Camp damascus, p.6
Camp Damascus, page 6
The next thing I know he’s taking me by the hand and leading me through the open floorplan of this crowded basement. Peers immediately turn and watch us go, whispering to one another with looks of tittering excitement.
Soon enough, we’re making our way down a dark hallway, the music growing quieter and the raucous atmosphere evolving into relative calm. We reach a door, and Isaiah pushes through to reveal a small circle of friends sitting cross-legged on the floor. A television is on behind them, playing Christian music videos and casting the proceedings in an eerie dancing light. It’s muted.
“Wanna play truth or dare?” Isaiah asks.
My first instinct is to decline and retreat, disappearing back into the wash of the party, but before I get the chance I catch sight of Martina chatting away within the circle. Immediately, my demeanor changes, and I struggle to act natural as I heartily accept.
“Yeah!” I chirp, climbing down to join the others. “Sounds fun!”
I’ve never played truth or dare, and to be honest, the prospect sounds terrifying. Still, I find myself compelled to sit. Martina is one of the coolest people I know, and maybe spending a little more time around her will help some of that innate coolness rub off on me.
It appears the game has already started when Isaiah and I join, the group loosened up after several rounds of wild dares and raunchy questions. Morgan, a guy I know from school, has just completed his dare and is now tasked with selecting another target.
His eyes slowly move around the circle, drifting from person to person. He’s careful not to rush this important decision, finally arriving on the last option I’d ever want: me.
“Rose. Truth or dare?” Morgan asks, a mischievous flicker in his eye.
A hush falls over the crowd as I take on their undivided attention.
It’s a simple enough decision, only two possible outcomes presented and each one just as mysterious as the other, yet I find myself utterly tongue-tied.
When the awkward silence becomes truly unbearable, I somehow manage to spit out a single word. “Truth.”
Morgan nods, a pleased king who has formally accepted my response. “Alright, alright,” he offers, chewing his lip as he considers the query. Morgan has suddenly been thrust into a position of incredible power, and he wants to make the most of it.
Along with the expected tension of this moment, I get the feeling something else is going on behind the scenes, some inside joke I’m clearly not a part of. While most eyes remain trained on me, other kids are quietly shooting glances at Isaiah.
“Okay,” Morgan finally begins, “how many times have you done it?”
The circle immediately reacts, quietly chattering with excited guesses over the answer to come. I pick up tiny fragments of these whispered conversations, nuggets of brutal honesty that bubble faintly across my ears.
There’s a clear consensus to the guesses: zero.
“She’s two years older, though,” someone murmurs. “All Kingdom Kids are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Virgin,” comes a confident reply.
I feel a flush of anxiety wash over me, and I’m well aware my face is turning red despite my efforts to remain calm. I laugh awkwardly, shaking my head and immediately pushing the question out of my mind.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammer, my fingers dancing a mile a minute.
I force them to stop moving.
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
This reply was instinctual, a sympathetic response straight from the medulla with no rhyme or reason other than a quick-release social eject button, but in this moment of panic a flash of vivid imagery slips through my mind. I see the same arresting dark-haired girl I pictured last night, imagine her kissing me deeply and feel the weight of her body against mine. I sense flashes of a mischievous smile, of her voice, and of the comfort I feel when she’s close.
Meanwhile, the attention of the circle remains fully transfixed, waiting for a coherent response.
“I … uh. Let me think about it,” I falter, struggling to right the ship.
“That many?” someone loudly jokes, causing a wave of laugher to erupt across the group.
More flashes of the beautiful black-haired girl rip through me; memories of an aching, burning sensation at the pit of my stomach. Impressions of warm, bare skin. Her face is right there at the forefront of my mind: olive complexion and startlingly dark, wide-set eyes that make it seem like her pupils are filling the whole iris.
From where I’m sitting there’s a direct view of the muted television set. The screen is dancing with light and movement, showing off familiar clips of a bleach-blond, spiky-haired punk band with crucifix tattoos. Slowly, however, the images begin to roll and mutate, hues shifting as these visual representations become more and more difficult to understand. Random bursts of intermittent analog snow pierce the transmission.
I’m the only one who notices, my eyes glued to the screen with fascination and confusion.
“Rose?” Morgan continues, a hint of genuine concern now coloring his tone.
