His Elect

If God is so good,
then why do bad things happen?

A tragic accident.

After his wife's funeral, Mark Marshall and his two young daughters are trying to adjust to their new lives without her, only their faith holds them together. When Mark discovers evidence that leads him to believe there may be more to his wife's accident, he begins to question the goodness of God and His plan.

Dr. Paul Thatcher is well respected in his field, continuing his late father's legacy. Strange incidents & unexplainable occurrences coincide with the admittance of a mysterious patient. The new arrival begins to stir things up not only in his facility but also in him as Paul begins to question everything he thought he believed.

Conflict wages within his soul as an invisible war is fought all around him.

He must choose a side… and time is running out.

A Supernatural, Faith Inspired, Suspense Story From Christian Author Miranda Brandt

Trade Paperback, ePub and kindle formats

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About the Author

Miranda Brandt has been penning stories and poems since she was a young girl with some of her earlier works being published during her rebellious years.

Shortly after the birth of her son, a frightful supernatural experience led her to seek out and find God through Jesus Christ.

Miranda is a self–proclaimed nerd with a penchant for Christian metal/rock, Doc Martins, cooking, baking, and tropical locations. She has a deep passion for the Word and loves to study and teach the Bible as well as minister the love of God to others. She currently lives in upstate New York with her husband and son.

Visit her at the redeemed life blog and on Facebook

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She knew when she got up and left that morning that something was going to happen, however when that something happened, she wasn’t at all prepared for it.

The truck came out of nowhere and t–boned her at high speed. Everything thereafter seemed to transpire in slow motion. The glass from the windshield and driver’s side window shattered into innumerable pieces. They twinkled like stars in the early morning light as they floated through the car in dream–like reverie. Her head was forcefully thrashed to the right, the vertebrae and muscles of her neck strained to the absolute utmost while the rest of her body was restrained by the seatbelt. The driver side door buckled inward from the power of the hit. Her left leg was instantly crushed and pinned; the bones in her left arm splintered like a toothpick.

The truck pushed her car across the frozen pavement where it came to a precarious stop on the guard rail, which was all that kept her from plummeting into the river below. Everything then came to a halt; the silence seemed foreign and out of place after the auditory assault of the collision. She was distantly aware of a cold breeze blowing in from the broken windows and she could hear the rushing water of the rapids below.

As the quiet settled in, the pain announced its presence. It hurt her to even breathe. Her entire left side felt like it was filled with busted porcelain; the pain was sharp, nauseating, unbearable.

She heard noises outside the car; the heavy crunch of snow and glass underfoot and voices that sounded muffled and muted. She attempted to turn her head towards the sounds which only intensified the pain. Consciousness wavered. She began to shiver uncontrollably as she tried to will herself into unconsciousness to escape the torment of her injuries.

“Sarah. Sarah, wake up.”

“No… hurts….”

“Sarah, here I am. Look at me.” The voice seemed familiar and close. Her eyes fluttered opened and she slowly rolled her head to look at the passenger seat. “You….” A hand reached over and touched her face. Instant warmth filled her body.

“Yes. I’m here with you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, making clean paths through the blood drying on her face.

“Thank you.”

“There’s much waiting ahead for you, Sarah.”

“I know. I need help. Please… help me….” She barely managed to whisper.

“Have I ever not?”

That was the last thing she heard before darkness took her.


Chapter 21

Interlude for a broken soul

He was once again awakened by nightmares. Horrible, taunting, tormenting, dreadful, dark images that danced behind his eyelids and romped furiously through the playground of his mind. As if that wasn’t enough, the voices were already there, murmuring in his head, singing songs of torment and death over him: you’re worthless; your life is hopeless, there is no escaping here, you’ll never be free; what’s the point of living? This will never end. It was a call he loathed but could never seem to get away from. He’d lived with it most of his life.

He turned over to face the wall and curled up into a fetal position, his matted hair falling over his face. His life had been full of far too many despairing times wishing he could disappear. He’d lived so long aspiring to death, hoping against hope that it would just take him, that he couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t feel that way. He was fully convinced that his demise was the answer to the end of his torment and he had tried so many times to meet death halfway but it never met him in return. All he ever succeeded in doing was scarring his flesh; clumsily knit together puckers and creases of skin decorated his arms like a twisted roadmap showing where he’d been, serving only as a constant reminder of failed expectation.

He had attempted to cover up the pain in other ways. His body was a canvas, a living storybook of a life riddled with failure and dysfunction. Inked words and pictures covered most of his flesh; malfunction, sadness, angst, anger and fear etched permanently across his flesh for all to see. He spent almost his entire life alone, struggling, barely surviving, a walking corpse.

The voices, the images, nothing he did could ever make them go away. The majority of his life was spent doing his very best to shut them up and shut them out with drugs of all kinds, but sometimes that just made it worse, which is how he wound up trapped in this room. A bad trip had sent him over the edge into a breakdown; there were hallucinations of demons tearing at his flesh. They rode his back and tore at his hair. When he had been brought in, he had patches and chunks of hair missing from his scalp and his body was covered with welts and scratches so deep it took months to heal, leaving more scars to embellish his already extensive flesh–roadmap. He insisted that they weren’t self–inflicted injuries but they didn’t believe him. No one ever did.

Maybe they were right, maybe he really was insane. But if he was, there seemed to be no cure. He’d been at the facility for 14 months and he was no different. There was no change, no improvement. Instead of street drugs he was given legal pharmaceutical band aids that only made the voices quiet or tolerable for short periods of time.

The voices were right, then: there was no hope.

They began to murmur louder and he turned over again. When he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a dark shadow in the corner. He squinted his eyes shut and covered his head with his pillow.

The whispers grew louder as more voices joined in the taunt. He jumped up and began to pace the room. It was at least five hours until morning meds… and daylight. How was he going to get through it? Sleep would elude him the rest of the night, and he knew the voices would take full advantage of that. Dread sat in his belly like a lead weight, abject terror trying to squeeze its way in to join it. His palms broke out in a cold sweat and his body began to thrum and quiver with panic.

His pacing grew more frantic, his hands involuntarily pulling at his hair. He sang a song to try to drown out the whispers but that only succeeded in making them grow louder still. He walked over to the corner of the room, slammed his head against the wall, turned around and slid to the floor. He curled up into a tight ball trying to squeeze himself out of existence and he began to cry.

“God, please kill me. If You’re real, please take me, kill me, put me out of my misery. Please, take me, God. I just want to die.” He whispered over and over, his death–request chant, as tears streaked down his face.

He was still uttering his petition when suddenly he stopped. He sat still and listened. It was quiet. The voices were silent. This can’t be happening, he thought. This never happens. Before he could wonder any more or prematurely celebrate the victory, the door to his room opened. He pressed himself back into the corner, trying to disappear, petrified at who or what could be coming in.

A woman entered the room. She was petite and wearing an ill–fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants outfit. There was a glow around her, as if she was lit up from behind. She squinted into the room, looking for him.

“Brian, are you here?” She knows my name, he thought, astonished. He was too stunned to speak but he didn’t have to because she saw his silhouette crouched down in the corner. She walked over to him, knelt down beside him and ever–so lovingly pushed his hair away from his face in a maternal gesture. “Brian, the time for this is over. Do you want to be free?”

“F–free?” He could barely talk.

“Yes, free from the torment you’ve endured all your life. You don’t want to live like this anymore, do you?” Her gaze was so full of compassion and understanding that he closed his eyes and sobbed.

Continued in the book…

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