry had complained to Miss Randall, but it was useless; Hester and her friends always denied it and Miss Randall always believed Hester. Miss Randall was really a very nice lady and Lizzie liked her very much in spite of her allegiance to Hester. It had nothing to do with her character; everyone believed Hester. Everyone but Lizzie.

  One day, Lizzie approached Barry after Hester and her friends had walked away in a chorus of derisive laughter. She smiled and tried to sound cheerful as she said, “Try not to pay too much attention to them. They’re nobody. Really.”

  But Barry did not return to Prairie after that day and Lizzie had not seen him since.

  At the beginning of the year, Miss Randall had brought a pair of hamsters into the classroom for the students to observe. She’d put Hester in charge of the animals, making her the only student with permission to feed and handle them. When Miss Randall was around, Hester always seemed to take great care in changing the hamsters’ food and water and cleaning the cage. But when the teacher was out of the room or busy in her office, Lizzie sometimes saw Hester pinch her thumb and forefinger over the nose and mouth of one of the hamsters until its little body began to wriggle and thrash desperately, all of which got a burst of stifled laughter from Hester’s friends.

  There were other things, too, small things that seemed insignificant when considered individually but, when added up, were very unsettling.

  Like the stray cat that used to hang around the playground waiting for scraps from the children’s lunch bags. Lizzie found the cat one day on her way to catch the bus after school; someone had used a firecracker to blow the cat’s backside into a glistening black-red mess. Normally, Lizzie would have thought even Hester incapable of such a thing. But the day before, she’d seen Hester huddling in a corner of the playground with her friends, passing around a small bright red object and laughing with corrupt delight. …

  What mystified Lizzie was everyone’s apparent blindness to Hester’s cruel nature. It was obvious enough to Lizzie, but no one else seemed to notice. Even those students not given the honor of joining Hester’s entourage treated her as if she were a misplaced princess accidentally enrolled in a small-town grammar school. Every teacher in the school knew Hester by name and gave her a smiling “Hello” when they passed her on campus—even the principal, Mr. Drummond, who never remembered anyone’s name.

  Although adults saw great potential in Lizzie, they seemed not to see her at all when Hester was nearby. No one did.

  Hester captured and held the attention of everyone.

  Except Lizzie. That was why Lizzie dreaded this particular recess more than she had any other.

  When she stepped outside, a game of kick ball was already well under way.

  Three girls were taking turns skipping rope on the sidewalk. When they saw her, they giggled and one of the girls began to chant as she skipped: “Liz-zie Day-ton gained a ton, eat-ing can-dy just for fun, al-ways hun-gry, nev-er full, she’s got-ta bot-tom like a bull!!”

  Lizzie turned away from them and tried to shut the sing-song voice from her ears.

  Two boys were playing catch with a softball on the other side of the playground and directly across from the sidewalk where Lizzie stood, Hester Thorne sat in one of the swings, lolling back and forth in the seat. Her honey-colored curls were jostled by the cool breeze and she kicked at the gravel beneath her with the toe of one shoe.

  Hester smiled across the playground at Lizzie, but it was not a smile of welcome; it was a challenge.

  Rather than crossing the playground and drawing attention to herself, Lizzie walked around it, first along the sidewalk that ran near a row of classrooms, then along the tall chain-link fence that separated the playground from the school’s ball. As she walked, Hester’s smiling gaze followed her every step. The piercing squeak of the swing’s chains grew louder as the distance between the two girls closed.

  I’m not doing this for Hester, Lizzie thought firmly. I’m doing it for Miss Randall.

  Lizzie stepped off the pavement and into the large rectangular graveled area that held the slide, monkey bars, teeter-totter, merry-go-round and swing set. She seated herself on the empty swing beside Hester and tried to smile as she met her eyes, tried to think of a pleasant greeting, something friendly. She could do neither. Instead, Lizzie turned her gaze to Hester’s left foot, which was wrapped in an Ace bandage.

  “How did you hurt your foot?” she asked.

  “Fell off the back of my daddy’s new pick-up truck,” Hester replied through her smile.

  Lizzie blinked with surprise. “Was it moving?”