By now, the music videos have disappeared completely as another set of images struggles to push through the static. I can faintly make out the blurry shape of a bald, humanoid figure in a chair, their body held tight by a series of straps. The body is slumped over, and as this scene grows clearer I notice additional captive figures in the dim light, the shapes restrained in a variety of awkward, painful poses. Some of the forms are bent backward over outlandish metal contraptions while others are fastened upside down against a stone wall. The transmission hue has been skewed a deep red, giving these characters a bizarre, otherworldly look.
A nauseated sickness floods my stomach as I watch, but nothing could make me tear my eyes away. Curiosity has gotten the best of me.
Back in the realm of reality, a circle of friends is vying for my attention, waving and shouting my name as they struggle to break the trance. I know they’re here, but my attention is fixated elsewhere.
Onscreen, the point-of-view camera creeps onward, making its way through this chamber of crimson figures. It passes the chair-bound form and arrives at another body, this one twisted haphazardly over a metal bar and locked into place by multiple straps. Closer and closer this visual perspective draws, details sharpening until a horrific realization surges through me and my breath catches in my throat.
The television hue is just fine. These figures are deep red because they’re missing their skin.
The camera is so close now I can make out every detail of these mutilated corpses, the ripples of muscle and sinew glistening under dim light. The face of this particular body is hauntingly still, eyes glazed over in a reminder of just how delicate our mortal shells really are.
It’s utterly repulsive, yet I can’t bring myself to look away.
Suddenly, a breath of freezing cold air visibly pulses from the lips of the luminous face onscreen, still gasping despite their fully peeled state. They’re alive.
I let out a startled scream, the imagery finally too much to handle as I scramble away from the television.
The room of friends immediately flies into a state of chaos, classmates glancing between the screen and me.
One of the partiers jumps to their feet and hurries over to the television set, turning it off in frustration. “This is why we don’t watch secular media!” he announces. “Who thought it was funny to put on a terror film?”
Someone else rolls their eyes. “Holy cow! We’re not all Kingdom Kids here. God has better things to worry about than scary movies.”
“Hey!” Isaiah snaps, pointing to them then motioning toward the door. “Not cool! Go!”
The pandemonium is a lot to keep up with as my body reels from the shock of this grotesque imagery. Isaiah puts his hand on my shoulder in an effort to calm me down, and this human connection actually helps pull me back to reality.
“Hey, it was just a movie,” Isaiah offers. “It’s just makeup and effects.”
I nod along, half listening.
“Liberal Hollywood will do anything to make money,” Isaiah continues. “That kind of violence is disgusting, but it’s not real. It’s fake.”
I keep nodding, gradually starting to believe him.
Of course it’s fake.
I take a deep breath, hold, then let it out, now mostly terrified by what a fool I’ve made of myself.
Hoping to craft a social antidote, I abruptly sit up straight and pull it together.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “Let’s keep playing.”
The crowd begins to settle as I say this, reforming the circle once again. There’s a clear shift in mood, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.
Eventually, Morgan loudly clears his throat. “Let’s just move on to someone else,” he suggests, glancing around the circle. He stops on Martina. “Martina. Truth or dare.”
This question has power, immediately tugging the room back into a state of quiet intimacy and simmering tension.
Let no one deceive you by any means; for that day will not come unless the falling away comes first.
I find myself repeating this phrase over and over, the mantra cascading through my mind and rushing across my brain like soapy water. I’m okay. Everything is fine.
It was just a stupid movie.
Martina considers the query, taking her time. Her facial expressions begin to playfully shift, each one revealing something new and exciting.
The next thing I know, a ridiculous terror film is the last thing on my mind.
“Dare,” Martina finally replies.
My skin tingles faintly as she says this.
Morgan smiles, unmistakably craving this answer. It appears he has a great dare locked and loaded. “I dare you to get in the closet for seven minutes with the person you like.”
My blood runs cold, a surge of chilly discomfort drifting through me. My eyes are trained on Martina like a hawk’s, deeply invested in her decision as she surveys the group.
I’m flooded by a bizarre state of self-awareness, yearning for Martina to choose me but struggling to accept the context of this desire. The emotions are so powerful that I’m actually trembling, shivering with nervous anticipation.
What is it about my friend that I find so utterly fascinating?
I want to be near her, but not in a weird way. Obviously.
It’s not like I’m gay or something.
