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.
Aside from the breathtakingly low temperatures, there’s not much to see here.
Instead of gradually making my way down each row, I decide to focus my efforts and listen to the voice within, the whispering part of my subconscious brain that has made all this possible.
Returning to the middle of the field, I close my eyes, allowing the swift current of memory to take hold. None of this is real, I remind myself, but deep below these veils of symbolism lies a hidden truth.
It’s not long before a faint, darting buzz draws my attention to the right. I open my eyes and glance over to locate a single mayfly dancing through the air, fluttering this way and that before swooping off toward one of the cabins.
The insect sways with a strange meandering tumble as I follow along, and despite its gradual movement, the general direction is clear. I walk slowly behind the fly’s wandering trail, following across the field until I’m standing directly before the middle cabin on the left side of the clearing.
It’s here my six-legged companion lands on the first wooden step, gazing up at me with its bulging, crystalline eyes as it furiously rubs its dirty little hands together.
I meet the tiny creature’s gaze.
Suddenly, an eruption of caustic, sonic drilling prods me to stumble back in alarm, losing my footing and slamming against the grass as I stare up in disgust at a churning black mass. The cabin is absolutely covered in flies, the creatures swarming so thick they look like a heaving, undulating paste that’s been spread across the entire structure. The sound in my ears is a deafening, overwhelming drone, a horrible sound that fills the clearing as the creatures swirl and pulse, a living tornado of filth. They roll off the cabin like dancing fire, drawn to the rot.
My eyes snap open and I sit up with a gasp, prompting Willow and Saul to pull back in shock. I’ve returned to the warmth of the farmhouse, slamming back into my body with a powerful thud that jerks the air from my lungs.
“You okay?” Willow asks, placing her hand on my back.
“Ye-Yeah,” I stammer, the word tumbling forth awkwardly as I struggle to find my voice. I’m still reeling from what I’ve seen, the rolling boil of mayflies charred across my mind.
Willow gives me a moment to catch my breath.
“Did you remember?” she finally asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Things were pretty … abstract.”
I turn my attention to Saul. “Was there a third set of buildings in the woods?” I ask. “A clearing for the north cabins?”
Saul leans back a bit, his eyes staring off as he struggles to remember. “I think so,” he confirms, “but I never saw them. They were under renovation when I worked at Damascus.”
“I think they were always under renovation,” I say.
Saul locks eyes with me. “Do you know which cabin we need to search?”
I’ve seen the cabin, and while the mass of flies was likely just a symbolic manifestation from the depths of my subconscious, the location itself is clearly marked.
However, the logical, scientifically minded part of my brain pauses. This segment of my personality has been growing stronger every day, and now the sword it wields into psychic battle is dominant. There’s nothing concrete about my findings, and the assertation that any information gleaned from an abstract drug trip holds water is highly suspect.
Sure, there’s plenty of evidence to suggest repressed memories lie dormant in the subconscious, but reading these images like tea leaves is just as silly as the religion I’ve turned my back on.
Is this just a new Trojan horse for faith to use as it creeps back into my life?
Maybe a little faith isn’t so bad, a voice abruptly offers from deep within me, bubbling up from the darkness and making a profoundly simple case.