The Messenger by T. Davis Bunn

us.”
    â€œAnything I can do to help,” Clarice replied. She shook Hale’s hand, introduced Ariel, and allowed herself to be seated in the backseat.
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” Leslie said, sliding in behind the wheel, “I’ll take you directly to the church. We have a regular church gathering this evening. It started as a small Bible study and prayer meeting, but my goodness, you would not believe how it has grown.”
    â€œAlmost fills the nave,” Hale agreed. He had a voice as mild as his eyes, in direct contrast to the strength radiating from his face. “All in the space of three months.”
    â€œHale and I take turns leading the service,” Leslie went on. “Oh, by the way, I don’t suppose you play a musical instrument.”
    Clarice laughed. “Oh, not me. I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. When it comes to music, my job on earth is to be a good listener.” She looked at Ariel. “What about you, dear?”
    Ariel shrugged, her face turned to the window. So much to see, so much to take in, all of it new. “Just the harp.”
    â€œThe harp!” Leslie and Hale exclaimed together. Leslie went on, “That is amazing.”
    â€œA miracle,” Hale agreed.
    â€œWe like to have guest musicians at these evening get-togethers,” Leslie explained. “We had a harpist who was supposed to play tonight, but he’s come down with the flu. We just got the call as we were walking out the door to come pick you up.”
    â€œSo now we’ve got this huge harp sitting in the middle of our nave, with nobody to play it.” Hale turned in his seat. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to help us out tonight, would you?”
    ****
    Manny stumbled up the stairs, not from fatigue, but rather from a sense that he should be doing something else. First this had made him mad, then it made him stubborn. Manny hated having someone tell him what to do. He hated it. He had spent a lifetime going his own way. He had always been a man of his own will, and proud of it. But now there was this strange sensation of being guided, being pulled along by feelings and forces he neither understood nor wanted. So he had headed home, resisting the urge to look within and see what else might be done.
    He entered his apartment building and caught a faint smell in the musty air. Something more than the usual scent of dirty halls and unwashed diapers and greasy cooking. Something weird.
    Manny froze when his foot touched the landing. He thought he had heard a growl. Not like one of the mangy watchdogs his neighbors kept in their apartments until management caught them. More like a hungry wild beast on the prowl. And big. Very big.
    Cautiously he moved along the corridor, intently searching the stairs, the hall, the other doors on his floor. Nothing. But the building was strangely quiet. Normally this time of evening there would be a dozen televisions blaring, kids yelling, adults screaming back, with a dozen stereos and boom boxes blaring in the background. But tonight was different. Not just quiet like sleeping-quiet. Quiet like empty. Quiet like the whole building was holding its breath.
    When he reached his own doorway, he stopped again, this time feeling as though a steel fist had just punched him in the chest.
    His door was not just broken open. It was mauled into matchwood. Manny’s mind instantly felt split in two. One side of his brain started a constant shrilling shout for him to run, get out, go anywhere, but not stay here. The other, the same old independently stubborn Manny, said to himself, yeah, sure, this is why it’s so quiet. Nobody, but nobody wants to admit they saw something. Whoever did this was strong enough to know nobody would talk. Wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to them. Or worse.
    Manny poked his head inside the door, the other voice too loud now to let him go further. His rooms had not just been