As Martina’s sparkling green eyes pass over me I feel my body clench tight with anticipation, aching for her to stop and prompt the whole group to erupt in a giant laugh. We’d go with it, heading into the closet where we could giggle together over this little comedy bit.
Martina’s gaze suddenly halts in my direction.
Thank you, Jesus.
“Parker,” Martina announces, pointing at the guy sitting next to me.
A wave of aching disappointment pulses through my frame. While the rest of the circle lets out a fit of excited chatter, I just stare at Martina and watch as she rises to her feet. Parker stands as well, and soon enough the two of them are heading toward the bedroom closet for a stomach-churning bout of alone time.
Parker’s not even religious, I suddenly realize. He’s not a congregation member, not even a CAPE Catholic or some other kind of lukewarm backslider. What the heck does Martina see in him?
What doesn’t she see in me?
Martina and Parker slip inside the closet and shut the door, disappearing from view.
The nauseating, heartbreaking sickness within me has done nothing but grow, and soon enough I’ve found myself too overwhelmed to remain still any longer. My breathing heavy, I climb to my feet and make a break for the exit.
“Rose!” Isaiah calls out, startled by my sudden departure.
I leave the bedroom and slam the door behind me, so overwhelmed with raw emotion that tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m as analytical as they come, yet in this moment I find myself unable to parse what’s happening within my body. These sensations don’t make any sense, but my understanding of that fact doesn’t taper their ferocity.
It just upsets me even more.
I stand in the dark hallway, struggling to catch my breath as I drift between worlds. Behind me is the closed door of a childish truth or dare game, a place that’s suddenly brought me immense sorrow and confusion for reasons I still can’t comprehend.
Before me is the rest of the party, a raucous scene where secular kids I’ve never met mingle freely with congregation members in a hedonistic free-for-all. It’s a spiritual battlefield, and while it doesn’t offer as much pain as the room behind, there’s still plenty of chaos.
“Hey” comes an unfamiliar voice, a tall, messy-haired partier stumbling down the hallway. He stops before me, bracing himself against the wall as he sways in and out of my personal bubble. “You’re hot.”
I say nothing in return.
“Trash party, huh?” the sloppy visitor continues, his words tumbling over one another. “Isaiah’s pretty cool, but these kids are fucking cringe. You want a drink? Like, a real drink?”
He holds up a water bottle, but the scent causes me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“Uh, hello?” the guy pushes onward.
I should probably be more annoyed, but all I can think about right now is Martina. My heart was viciously ripped from my chest, and now nothing else seems to register.
I close my eyes and count the rhythmic tapping of my fingers, struggling to calm down.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
4, 3, 2, 1.
3, 2, 1.
2, 1.
1.
Then repeat.
“Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them;” I recite softly under my breath, “for the Lord your God, He is the one who goes with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you.”
I can hear my suitor mumbling to himself, his frustrated tone growing steadily quieter as he returns to the fray.
When I open my eyes the partier is gone, but my solitude is short-lived.
There are two rooms here at the end of the hallway: the one we were playing in, and a second bedroom mirroring the first. They are similar in size, and if I had to guess I’d say this other one belongs to Isaiah’s older brother.
He’s not around tonight, but it appears someone else is enjoying the space.
Standing at the center of this dimly lit room is the pale woman, smiling that same crooked grin and silently gazing at me with her vacant white eyes. This is the best look at her I’ve gotten, and as we stand motionless I carefully take her in.
Cadaverous. Eldritch. Puzzling.
“You’re not real,” I find myself announcing. “You’re just … stress.”
To be honest, she doesn’t feel like stress. Now that I’m seeing this woman up close, the idea that she’s just some figment of my imagination is getting much harder to swallow. Previously, her appearances were fraught with movement and shadow, a vague glimpse of something otherworldly.
This moment, however, is as quiet and grounded as it gets. The pale woman has weight in my world, a substance to her form. For the first time, I can fully make out the bizarre length of her fingers, approximately three times as long as any typical human digits. They’re thin and spidery, twitching ever so slightly in the shadows.
The collar around her neck is so tight that it makes me feel like I’m choking, a sturdy iron band that clasps in the middle.
From here I can make out the name tag on her peculiar red work polo. It reads: PACHID.
