“You had no way of knowing,” Willow replies sympathetically.
“Actually, I did have a way of knowing,” I continue. “I should’ve been paying more attention, but that’s not the point. The point is, I was doing all these things because God said it was right. My whole life, that was always the motivation, but is that real genuine good? Is something righteous if you’re doing it because you’re worried about getting punished if you decline?”
Willow is nodding along. She knows where I’m going with this, and it’s clearly something she’s thought about, too.
“I wanna do something good,” I continue. “Not out of fear of punishment, or because someone else told me it was the right thing. I wanna do something good for goodness’ sake. I know I don’t have to help those kids; I’ve got no obligation and it would be a hell of a lot easier to just skip town with you. The fact that I don’t have to do any of this is exactly why I’m going back to that camp.”
Based on the way she shut down our previous meeting, I get the feeling Willow knows exactly what I’m talking about. She’s been running from her own truth for a long time, and while that’s easy enough with a demon on your heels, the moment you get to slow down is a double-edged sword.
It’s also the moment you’ve gotta confront what you’ve left behind.
“I’ll help,” she finally replies.
“Wait, what?”
Willow nods, then says it again with a little more confidence, as though she’s still convincing herself. “I’ll help,” she affirms, nodding along. “What’s the plan?”
I hesitate, slightly embarrassed by the brutal simplicity of it all. “We’re gonna break in and smash that machine,” I finally declare. “They can’t tether any demons if there’s no way to summon them in the first place.”
“Where’s the machine?” she asks.
“I’m not entirely sure,” I reply, “but I know how to find out.”
* * *
Willow’s choice to leave her apartment and join Saul and me at the farmhouse is an easy one. She’s aimless out here, and while this little studio brings back a surge of wonderful memories for me, I can tell it has gradually evolved into a place of great pain for her, a wound she’s yet to let heal.
Her place is located directly above Lebka Books, a store she claims brings people from miles around, thanks to their unique finds and impressive selection of used paperbacks.
Willow opens the door of her apartment and pushes inside, immediately getting to work as she stuffs things into a large duffel bag. I follow behind to discover another familiar location in need of filling in, the abstract world of my memories suddenly faced with the intricate detail of reality.
I’ve laughed and cried here, even tried to dance, but as I stroll to the middle of this small rectangular room I finally get to exist.
As Willow maneuvers around me, gathering various all-black pieces of clothing and cramming them into her bag, I allow my eyes to drift across every square inch of this space.
Her bed is stuffed into one corner, well-made but so overwhelmed with massive, cozy blankets that it will always appear slightly disheveled. The wall next to it is absolutely covered in photographs, the images ranging in size from tiny, white-rimmed Polaroids to a few enormous posters. The subjects vary, featuring glorious Big Sky landscapes or discarded cigarette butts, but the grainy style remains consistent.
“You took all of these,” I announce, framing the question as an awkward statement.
“Yep,” Willow replies from across the room, still going about her business. “That’s a little different from the last time you were here.”
My gaze drifts to the other side of the room, a wall that immediately causes an innate pang of discomfort to wash through my frame. A large, extra-wide bookshelf runs from floor to ceiling, taking up most of the space save for a small portion of the wall that remains exposed. This exposed wall is where a framed poster is hung, featuring an eerie yellow symbol that I’ve never seen before.
The shelves are covered in strange paraphernalia. A skeletal rat sits under glass next to an assortment of pinned beetles. Jars and bottles are lined up next to this, organized and filled with crafty ingredients, and a collection of black books line the shelf under that. A turtle shell and a taxidermied bat call the next row home.
Everything about this display screams occult, a subject I certainly don’t care much about these days, but it still rings some malignant Christian alarm deep within me.
Be cool.
“Pagan stuff,” I offer, mustering up the most casual and convincing nod I can. “Awesome.”
Willow stops packing, glancing over at me in confusion. “What?”
I nod at the shelf. “You’re into witchcraft.”
Willow cocks her head to the side.
“You don’t remember dating a witch?” she asks.
She holds this expression as long as she possibly can, until she finally can’t hold back any longer and erupts in a fit of laughter.
“I’m just fucking with you. I like nature,” she replies, “but I don’t believe in … well, anything.”
“Oh,” I falter. “Okay.”
“Plus, that stuff looks pretty cool,” she continues.
My eyes drift over to the poster. “What about that symbol?”
Willow raises her eyebrows.
“That?” she asks, grabbing a remote off the counter and pointing it at her nearby stereo. “That’s Wu-Tang Clan.”
Willow presses play and a beat drops, the rhythmic sound vibrating through her apartment. I’m immediately transported to that night with the headphones, recalling the way we danced together despite the fact that I had no idea what I was doing.
The song cascades across my ears, heavy and raw and beautiful. A rapper confidently brags over this staccato piano line, making his case with intoxicating bravado.
“Are your neighbors gonna get upset?” I ask.
She smiles. “I’m moving out. I don’t give a fuck!”
I begin to nod along with the music, well aware of how awkward I look but not really caring.
“If I can dance to it, then I like it,” Willow continues, getting back to work as she pulls a few books from the shelf and tosses them into her duffel.
“Then you will not like Saul’s music,” I reply.
I watch as Willow finishes up her packing, the past and present meeting at a beautiful crossroads in my mind. The last time I remember being in this room we were quiet and scared, hidden away with two sets of headphones in the dead of night.
But Willow’s not afraid to announce her presence anymore, and neither am I.
* * *
Short of another breakin, finding more information about the inner workings of Camp Damascus is nearly impossible. We briefly consider another journey into the depths of a church outreach center, hoping to stumble upon some records or blueprints, but eventually decide the element of surprise should remain in our favor. They don’t know we’re planning something, and at the moment that’s a massive asset.
It’s all or nothing. If we’re going in, then we better be taking care of that machine. Multiple trips just aren’t worth the risk.