Free Piercing the Darkness by Frank Peretti

say anything either. She didn’t find what she was after until the bottom of the last page of the news section. It was a tiny headline and about one and a half inches of story:
    LOCAL WOMAN FOUND DEAD
Bacon’s Corner—The body of a local woman was discovered last night in her home, an apparent suicide. The victim is identified as Sally Beth Rough, 36, an employee at the Bergen Door Company.
Her landlady, Mrs. Fred Potter of Bacon’s Corner, made the discovery after noticing some of Rough’s goats were loose.
“It’s a real tragedy,” she said.
    It was a ridiculous piece of reporting. A run-over chicken would have gotten more copy, maybe even had its name spelled correctly. But that didn’t bother Sally. That wasn’t the point.
    The story was not just wrong—it was incredibly, shockingly wrong.
    They think the dead woman is me? The woman who tried to kill me? They think she’s me?
    She’d brooded about that all through her shower. It bothered her so much she had to read the instructions on the bottle of rinse three times.
    At first she thought it could be good news. They’ll think I’m dead!
    But that notion soon faded. They know I’m not. They have to know. They’ve lied to the paper, or the paper is lying.
    She finally got the clasp of the chain open and hung it around her neck. Then she reached over to the night table and picked up . . . that ring. She threaded the neck chain through it, fastened the clasp, buttoned up her shirt, and the ring was hidden.
    They know who that woman was. They don’t want anyone else to know.
    And she knew she wasn’t hallucinating. The ring around her neck told her that. It was one solid piece of evidence that would help her hold on to reality, bizarre as it may be.
    Sally reached for her jacket and pulled another solid piece of evidence from the pockets—many pieces, actually.
    Cash. She’d already counted it. Ten thousand dollars, in three bundles: one of twenties, one of fifties, and one of hundreds. The assassin’s fee, most likely. Sally found it all in the woman’s coat pockets and grabbed it. Why the woman was carrying it all on her person was a mystery, unless she carried the money for the same reason she wore the gold ring.
    But the question still remained: After all these years, what had Sally done? How had she gotten in their way?
    It had to be what happened in the Post Office. It was the only thing Sally could think of, a frightening experience and now a horrible memory. It was just like being caught, found out, discovered by an old enemy . . . a savage enemy! That little girl’s eyes! Those taunting, hideous eyes! She could never forget that short moment when every fear, every nightmare from all her previous years came back in a torturous, merciless wave of recollection.
    She had looked into the eyes of a devil. She could recognize it; she’d seen that look before, felt the stinging, mocking hate, heard the same vicious lying.
    Sally flopped on the bed. No, she couldn’t think about it. She was just too tired. She was frightened, her hair was black and looked strange, she couldn’t think, she was a hunted animal, and she was just too tired.
    Your hope is lost, worthless creature, said a voice in her head.
    It’s only a matter of time; a very short time, said another.
    “Amber . . .” It sounded so much like her.
    Now you can see how big we are, and how little you are!
    You are dead, worthless creature! You are crazy!
    Sally leaped from the bed and grabbed a pen from the table. She found some stationery in a drawer next to a Gideon Bible. She would write things down, that was it! Perhaps her mind wouldn’t get scrambled if she put it all down on paper. She could record her thoughtsbefore they melted away. She bent over the table, her pen poised over the paper.
    But Despair was wounded, humiliated, indignant, and determined to redeem himself. He hung on her back like a coal-black leech, sucking out her will, whispering confusion to her mind. The other