Spirit of Mania

J.V. Sithole

Description

Inspired by the story of Samson, this novel follows a young man facing a spiritual crisis who must fight for redemption in a dark and unjust world.
A young professional in New York City, Sam feels chosen for greatness and aspires to become a top marketing executive. Yet through his adventures in the city, he discovers real enemies animated by intelligent evil.
After a bizarre experience with his girlfriend, Delia, and her dance troupe, Sam’s world comes crashing down in a spiritual emergency. He lands in a psychiatric facility, where he receives a diagnosis of bipolar disorder during an involuntary hold. Once released, he quickly learns that the spiritual realm and his mind are inextricably intertwined. Sam finds himself called on to wrestle spiritual forces of darkness. Can he fulfill his greater purpose and destiny with the help of divine providence? If so, what price will he pay?
Inspired by the story of Samson, this novel follows a young man facing a spiritual crisis who must fight for redemption in a dark and unjust world.

Sujets

• Religious
• Manía
• Jesús de Nazaret
• Jesus
• Manic
• Mania
• Christian
• Fiction
• Spirit
• Jésus de Nazareth

Informations

• Publié par: WestBow Press
• Date de parution: 27 juillet 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9798385000630
• Langue: English

Extrait

spirit of mania
meant for evil, turned for good a novel
J.V. SITHOLE


Copyright © 2023 J.V. Sithole.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
 
WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
844-714-3454
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
Scripture quotations are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
 
ISBN: 979-8-3850-0064-7 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-3850-0065-4 (hc)
ISBN: 979-8-3850-0063-0 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023911219
 
 
 
WestBow Press rev. date: 07/24/2023
CONTENTS
Chapter 1Young, Wild, and Free
Chapter 2Between Delusion and Reality
Chapter 3A Beauty to Date
Chapter 4The Queen of Clubs
Chapter 5Insects and Monsters
Chapter 6Another Day, Another Dollar
Chapter 7Dance with the Dead
Chapter 8Fresh Air
Chapter 9A Fresh Start
Chapter 10Living the Dream
Chapter 11New Level, New Devils
Chapter 12Suit Up
Chapter 13The Dark Hour
Chapter 14Superior Power
Chapter 15A Dark and Dangerous Goodbye
Chapter 16Death Brings Life
Chapter 17This Is How We Fight Our Battles
Chapter 18These Streets

 
 
 
 
 
To Yahweh, his son Yeshua , and the gracious Spirit of Truth, Thank you for saving my life and giving me the inspiration to write.  To my beautiful wife Yaa; you encouraged me, providing feedback and prayers - Thank you.  So many family and friends to thank.  Without my tribe this would not have been possible.  You all are appreciated. 
CHAPTER 1

