“What’s your name?” I finally question.
The girl winces and places her hand over her mouth, acting as though this gesture might keep the pain at bay.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“What’s your name?” I repeat, desperately yearning for this connection that’s swiftly pulling away.
The stranger shakes her head. “I’m not gonna tell you my name,” she says, stepping back from the car. “That’s the point. Forget about me. Forget about all this and go back home.”
“I don’t understand!” I cry. “Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?”
“Because the longer we stand here, the more I start to miss you, and the more I start to miss you, the more danger we’re both in,” she states with a cogent intensity. “Stop looking for answers. They’ve won. It’s over.”
“If you really knew me then you’d understand I can’t do that,” I reply.
“Understand this,” the girl continues. “If you approach me again, you might as well bring a gun and shoot me in the fucking head. There’s a mark on both of—”
Before she can finish, the girl erupts with a sudden cough. She staggers a bit, holding her throat, then coughs again with even more force. This time, whatever’s caught in her windpipe dislodges and spills from her lips, a handful of flies that immediately take off buzzing in every direction.
“Oh fuck,” the stranger gasps. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”
She turns and sprints back toward the park, disappearing into the darkness and leaving me to sit in a state of complete shock.
“I love you?” I repeat back to myself, these final three words the most unexpected part of our encounter.
I’m not sure how, but the longer I sit with it, the more it makes sense.
Eventually, I pull out onto the road, beginning the winding trek back through several pockets of tree-covered neighborhoods and the deep, dark woods. I’m a long way from home, all the way across town, and after the emotional roller coaster of this evening I’m exhausted.
Neverton transforms in these twilight hours, becoming a strangely lonely place. There are no other cars on this desolate stretch, just a single set of headlights slicing through the great, evergreen-covered abyss of Montana wilderness.
I gradually return to the radio, hoping to find a semblance of company and distract myself from the chaotic ruminations running wild in my head.
I’m trying not to think of those flies, the ones that blossomed deep within my body as a once-in-a-lifetime fluke that no longer seems so once-in-a-lifetime. I try not to consider what else I encountered that evening, especially since I’ve been recently convinced that my demon days are behind me.
As the radio clicks on static fills my car, a station that had been perfectly clear during my trip to the park now drowned in chattering fuzz. It sounds a lot like what happened during the phone call with my dad—chaotic screaming hidden somewhere deep within the mysterious tangle of sound waves.
I shut the radio off, disappointed by my timing on this particularly desolate stretch of signal-free road.
According to the National Safety Council, the likelihood you’ll die in a car crash is 1 in 101.
Approaching a stop sign, I slow and pop on the blinker, making a gradual turn as my headlights sweep across the heavily forested scene.
The second my turn completes, however, I gasp and slam on the brakes.
Someone is standing in the middle of the road, a bizarre figure brilliantly lit by my headlights’ yellow glow. The shape is frozen in place, clad in familiar attire that makes my neck hair bristle.
They’re wearing the same red polo shirt that Pachid sports, and their hair is equally dark and stringy. They offer me the same crooked smile full of dirty broken teeth, and the same stark white eyes gaze at me from within their sunken sockets. They have long, spidery fingers that hang by their side, twitching restlessly.
This figure, however, is not Pachid. This is a man, just as thin-limbed but sporting a rotund belly that pushes out from the center of his lanky form. His hair is just as long, but it only sprouts from the rim of his head, leaving the top completely bald and sickly pale.
I’ve been struggling to understand what I saw that night, struggling to make sense of the evidence as it piled up before me. Everything seemed to point in such an obvious direction, yet I was still desperately hoping to avoid this crushing cosmic truth.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, shivering terribly as I stare at this bizarre and unholy sight, there’s no longer a doubt in my mind.
I’m looking at a demon.
5
MEMORY LANE
From this distance, I can barely make out what’s etched into the demon’s oval name tag. Squinting through the brilliant illumination of my headlights, however, the word becomes apparent.
It reads: RAMIEL.
As the pale man and I stare at each other, I find myself faced with an unexpected test. Beside me is the car’s automatic shifter, currently sitting in the drive position but tempting me with retreat in the form of a little glowing R.
When it comes to sin, Kingdom of the Pine teaches avoidance, to win the battle against temptation before it even begins. In the congregation, so much focus is placed on averting your eyes and shielding your heart that we rarely get around to discussing what happens once these forces have taken hold.
You conquer your metaphorical demons by restricting them from your life in the first place.
But what happens when a demon is standing right in front of you, watching over you with twitching fingers and sagging skin, his meandering teeth locked in the knowing smile of a hunter who has cornered their prey?
The church leaders would likely tell me to run, to cut off the infection and remove this demonic force from my life. Excommunication is a powerful tool within Kingdom of the Pine, and it works.
The thing is, I’m beginning to doubt these philosophies apply to me anymore.
In a sudden jerk of movement, the pale man goes from frozen to agitated. He marches directly toward my vehicle, prompting a surge of adrenaline to erupt through my veins.
“Oh shoot!” I blurt.
Instinct takes over, but I don’t reach for the shifter in retreat. Instead, I slam on the gas.
My vehicle rockets forward, roaring to life with a loud squeal that pierces the dark forest around us. The force pulls my head back against my seat, and as the demon looms larger and larger in my windshield I brace for impact.
When the pale man and my car meet I expect a loud crunch as he’s thrown over the hood, maybe the crack of a windshield or some shattering glass.
This doesn’t happen.
Instead, Ramiel’s body phases through my sedan, these two pieces of solid matter slipping through one another with ease. It happens so fast that I barely catch a glimpse of this bizarre, shimmering moment, the pale man’s torso whipping past me in sizzling blue.
I snap my head back to find he’s stopped in the road behind me, unharmed and standing as still as the night around him. My eyes go wide; I’m spellbound by the tangible magic I’ve just witnessed.
Abruptly, a violent rumble forces my attention back to the forward path. I instinctively slam on the brakes, but it’s already too late. The next thing I know I’m careening off the pavement and bouncing down a sharp incline, struggling to maintain control as a massive tree looms before me.