I know that name, though just barely, the unique title ringing a faint bell in the darkest recesses of my mind. It takes a moment for all of the pieces to add up as I sort through hazy memories of various religious tomes until, suddenly, a spark of recognition becomes a roaring blaze.
Pachid is a demon.
I’m shaking so hard that my teeth are chattering, not just out of fear, but from the gelid sensation that overwhelms my body.
“What do you want?” I ask, the words barely rattling their way from between my lips.
The woman says nothing. She slowly tilts her head to the side, as though this is also her first time really taking me in.
It feels like this moment lasts forever, the two of us just watching each other with genuine curiosity until finally, and without a shred of warning, the pale woman turns and walks directly toward the wall.
Pachid doesn’t slow down as she approaches the barrier, causing a startled gasp to escape my throat when she walks right through it and disappears completely. A faint blue sizzle lies in her wake, flickering with uncanny illumination then disappearing just as soon as it arrived.
Seconds later, the shrieking begins.
I burst back into the truth or dare room to find everyone staring at the closet door in wide-eyed horror. A few loud thumps rumble from within, but the more apparent sounds are a gut-churning cacophony of Parker and Martina screaming in hysterical fear.
It’s only now that I realize this closet is directly behind the wall Pachid just walked through.
The frantically spinning gears of my mind catch and I spring into action, marching in a direct route to the closet door.
“Get them out of there!” I scream.
I reach out to grab the handle, but before I get the chance the door flies open so hard it punches a hole through the wall beside it. I cry out in alarm, jumping back as Martina topples out with a tremendous thump and lands on the floor, her eyes huge and glassy as she stares up at me in a frozen expression of grotesque panic.
There’s something confusing about her pose, and it takes me a moment to realize Martina’s head has been violently twisted in a perfect half rotation. The bones of her neck have shattered, pressing awkwardly against the inside of her skin and threatening to punch through.
Meanwhile, the pale woman is nowhere to be found, but Parker’s complexion is just as pallid as he stands in shock, mumbling to himself while tears stream down his face.
The room erupts in a choir of screams.
4
DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN
When you shuffle off this mortal coil, your senses will likely take their leave one by one. Depending on the way your body meets its end, the exact order of these fading perceptions can vary, but everyone seems to agree on one thing: your hearing goes last.
Soon enough, we’re making our way down a dark hallway, the music growing quieter and the raucous atmosphere evolving into relative calm. We reach a door, and Isaiah pushes through to reveal a small circle of friends sitting cross-legged on the floor. A television is on behind them, playing Christian music videos and casting the proceedings in an eerie dancing light. It’s muted.
“Wanna play truth or dare?” Isaiah asks.
My first instinct is to decline and retreat, disappearing back into the wash of the party, but before I get the chance I catch sight of Martina chatting away within the circle. Immediately, my demeanor changes, and I struggle to act natural as I heartily accept.
“Yeah!” I chirp, climbing down to join the others. “Sounds fun!”
I’ve never played truth or dare, and to be honest, the prospect sounds terrifying. Still, I find myself compelled to sit. Martina is one of the coolest people I know, and maybe spending a little more time around her will help some of that innate coolness rub off on me.
It appears the game has already started when Isaiah and I join, the group loosened up after several rounds of wild dares and raunchy questions. Morgan, a guy I know from school, has just completed his dare and is now tasked with selecting another target.
His eyes slowly move around the circle, drifting from person to person. He’s careful not to rush this important decision, finally arriving on the last option I’d ever want: me.
“Rose. Truth or dare?” Morgan asks, a mischievous flicker in his eye.
A hush falls over the crowd as I take on their undivided attention.
It’s a simple enough decision, only two possible outcomes presented and each one just as mysterious as the other, yet I find myself utterly tongue-tied.
When the awkward silence becomes truly unbearable, I somehow manage to spit out a single word. “Truth.”
Morgan nods, a pleased king who has formally accepted my response. “Alright, alright,” he offers, chewing his lip as he considers the query. Morgan has suddenly been thrust into a position of incredible power, and he wants to make the most of it.
Along with the expected tension of this moment, I get the feeling something else is going on behind the scenes, some inside joke I’m clearly not a part of. While most eyes remain trained on me, other kids are quietly shooting glances at Isaiah.
“Okay,” Morgan finally begins, “how many times have you done it?”