  “Of course not, dummy. I’d probably be dead if it was moving.”

  Still staring at Hester’s foot, Lizzie said, “It must’ve hurt.”

  “Not really. I only sprained it a little.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Good?” Hester snapped.

  Startled, Lizzie looked at the girl and saw anger in her smiling eyes.

  “You think it’s good that I hurt my foot?”

  “Oh, no, I just meant that—”

  “How would you like it if you got hurt and I was glad?”

  You always are, Lizzie thought, suddenly wanting to burrow into the gravel beneath her and disappear.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Lizzie insisted, closing her eyes so she didn’t have to look at that smile. “I only meant it’s good that your foot was just sprained a little, that it wasn’t hurt worse.”

  “I’m sure that’s what you meant, Lizzie Dayton.”

  “Well, it is.” Her eyes were still closed.

  “What do you want, anyway? You don’t like me. Why did you come over here?”

  Lizzie’s eyes opened then and she stared at Hester in disbelief, momentarily forgetting her intimidation.

  “I don’t like you? But you’re the one who’s always making fun of me, saying I’m fat. I’ve never done anything to—”

  “But you are fat.”

  Lizzie stared at her lap, feeling the familiar pain again, the pain that would slowly grow into self-hatred. She whispered, “See what I mean?”

  “You think that I don’t like you because I say you’re fat?” Hester laughed a moment—a laugh that came from the pain of others—then said, “That’s just stupid. You are fat! I’m just telling the truth when I say that, I didn’t make you fat.” She laughed again and began swinging back and forth, her small hands wrapped tightly around the squeaky chains.

  The chanting voice of the girl jumping rope across the playground drifted around on the breeze. “… she’s got-ta bot-tom like a bull!”

  “See?” Hester giggled. “Don’t get mad at me because you’re fat.”

  Lizzie remained still in her swing, gulping back the tears she felt stinging their way to her eyes. She wanted to get up and leave but knew that, if she moved, she would reveal too much; she would cry or run away and Hester would know how much she’d hurt her.

  Lizzie didn’t want that, so she stayed put.

  “So how come you came over here, Lizzie Dayton?”

  She still said nothing.

  “Huh? How come?”

  Lizzie wondered if she should tell the truth or say that it was her idea. If she took the credit, Hester might feel a bit guilty for returning a kindness with cruelty.

  Then again …

  “I thought you might like some company,” Lizzie said. “That’s all.”
/>   “Oh? That’s all, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  Before Hester spoke again, she let out a little shriek of pain and stopped swinging.

  “What’s wrong?” Lizzie gasped, turning to her.

  Hester was leaning forward, wincing as she massaged her injured foot.

  “Kicked my foot. I can’t use my foot to swing,” she said impatiently. Hester sat up, faced Lizzie, and said, “Come here and push me.”

  It was at that moment that Lizzie realized exactly what was so unsettling about Hester Thorne.

  She had the eyes of an adult. She spoke with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She did not make requests or ask for favors; she gave orders.

  Lizzie slowly moved from her swing, got behind Hester and gave her a gentle push.

  “So you thought I’d like some company, huh?” Hester said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just because you wanted some company? You always spend recess alone and you never play. Because you’re too fat.” She giggled.

  Lizzie felt her nostrils flaring.

  “Or maybe you just think you’re too good to play with the rest of us. If that’s what you think, you’re the only one who thinks it.”

  Go away, Lizzie told herself, just go back to the classroom and read a book. Before you start to feel too bad.

  She could feel the beginning of a hard lump in her stomach and it grew as Hester went on.

  “Is that why you came over, Lizzie Dayton? Because you wanted company?”

  “No. I told you.” She hated the way Hester called her by her full name.

  “No, that’s probably not it,” Hester continued, her voice growing and fading as she swung back and forth, back and forth. “Maybe … maybe you did it for Miss Randall. Yes, that’s probably it, because you know Miss Randall likes me so much. Much better than she likes you.”

  The hatred was coming back, and with it came tears, drowning the hollow whisper of her mother’s reminders to be kind even to her enemies. Lizzie pushed harder, sending Hester higher into the air.