The screen fades to a long, slow pan across the bleachers, prompting me to recognize a few notable faces from my own high school mixed in with others from across the globe.
This is the only issue I have with this commercial. With a 100 percent success rate, there’s no need to hire actors, yet the handful of acquaintances who ended up in this crowd shot claim they never went to Camp Damascus. A few of them did actually go, but when I prod about what it was like to shoot this commercial they always have trouble finding the words.
Must’ve been amazing.
“So call the number below and begin the process of embracing a better life for you or someone you love,” Pastor Bend announces confidently. “With a little help, every one of us can…”
He pauses for a moment as the whole camp joins in for a raucous cheer.
“Love right!” they cry out in unison.
The commercial fades to black and my mother’s late-night program returns to the screen, an hour of preaching from an ultraliberal California pastor she probably shouldn’t be watching but tunes in for after Dad’s gone to bed.
I hesitate a moment and bask in the gratitude that suddenly washes over me. Today may have been strange, but at least I’m not dealing with the torment those poor souls at Camp Damascus are constantly battling. At least I’m not gay.
The second I register this thought, I catch an unexpected vision slinking along with it: a stowaway. The fantasy comes in a flash, a startling image of another girl and me at a diner. It feels warm and cozy as we sit across from one another, sipping coffee and giggling over some inside joke. I reach out and touch her left hand across the table, and she hoists her drink with the right. The silhouette of a cartoon crocodile is on her mug, but the thing that really draws my attention is just how beautiful and deep her dark brown eyes are, framed by a bob of jet-black hair.
As soon as the thought arrives, however, it disappears. I’m left feeling strange and uncomfortable, my mind and my body at odds with each other in their reaction to this imaginary scene of some hypothetical other life.
I remind myself that 94 percent of people report having intrusive thoughts.
Moving on, I quietly turn to the cupboard, opening it up and pulling out a tall glass. I fill the cup with tap water, listening to the pitch of the faucet’s soft hiss for timing, then turn back around and creep toward the stairs.
I only get a few steps before halting in my tracks, a potent surge of adrenaline coursing through my body. A humanoid figure now stands next to the television set, tucked away in the darkness and perfectly still.
I blink a few times, staring at this mass in the shadows as I attempt to make sense of it. I’ve gone from a bright screen to pitch black so many times in the last few minutes that my vision is struggling to keep up, fighting to sort through the things that are actual threats and the things that are nothing more than a coat rack or a standing lamp.
Or is that a hanging arm and a leg? I think to myself.
My mother remains motionless on the couch, completely unaware of the tension that fills the room around her.
My body is trembling, the glass of water in my hand vibrating as I wait and observe.
“Mom” is all I can think to say, attempting to wake her up in a hushed tone.
The figure remains still, utterly motionless in the dim, flickering light of the living room.
“Mom, do you see that?” I continue, a little louder this time.
My mother stirs a bit, but she doesn’t wake.
“Mom!” I finally blurt, enough force behind my voice to pull her from her slumber.
The figure erupts toward me in a horrifyingly confident march, abruptly revealing themself and prompting a frightened shriek to escape my throat. I stumble back, dropping my glass against the kitchen tile with a resounding crash.
I immediately recognize the intruder, this glimpse in the darkness all I need to recall the woman at the falls. Her stark white eyeballs and strange, mangled grin come surging back to me, flooding my mind with abject terror. She’s wearing the same deep red polo as before, and her stringy black hair flows behind her as she rushes forward.
I stumble against the dining room table, knocking it back with a hollow skert as I fail to catch myself. I hit the ground hard, feeling the cold chill of spilled water soaking through my shirt.
Suddenly, however, my intruder alters course. The woman turns at a crisp 90-degree angle, heading toward a nearby closet and disappearing into the darkness.
The next thing I know, my mother is blasting on the living room light and rushing toward me with a look of belligerent alarm. “Rose! Oh, son of a gun!” she cries out.
A moment later, she steps on a shard of glass and erupts with an unbridled howl. “Shoot!”
“There’s someone in the house!” I scream, tears streaming down my face. “She’s in the closet!”
A look of grave concern crosses my mother’s face as I say this, glancing between me and the nearby door as she hobbles over and crouches down.
“What are you saying?” Lisa questions. “Who is in the closet?”
“The lady from the falls!” I clamor wildly, losing myself in the mighty flood of emotion that courses through my body. “She had these blank eyes and weird teeth! She’s wearing a uniform!”
My mother’s eyebrows furrow as I say this.
Dad arrives in the kitchen doorway, panicked and out of sorts.
“What’s going on?” he asks, hurrying over until my mother raises her hand to stop him in his tracks.
“Glass” is all she says, prompting Dad to glance down before taking a cautious step back.
“What’s going on?” my father repeats, calmer this time.
I struggle to follow his lead, pulling it together as much as I can before pushing onward. “There’s a woman in the house,” I inform him. “She was standing in the dark and she just ran at me. I saw her earlier today at the falls and she must’ve followed me home.”
“She had blank eyes,” my mother adds, strangely calm now, “and a uniform.”
With this new information my father’s expression flickers slightly, changing in a way that’s so subtle I’d barely notice if not for the fact that I’m looking right at him with my senses on high alert.
My father points to the closet door. “In here?” he questions.
I nod.
Dad creeps toward the door as my eyes widen in fear. He’s got nothing to defend himself with in the frightening event that this intruder has a weapon, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Wait!” I blurt, terrified by the thought of what lurks within.
Before I have a chance to stop him, however, Luke yanks open the closet door.
My father halts abruptly, staring into the darkness for a beat and then reaching out to turn on the light.
There’s nothing in the closet.
A startled gasp escapes my lips—I’m both confused and relieved.
Dad turns around, a solemn look on his face as he returns to me. He takes his time to avoid the shattered glass that covers our kitchen floor, then eventually kneels down so we’re eye to eye.
“It’s been a long night,” my father announces, reaching out and placing his hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay, honey?”
My first instinct is to protest, to tell him I’m perfectly fine and the strange woman must’ve slipped past him somehow, but the words won’t form. Instead, I start crying again, even harder than before, as I allow the feelings to sweep me away like Noah’s ark.