The circle immediately reacts, quietly chattering with excited guesses over the answer to come. I pick up tiny fragments of these whispered conversations, nuggets of brutal honesty that bubble faintly across my ears.
There’s a clear consensus to the guesses: zero.
“She’s two years older, though,” someone murmurs. “All Kingdom Kids are.”
“Doesn’t matter. Virgin,” comes a confident reply.
I feel a flush of anxiety wash over me, and I’m well aware my face is turning red despite my efforts to remain calm. I laugh awkwardly, shaking my head and immediately pushing the question out of my mind.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammer, my fingers dancing a mile a minute.
I force them to stop moving.
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”
This reply was instinctual, a sympathetic response straight from the medulla with no rhyme or reason other than a quick-release social eject button, but in this moment of panic a flash of vivid imagery slips through my mind. I see the same arresting dark-haired girl I pictured last night, imagine her kissing me deeply and feel the weight of her body against mine. I sense flashes of a mischievous smile, of her voice, and of the comfort I feel when she’s close.
Meanwhile, the attention of the circle remains fully transfixed, waiting for a coherent response.
“I … uh. Let me think about it,” I falter, struggling to right the ship.
“That many?” someone loudly jokes, causing a wave of laugher to erupt across the group.
More flashes of the beautiful black-haired girl rip through me; memories of an aching, burning sensation at the pit of my stomach. Impressions of warm, bare skin. Her face is right there at the forefront of my mind: olive complexion and startlingly dark, wide-set eyes that make it seem like her pupils are filling the whole iris.
From where I’m sitting there’s a direct view of the muted television set. The screen is dancing with light and movement, showing off familiar clips of a bleach-blond, spiky-haired punk band with crucifix tattoos. Slowly, however, the images begin to roll and mutate, hues shifting as these visual representations become more and more difficult to understand. Random bursts of intermittent analog snow pierce the transmission.
I’m the only one who notices, my eyes glued to the screen with fascination and confusion.
“Rose?” Morgan continues, a hint of genuine concern now coloring his tone.
By now, the music videos have disappeared completely as another set of images struggles to push through the static. I can faintly make out the blurry shape of a bald, humanoid figure in a chair, their body held tight by a series of straps. The body is slumped over, and as this scene grows clearer I notice additional captive figures in the dim light, the shapes restrained in a variety of awkward, painful poses. Some of the forms are bent backward over outlandish metal contraptions while others are fastened upside down against a stone wall. The transmission hue has been skewed a deep red, giving these characters a bizarre, otherworldly look.
A nauseated sickness floods my stomach as I watch, but nothing could make me tear my eyes away. Curiosity has gotten the best of me.
Back in the realm of reality, a circle of friends is vying for my attention, waving and shouting my name as they struggle to break the trance. I know they’re here, but my attention is fixated elsewhere.
Onscreen, the point-of-view camera creeps onward, making its way through this chamber of crimson figures. It passes the chair-bound form and arrives at another body, this one twisted haphazardly over a metal bar and locked into place by multiple straps. Closer and closer this visual perspective draws, details sharpening until a horrific realization surges through me and my breath catches in my throat.
The television hue is just fine. These figures are deep red because they’re missing their skin.
The camera is so close now I can make out every detail of these mutilated corpses, the ripples of muscle and sinew glistening under dim light. The face of this particular body is hauntingly still, eyes glazed over in a reminder of just how delicate our mortal shells really are.
It’s utterly repulsive, yet I can’t bring myself to look away.
Suddenly, a breath of freezing cold air visibly pulses from the lips of the luminous face onscreen, still gasping despite their fully peeled state. They’re alive.
I let out a startled scream, the imagery finally too much to handle as I scramble away from the television.
The room of friends immediately flies into a state of chaos, classmates glancing between the screen and me.
One of the partiers jumps to their feet and hurries over to the television set, turning it off in frustration. “This is why we don’t watch secular media!” he announces. “Who thought it was funny to put on a terror film?”
Someone else rolls their eyes. “Holy cow! We’re not all Kingdom Kids here. God has better things to worry about than scary movies.”
“Hey!” Isaiah snaps, pointing to them then motioning toward the door. “Not cool! Go!”
The pandemonium is a lot to keep up with as my body reels from the shock of this grotesque imagery. Isaiah puts his hand on my shoulder in an effort to calm me down, and this human connection actually helps pull me back to reality.
