Camp Damascus(67)

“Understood,” I reply with a nod.

Saul hesitates a moment, his expression shifting into a bemused chuckle. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?” my friend asks.

The distinct change in his demeanor helps me relax a bit, and instead of following my previous strategy of lying low, I find myself pulled in the opposite direction.

I shake my head. “You’re right, that’s not why I’m here.”

“You’re looking for a way down below,” Saul continues.

I nod.

My friend laughs again. “How do you even know it’s underground? Because there’s stonework? You can find stonework anywhere.”

“So it’s not underground?” I press.

Saul shrugs. “I have no idea, I’m just the charming bad boy metal shop counselor who leads worship songs.”

“There’s shop class here?” I ask.

“Gotta teach the guys to be guys,” Saul replies, a twinge of sadness in his voice.

I sharpen my focus on the task at hand, driving home my direct line of questioning. “You really never noticed a suspicious room?” I ask. “A basement?”

“Nope, but you did,” he retorts.

My heart skips a beat as I realize I’m closing in on something important, the abstract nature of this strange world coalescing into coherent truth.

“What did I notice?” I implore.

“Everyone’s split into two groups, the west cabins and the east cabins,” Saul continues. “There’s a central gathering place between the two, with a mess hall, a rec center, and a church for worship.”

“I remember.”

“There are no south cabins,” Saul continues. “The lake is to the south. Which leaves one option.”

An image of an overgrown trail flashes into my mind, a path away from the mess hall that hasn’t been walked in years. A sign is posted at the base of this unused route.

“The north cabins are under renovation,” Saul and I announce at exactly the same time.

A vision of these humble, white-painted structures abruptly manifests. I see myself creeping through the ferns, bathed in darkness on my way to visit Willow as I catch sight of these cabins from the corner of my eye. They look perfectly functional to me, well-maintained and manicured but with no campers to be found.

“Are they always under renovation?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Saul retorts. “I’m just a manifestation of your own memory.”

“I’m gonna check them out,” I announce, standing abruptly. “You coming with me?”

Saul also stands, strolling over to his guitar and picking it up. He hoists the instrument with a broad smile and plays another triumphant chord. “I’ve gotta go lead some morning worship tunes,” he informs me. “Have fun, though.”

With that, my friend exits the cabin, a joyful swagger in his step. He begins to strum loudly, playing a powerful, uplifting song that rings out across the empty field.

“Hey!” I rush to the door and call out, stopping Saul in his tracks. “How will I know which cabin it is?”

He turns back to face me, briefly pausing his strumming. “Follow the rot,” he gurgles, his voice dropping several octaves. “Flies love rot.”

My expression sours with confusion, but as Saul continues on his way it becomes apparent that this is the only hint I’ll get. As my friend leaves he begins to sing, his voice carrying beautifully through the morning air.

“Lord! You’re all that I need! Lord! You’re all that I live for!” he belts, wandering away.

I watch Saul continue into the distance before turning my attention to the left, my gaze falling upon a row of thick trees at the edge of the clearing. There are no cabins on this side, just the darkness of the woods, and it’s this darkness I’m drawn toward.

I stroll down the porch and make my way across the wide open field, marching toward the tree line as a single metal link raps softly against the flagpole.

A distinct chill begins to creep its way across my skin, growing more and more pronounced with every step until I reach the edge of the woods and realize my teeth are chattering.

I stop here, gazing into the forest in an attempt to catch sight of some hidden collection of cabins. Unfortunately, there are none to be found, yet an uncanny psychic pull tempts me onward.

This clearing is to the west of camp center, so the north cabins must lie diagonally through the woods.

I make my way into the thick overgrowth, pushing ferns away as fallen branches and dead leaves crunch underfoot. My eyes are peeled, but I’m following my instincts now, allowing the inertia of my subconscious mind to take hold.

It’s not long before a third clearing comes into view: the north cabins.

Unlike the other sections of Camp Damascus, this one doesn’t feature a flagpole to mark its location. However, every other aspect of the clearing remains eerily similar. The grass is just as neatly trimmed, buildings freshly painted with the same stark white pigment from across the site.

There are ten cabins in all, two rows of five on either side of the clearing.

My heart pounding, I approach the closest structure and make my way onto the porch. I take a moment to peer through the front window, discovering nothing but a dimly lit room identical to the one I woke up in. When I open the door, I find more of the same.