Even sniffing around Neverton City Hall for old construction documents proves a bridge too far, Kingdom of the Pine’s tendrils creeping into every corner of this small town. We’ve been excommunicated, three young heathens who’ve swiftly gone from vital community members to a rot at the core of the apple.
Time also appears to be a finite resource, and I can feel the grip of the congregation closing in. Someone from the church stopped by Saul’s property yesterday, handing out home-printed Missing Person fliers with the face of yours truly plastered across the front.
Saul was deeply bothered by this, and when the canvasser left he spent a good three hours making sure my old car was not just tucked away, but fully dismantled. For the first time, he seemed viscerally upset about giving me a place to stay, liked he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
We all knew how terrifying Kingdom of the Pine could be, but Saul was especially worried. When I tried consoling him, his answers were short and sharp, and he declined to discuss because “you wouldn’t get it.”
I’ve been told that a lot, so it cut deep, but for whatever reason I felt like he might be right this time.
This morning Saul built a gate at the bottom of the drive.
Fortunately, despite all the roadblocks between us and a technical, physical layout of Camp Damascus, their penchant for advertising has become their undoing. Everyone living in the greater Neverton area has seen the commercials, years and years of video documentation that shows off the grounds in stunning detail. I’ve seen plenty of them myself, but I’ve never actually studied the footage long enough to link the visual fragments in my mind.
As our memories gradually return, the information within these ads might just manifest a coherent map of the place.
The problem is, Camp Damascus isn’t exactly advertising their dungeon. No matter how well we recollect the campground layout, it’s what’s likely under the dirt that matters.
With this in mind, I’ve extracted myself from the video analysis completely. While Saul and Willow download old commercials and gradually sketch a scale map, I’m trying my best to keep my brain fresh from any outside influence.
The possession room’s location lurks somewhere deep within me, and the best way to dig it out is likely the same method that revealed its existence in the first place. As demonstrated in the back of a speeding ambulance, epinephrine seems to unearth significant caches of my buried thoughts.
Of course, that was a very specific circumstance. Injecting a pen full of adrenaline into my heart right here on the floor of Saul’s living room is probably not going to yield the results I want. Still, there are other drugs that have shown promise in pulling back the hazy veil of long-term memory loss.
“This is my parents’ worst nightmare,” I announce, gazing at the living room ceiling with a pillow behind my head. “Their gay daughter and her lesbian girlfriend in a spooky old farmhouse doing drugs with a metalhead.”
The analytical part of me worries these trips into my subconscious mind could be more imagination than recollection, and that’s a legitimate risk. Our options, however, are limited, and we’re taking the precaution of keeping me far, far away from any Camp Damascus commercials. If I return from my trip down memory lane with a description that matches Saul and Willow’s research, we’re likely on to something.
This plan is not foolproof, of course, but it’s what we’ve got.
Saul approaches, kneeling down next to me and handing me a cup of hot tea. I don’t ask him what’s in it, just sit up and take a long sip from the warm beverage. I can’t help the grimace that works its way across my face.
“That’s terrible.”
“Sorry!” Willow calls from the kitchen. “You want more honey?”
“I just wanna get it over with,” I reply. I take another long pull from the cup, swallowing as much of the bitter, putrid liquid as I can.
“I feel like we should be playing some groovy tunes for you,” Willow suggests, strolling into the room.
“This needs to be as objective as possible,” I counter, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the single pillow. “No tunes, no talking, no people.”
I expect a response as Willow and Saul excuse themselves, but no words come in return. For a brief moment I consider opening my eyes to check if they’re still around, but I hold myself back.
Instead, I do everything I can to melt into the ground below me, disappearing within myself as I slip deeper and deeper into the empty canvas of my own mind.
Very, very slowly, the weight of the air on my skin begins to change, shifting away from my familiar location and placing me somewhere mysteriously abstract. I’ve cleared my mind, crafting a blank space for any memories to reveal themselves in a vibrant display.
Unfortunately, the more I struggle to eliminate any conscious thought, the more random musings on thought itself slip past my defenses.
Becoming a blank canvas is hard.
As soon as I realize these sneaking ideas have overwhelmed my brain I push them away, but other intrusive thoughts quickly pile in to take their place. I find myself wondering if Willow still thinks I’m attractive.
We still haven’t kissed outside of a memory.
I need to stop chasing these mental threads, to allow myself a moment of true relaxation.
What if you just fall asleep? What if these aren’t memories, they’re dreams?
The vast darkness of my own mind offers no response: an endless, silent observer. Eventually, another question wanders aimlessly through my conscious brain, taking up space.
What if you’re already asleep?
Frustrated, I decide to open my eyes and check this hypothesis, but I quickly discover the option is no longer available. My body has disappeared completely, a lonesome consciousness drifting aimlessly in the vacuum of space.
I struggle to lift my eyelids again, to wrangle control over a physical form that’s no longer there and immediately find myself in a state of full-blown existential panic. If I had a heart, it would be beating much, much faster now, but there’s no heart to speak of and no frame to hold it.
I can’t even tap my fingers.
Unless, of course, I can somehow create them.
I make one last attempt to open my eyes, only this time I accept the endless landscape for what it is: a prison of my own design. This frightening place is not truly an infinite abyss, just the illusion of one.
The truth is, I’m in charge here, and while the physical form I’m accustomed to has been stripped away, there’s nothing to keep me from making a new one.
Rose 11:4. Let there be Rose.
With that in mind, I focus deeply on creating a new body. I push with all my might until, eventually, I can feel the weight of my arms and legs, the gentle beating of my heart within my chest. I sense my lungs expanding and contracting in a deep, steady rhythm.
I open my eyes.
The dilapidated ceiling of Saul’s farmhouse living room has disappeared, replaced instead by a stark vision of pristine clarity. Morning light stretches across a bright white ceiling in a warm rectangle, welcoming me home as I return from a state of deep slumber.
I sit up, glancing around to find myself in a small cabin, well-maintained and quite chic despite the four twin beds crammed into the limited space. A huge framed poster hangs on the far wall, featuring the silhouette of a crucifix and a short message from First Corinthians.