“Hey, it was just a movie,” Isaiah offers. “It’s just makeup and effects.”
I nod along, half listening.
“Liberal Hollywood will do anything to make money,” Isaiah continues. “That kind of violence is disgusting, but it’s not real. It’s fake.”
I keep nodding, gradually starting to believe him.
Of course it’s fake.
I take a deep breath, hold, then let it out, now mostly terrified by what a fool I’ve made of myself.
Hoping to craft a social antidote, I abruptly sit up straight and pull it together.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “Let’s keep playing.”
The crowd begins to settle as I say this, reforming the circle once again. There’s a clear shift in mood, but it’s not as bad as it could’ve been.
Eventually, Morgan loudly clears his throat. “Let’s just move on to someone else,” he suggests, glancing around the circle. He stops on Martina. “Martina. Truth or dare.”
This question has power, immediately tugging the room back into a state of quiet intimacy and simmering tension.
Let no one deceive you by any means; for that day will not come unless the falling away comes first.
I find myself repeating this phrase over and over, the mantra cascading through my mind and rushing across my brain like soapy water. I’m okay. Everything is fine.
It was just a stupid movie.
Martina considers the query, taking her time. Her facial expressions begin to playfully shift, each one revealing something new and exciting.
The next thing I know, a ridiculous terror film is the last thing on my mind.
“Dare,” Martina finally replies.
My skin tingles faintly as she says this.
Morgan smiles, unmistakably craving this answer. It appears he has a great dare locked and loaded. “I dare you to get in the closet for seven minutes with the person you like.”
My blood runs cold, a surge of chilly discomfort drifting through me. My eyes are trained on Martina like a hawk’s, deeply invested in her decision as she surveys the group.
I’m flooded by a bizarre state of self-awareness, yearning for Martina to choose me but struggling to accept the context of this desire. The emotions are so powerful that I’m actually trembling, shivering with nervous anticipation.
What is it about my friend that I find so utterly fascinating?
I want to be near her, but not in a weird way. Obviously.
It’s not like I’m gay or something.
As Martina’s sparkling green eyes pass over me I feel my body clench tight with anticipation, aching for her to stop and prompt the whole group to erupt in a giant laugh. We’d go with it, heading into the closet where we could giggle together over this little comedy bit.
Martina’s gaze suddenly halts in my direction.
Thank you, Jesus.
“Parker,” Martina announces, pointing at the guy sitting next to me.
A wave of aching disappointment pulses through my frame. While the rest of the circle lets out a fit of excited chatter, I just stare at Martina and watch as she rises to her feet. Parker stands as well, and soon enough the two of them are heading toward the bedroom closet for a stomach-churning bout of alone time.
Parker’s not even religious, I suddenly realize. He’s not a congregation member, not even a CAPE Catholic or some other kind of lukewarm backslider. What the heck does Martina see in him?
What doesn’t she see in me?
Martina and Parker slip inside the closet and shut the door, disappearing from view.
The nauseating, heartbreaking sickness within me has done nothing but grow, and soon enough I’ve found myself too overwhelmed to remain still any longer. My breathing heavy, I climb to my feet and make a break for the exit.
“Rose!” Isaiah calls out, startled by my sudden departure.
I leave the bedroom and slam the door behind me, so overwhelmed with raw emotion that tears are welling up in my eyes. I’m as analytical as they come, yet in this moment I find myself unable to parse what’s happening within my body. These sensations don’t make any sense, but my understanding of that fact doesn’t taper their ferocity.
It just upsets me even more.
I stand in the dark hallway, struggling to catch my breath as I drift between worlds. Behind me is the closed door of a childish truth or dare game, a place that’s suddenly brought me immense sorrow and confusion for reasons I still can’t comprehend.
Before me is the rest of the party, a raucous scene where secular kids I’ve never met mingle freely with congregation members in a hedonistic free-for-all. It’s a spiritual battlefield, and while it doesn’t offer as much pain as the room behind, there’s still plenty of chaos.
“Hey” comes an unfamiliar voice, a tall, messy-haired partier stumbling down the hallway. He stops before me, bracing himself against the wall as he sways in and out of my personal bubble. “You’re hot.”
I say nothing in return.
“Trash party, huh?” the sloppy visitor continues, his words tumbling over one another. “Isaiah’s pretty cool, but these kids are fucking cringe. You want a drink? Like, a real drink?”