Young, Wild, and Free
What the …?
Sam jumped up in alarm. His heart pounded as, once again, he felt a shudder on his right outer thigh. Logic reasoned it was his phone vibrating in his jeans pocket, but it felt … different. After the terrible night he had endured, with barely any sleep, he figured he might just be a little on edge. He rubbed his eyes and looked for somewhere to sit.
It happened again. Bewildered, he glanced down at where he felt the sensation. His blue jeans appeared to be vibrating even though he was standing dead still. He plunged his hand into his jeans pocket—no phone. Just an empty pocket.  Where is my phone?  he wondered. His eyes grew as wide as dinner plates as he watched his pants literally quivering.
Panicked, he looked around to get his bearings. The sign overhead read “Terminal 3, JFK Airport.” The vibrations quickened and then began to spread. He yelped as the sensation crawled up his body—from his thigh to his hips, to his stomach, up and around his torso. It crept rapidly—spreading, covering, engulfing—until it finally came to rest on his chest. His body was now dripping with perspiration, and confusion quickly gave way to terror.  Is my mind playing tricks on me?
Nothing was visible on his clothes, yet they trembled. The vibrations were as real as the terminal around him, but it was more than just vibrations; it was deep darkness. He realized why he was so unnerved—he couldn’t shake the sense of some evil energy inhabiting his shirt. Occupied with this thought, he felt an ethereal darkness slowly enshroud his entire body.
Horrified, he tore off his shirt and flung it to the floor. Abandoning his luggage, he dashed toward the airport terminal doors. He sprinted until he burst through the glass doors and into the parking lot, where a redheaded woman staggered sideways, hastily trying to get out of his path. She stared at him in surprise and confusion. Clearly, this was a no-shirt, no-service kind of establishment.
Panting, he paused for a moment in the frigid New York air, checking to see if the sinister energy had remained behind with his shirt. He heaved a sigh of relief when he felt no vibrations, but his heart was still racing. Unsure of exactly what was happening and scared out of his mind, he waited in the freezing cold while he tried to catch his breath. Then it was back. Both legs began vibrating with a dark, dreadful energy.
Stop, drop, and roll is only for fires, he thought frantically. He had learned the slogan and technique as a child in school, and it was the first thing that came to mind.  Rolling won’t help because it’s on the clothes!  his mind screamed. Whatever was on his remaining clothes was so utterly terrifying that, in a moment of bold desperation, he did the only remaining rational thing he could do—he ran for his life.
Buck naked.
He ripped off his shoes, then his jeans, and then his boxers, and he ran through the parking lot, past an elderly lady who hurried between two parked cars and began dialing what he suspected was 9-1-1. He laughed at her irrational fear of him, and in a moment of pure euphoria, he suddenly didn’t care. He was young, he was wild, and he was free of that spine-chilling energy that saturated his clothes.
His long, black dreadlocks whipped in the wind as he sprinted, the crisp air filling him with positive vibes. Suddenly, he envisioned before him a giant cross that beamed with brilliant, guiding rays, so bright that they appeared tangible in the air. As he ran toward the glorious light, he found it was always before him but somehow just out of his reach. Though he could never fully grasp its brilliance, something told him that, as long as he kept moving toward the cross, he would be alive and free. He knew intuitively that if he stopped running, his downfall would surely follow, so with his eye on the prize, he sprinted even faster, never once looking back. He ran and ran and ran, knowing without a shadow of doubt that he could do literally anything.
Why not run all the way to Santa Cruz?  he thought. He knew the California city’s name meant “holy cross” in Spanish, so maybe this was a sign.  Besides,   college kids run around naked all the time over there. I would fit right in.
The feeling of invincibility turbocharged him. He ran out of the airport parking lot and into the streets, where he dodged honking cars and shouting pedestrians. He ran past restaurants full of wide-eyed patrons and stores with baffled shoppers. He ran and ran and ran until a car with flashing red and blue lights swerved in front of him, making him skid to a stop.
“Freeze!” the officer barked.
“ Guess I won’t make it all the way to Santa Cruz after all,” he chuckled to himself.
He didn’t know whether to put his hands up or use them to cover his manhood. For a split second he considered resuming his New York–to-California marathon, but it was too late. He had already been tackled and handcuffed.
 
Dr. Magos peered at him intently through his thin, wire-rimmed spectacles, his pen resting on his mustache. “What did you think when you were arrested, Sam?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. Sam shifted on the couch. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t exceptionally comfortable either. “It all happened so fast. Honestly, I kind of thought wrestling me to the ground was a bit unnecessary. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody. I clearly was unarmed, and I didn’t resist arrest. But yeah, it could have ended up a lot worse. I believe I did think about how I was likely going to be in big trouble and end up in prison with a record, or worse.”
Dr. Magos nodded thoughtfully. “So at that point you became somewhat aware of the full gravity of your circumstance?”
“I guess.”
“What happened next?”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled. “The cops were eventually sympathetic, given the situation. When I told them why I was running naked, I think they could tell that I was more scared than anything and needed help. They seemed to relax after I was handcuffed and in the back of the squad car. They went back to the airport and fetched my suitcase so I could put on different clothes. Then they took me to the psychiatric facility, where I was admitted on an involuntary hold for two weeks.”
He shifted in his seat. The office couch was now giving him a bit of a backache.  Maybe it’s the meds,  he reasoned. He could tell Dr. Magos had been intentional about making the setting conducive to sharing, but the couch’s comfort was clearly an afterthought. The freshly vacuumed carpet created a sort of neat visual illusion, complemented by everything in the office having its own specific place, down to the pens in the holder. Grand paintings loomed over the room, reaching to the top of the tall ceilings of two of the office walls; the one that mesmerized Sam was of Central Park—a place he would often visit in order to get away from the bustle of New York City. He found the painting soothing and peaceful, yet talking about his trip to the psych ward was still traumatic.