Camp Damascus(22)

A car passes, slowing to a crawl as the driver offers a friendly wave. I have no doubt our neighbors would take this care either way, but by now the news of Martina’s death has permeated our community and soaked into everything like spilled ink. Everyone knows I was there when it happened.

Deep in the forest, another home can be seen perched atop its own modest hill.

“I love this place,” my mother announces. “So quiet.”

She says this every time we pass, and although this little comment has been deeply ingrained in my mind, I never understand it.

Lisa is a warm, beaming member of the community, a blond-haired, blue-eyed beacon of light at every church function and a consistent host of book clubs and women’s prayer groups. Almost everything I’ve learned about navigating social cues I picked up from her, a brilliant teacher whether she knows it or not.

This house on the left, however, is the last place I’d ever picture Lisa Darling yearning for. It’s the smallest home in the neighborhood, much older than the rest and featuring a single chimney that’s likely the only source of heat. It’s a one-or two-room cabin, barely visible through the woods: a place of solitude.

“Secular influence,” my mother begins, nodding toward the cabin as we pass. “The daughter brought home terror fiction from her school library; public school, of course. She’s starting to act out.”

This one is easy.

“Remove the secular influence. Schedule a youth pastor one-on-one,” I suggest. “Assign a meditation on 1 Corinthians 10:31 and a reading of Romans 1, top to bottom.”

“The whole thing, huh?” Mom questions.

“Sure,” I reply.

My mother is impressed.

As our walk enters its second half, I find a strange, creeping dread beginning to simmer deep within. The overwhelming sadness I’ve been feeling has been momentarily sidelined, and for that I’m thankful, but this method of ignoring the problem can only hold for so long.

We can’t keep walking forever, and as vast as the subject of death remains, I’ll eventually run out of facts to fill my skull like dry bandages.

The spiritual bleeding hasn’t stopped. In fact, it’s gushing more than ever.

Once I’ve finished tackling death and trauma, there’s only one topic left to shift over to. It’s a question that hangs like a specter in the back of my mind, haunting me.

What does it mean to see things that aren’t really there?

Even more frightening: What if they really are?

Kingdom of the Pine is strict in its teachings about demonic forces, taking a firm but realistic approach over the last decade. We live in the modern age now, and we’re fortunate enough to understand these creatures as a metaphor for the dark cravings within ourselves.

But when’s the last time you saw an abstract metaphor shatter anyone’s spine?

“Rose!” my mother snaps angrily, her sharp tone breaking through my haze of concentration. “Fingers!”

I glance down to realize I’ve been doing my counts, a massive transgression in the Darling household. My hands immediately stiffen, then relax.

Lisa’s face remains stern over the remaining block, finally relaxing by the time we’ve reached our next sharp turn. This area transitions back into newer suburban houses, a cozy lane featuring some of my favorites. Other Kingdom of the Pine families are clustered here.

Mom gestures to another house as we pass, the porchlight on and a lazy orange cat sitting confidently on the front stoop. Inside, the television chatters, a prayer service drifting out through the cool evening air.

“Suicide,” my mother suggests. “The father took his own life.”

I’m always trying to impress her with my responses, answering these hypothetical queries of spiritual warfare with a quick and firm solution. This time, however, I falter.

I know exactly what she wants me to say, but as I open my mouth the words refuse to emerge. Something doesn’t quite fit.

“For the family?” I finally manage to question.

“For the sinner,” my mother clarifies.

Martina didn’t take her own life, but the weight of her death is undeniably tethered to this topic all the same. I can’t help wondering if my mother is doing this on purpose, but the innocent look on her face says otherwise.

A far more heartbreaking realization washes over me, one that doesn’t require any ulterior motives or discreet social manipulation from my mother.

The truth is, even I wouldn’t have found this question sickening until recently. On any other day I would’ve jumped right in with a pitch-perfect prescription, a way for that poor soul to repent even after they’ve left this earth.

Maybe I’d even reply it was impossible; what’s done is done.

Now, however, the simmering dread has reached a boil. Everything feels wrong. It’s not just this particular question that has grown distasteful, it’s the whole exercise. Judgment as sport, whether fictional or not, has taken an undeniable toll on me, a weight that’s likely even more caustic than any encounter with some hallucinated demon.

Or a real demon.

“What do you think?” Mom prods, waiting for my response. “Can he be saved?”

I feel nauseated, the world swaying awkwardly below me as I struggle to maintain my composure. There’s a tear in my soul, a rip that started with Martina’s death and continues unraveling with every passing day.