He holds up a water bottle, but the scent causes me to wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“Uh, hello?” the guy pushes onward.
I should probably be more annoyed, but all I can think about right now is Martina. My heart was viciously ripped from my chest, and now nothing else seems to register.
I close my eyes and count the rhythmic tapping of my fingers, struggling to calm down.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
4, 3, 2, 1.
3, 2, 1.
2, 1.
1.
Then repeat.
“Be strong and of good courage, do not fear nor be afraid of them;” I recite softly under my breath, “for the Lord your God, He is the one who goes with you. He will not leave you nor forsake you.”
I can hear my suitor mumbling to himself, his frustrated tone growing steadily quieter as he returns to the fray.
When I open my eyes the partier is gone, but my solitude is short-lived.
There are two rooms here at the end of the hallway: the one we were playing in, and a second bedroom mirroring the first. They are similar in size, and if I had to guess I’d say this other one belongs to Isaiah’s older brother.
He’s not around tonight, but it appears someone else is enjoying the space.
Standing at the center of this dimly lit room is the pale woman, smiling that same crooked grin and silently gazing at me with her vacant white eyes. This is the best look at her I’ve gotten, and as we stand motionless I carefully take her in.
Cadaverous. Eldritch. Puzzling.
“You’re not real,” I find myself announcing. “You’re just … stress.”
To be honest, she doesn’t feel like stress. Now that I’m seeing this woman up close, the idea that she’s just some figment of my imagination is getting much harder to swallow. Previously, her appearances were fraught with movement and shadow, a vague glimpse of something otherworldly.
This moment, however, is as quiet and grounded as it gets. The pale woman has weight in my world, a substance to her form. For the first time, I can fully make out the bizarre length of her fingers, approximately three times as long as any typical human digits. They’re thin and spidery, twitching ever so slightly in the shadows.
The collar around her neck is so tight that it makes me feel like I’m choking, a sturdy iron band that clasps in the middle.
From here I can make out the name tag on her peculiar red work polo. It reads: PACHID.
I know that name, though just barely, the unique title ringing a faint bell in the darkest recesses of my mind. It takes a moment for all of the pieces to add up as I sort through hazy memories of various religious tomes until, suddenly, a spark of recognition becomes a roaring blaze.
Pachid is a demon.
I’m shaking so hard that my teeth are chattering, not just out of fear, but from the gelid sensation that overwhelms my body.
“What do you want?” I ask, the words barely rattling their way from between my lips.
The woman says nothing. She slowly tilts her head to the side, as though this is also her first time really taking me in.
It feels like this moment lasts forever, the two of us just watching each other with genuine curiosity until finally, and without a shred of warning, the pale woman turns and walks directly toward the wall.
Pachid doesn’t slow down as she approaches the barrier, causing a startled gasp to escape my throat when she walks right through it and disappears completely. A faint blue sizzle lies in her wake, flickering with uncanny illumination then disappearing just as soon as it arrived.
Seconds later, the shrieking begins.
I burst back into the truth or dare room to find everyone staring at the closet door in wide-eyed horror. A few loud thumps rumble from within, but the more apparent sounds are a gut-churning cacophony of Parker and Martina screaming in hysterical fear.
It’s only now that I realize this closet is directly behind the wall Pachid just walked through.
The frantically spinning gears of my mind catch and I spring into action, marching in a direct route to the closet door.
“Get them out of there!” I scream.
I reach out to grab the handle, but before I get the chance the door flies open so hard it punches a hole through the wall beside it. I cry out in alarm, jumping back as Martina topples out with a tremendous thump and lands on the floor, her eyes huge and glassy as she stares up at me in a frozen expression of grotesque panic.
There’s something confusing about her pose, and it takes me a moment to realize Martina’s head has been violently twisted in a perfect half rotation. The bones of her neck have shattered, pressing awkwardly against the inside of her skin and threatening to punch through.
Meanwhile, the pale woman is nowhere to be found, but Parker’s complexion is just as pallid as he stands in shock, mumbling to himself while tears stream down his face.
The room erupts in a choir of screams.
4
DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN
When you shuffle off this mortal coil, your senses will likely take their leave one by one. Depending on the way your body meets its end, the exact order of these fading perceptions can vary, but everyone seems to agree on one thing: your hearing goes last.
