Camp Damascus E-Book

Chuck Tingle

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 397

Beschreibung

Love is real. Demons are real. Kill the demons. A chilling and heartfelt supernatural horror about a young woman searching for love and the secrets of a demonic gay conversion camp, perfect for readers of Stephen Graham Jones, Hailey Piper and Lucy A. Snyder Camp Damascus is the world's most effective gay conversion camp. Nestled in the Montana wilderness, parents send their children from around the world to experience the program's 100% success rate. But, this story isn't about that. This story is about Rose Darling, a God-fearing young lady who can't stop puking up flies. It's about her parents who ignore her visions of an eerie woman with sagging, pale skin who watches from the woods. It's about the desires deep inside Rose that don't seem to make any sense, and her waking nightmares that are beginning to feel more like memories. And maybe, just maybe, it's a little bit about Camp Damascus after all.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

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Copyright

1:  Leap of Faith

2:  Call Now

3:  Truth

4:  Darkness on The Edge of Town

5:  Memory Lane

6:  Late-Night Secular Programming

7:  Communicators

8:  House of Saul

9:  Hell Freezes Over

10:  Lady of the Flies

11:  Straight Street

12:  The Conqueror

13:  Judgment

About the Author

CHUCK TINGLE

TITANBOOKS

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Camp Damascus

Print edition ISBN: 9781803365114

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803365121

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: July 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 Chuck Tingle. All rights reserved.

Chuck Tingle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

1

LEAP OF FAITH

You’ve got no shadow,” Martina informs me, gazing down at my feet and then shifting her eyes back up to mine.

I check, and sure enough my friend is largely correct. Thanks to the afternoon sun hanging directly overhead, it appears my shadow has mostly disappeared. It’s a subtle observation, a phenomenon you’d never really notice unless you were looking for it, and yet Martina has pointed it out with an excited grin.

Of course, closer examination would reveal that my shadow, while small, is still there. Hawai’i is the only state where your shadows do completely disappear, and this rare event only happens twice a year. It’s called Lahaina Noon.

I don’t say this, though.

I think to ask why Martina is so excited about her flawed discovery, one that immediately falls apart after the slightest direct inspection, but I quickly realize I don’t have to. I too notice the little things Martina does, logging every tiny quirk of the world regardless of whether anyone else finds it worthy of comment. There are so many beautiful pieces in God’s grand puzzle, and you can miss them if you’re not careful.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I offer.

“Like Peter Pan,” Martina continues, the smile curling wider across her overwhelmingly freckled face.

With anyone else, this unhinged friendliness might signal a touch of sarcasm lurking somewhere behind their large green eyes, but I know better. At least, I hope I do.

I nod along, smiling happily despite suddenly finding myself in the pop culture deep end with little understanding of what she’s talking about. I’ve never read the book, nor seen any films related to this antique story with questionable motives. There’s enchantment involved, so I know enough to stay far, far away.

For a brief moment I consider telling Martina she shouldn’t read that stuff, that the only magic she needs is the love of Christ, but I hesitate.

I’ve had these conversations before, and even in a town as God-fearing as Neverton, there are only so many who want to hear it. Most Christian folks are friendly enough, but the second you start rubbing their faces in these little indiscretions they bristle.

The last thing I want to do is make Martina bristle.

“Did you have to read that freshman year?” she asks, clearly noting the pained expression on my face I’m so desperately struggling to avoid.

I shake my head. “No,” I reply flatly, rejecting explanation.

The truth is, I do remember Peter Pan being assigned in English class, and I remember the reports that accompanied this classic secular tale from James Matthew Barrie. I could easily tell you where the author was born (Scotland), how he died (pneumonia), or even let you in on the fact that he killed off an equally profane and godless character, Sherlock Holmes, in a noncanonical short story well before Sir Arthur Conan Doyle ever had the chance.

These facts about the author create a window into his work, not a door. It’s a window I’ve never crawled through.

Intentionally.

“Weren’t you in my class?” Martina continues. “I thought everyone read it.”

Once again, I’m put to the test, reaching the familiar crossroads of how forthcoming I think I should be.

I love Jesus, I really do, but Jesus would want me to be cool. He’d want Martina to think I’m cool.

Kingdom of the Pine was founded on a bedrock of practicality, after all.

Which brings me back to this conversation, and the sudden realization I’ve been standing in silence for way too long. I need an answer that will appease both a fellow student and the good Lord above, struggling to walk the razor’s edge between the truth of my deeply held convictions and the relaxed sheen of a perfectly normal girl.

Not all Kingdom Kids are weird.

“I didn’t think . . . I mean . . .” I fumble, struggling to craft an excuse and coming up short as my mind tumbles and churns. “My parents didn’t want me reading it,” I finally reply, submitting the truth and letting the chips fall where they may. “Magic, you know?”

Martina’s already enormous green eyes widen in shock. “Wait, really?” she blurts.

Her expression is not what I expected, flooded by sudden excitement and genuine interest. I now realize she might be impressed by this moral objection, and my mind begins to race as I wonder if she’s proud of me.

Well, not prideful but . . . something like that.

I’ve known Martina for a very long time, although we’ve only recently started talking in a meaningful way. Could she have similar convictions? Could this be the start of the deep, authentic friendship I’ve been hoping for?

“That’s fucked up,” Martina finally continues, immediately prompting me to pump the proverbial brakes on my enthusiasm. “That’s way fucked up, Rose. I’m sorry your parents are so crazy.”

I can’t help nodding along, the muscles of my neck taking on a life of their own.

“Yeah,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Way . . . messed up. Parents, right?”

The second these words leave my lips I feel the deep ache of regret, a guilty pang that shoots down my spine as a sinful reminder. God’s watchful eye has noticed.

Martina smiles, though, and suddenly this regret is met with something else, a surge of joy that counteracts the holy venom like ANAVIP through the bloodstream of some poor soul who crossed a Pentecostal pit viper.

I’ve gotta pull back on the snake handling.

“Alright. See you at the bottom,” Martina says.

My friend promptly turns and breaks into a run, sprinting with her bare feet across the short, rocky runway. It’s as though the frozen universe has started rolling on again, the rustle of the trees and the splash of water far, far below filling my ears.

The other kids who’ve gathered around these cliffs watch in amazement, their hair wet and stringy as towels drape across them for a fleeting moment of dryness before the next brave leap. Everyone here is used to jumpers taking their time for a big show, standing at the edge of the cliff for a good while and gazing down as though considering their surrender. Of course, once they’ve gotten to the rocky ledge they rarely back down, and everyone watching knows this. It’s all part of the performance, a temporary ringmaster gathering as many eyes as possible before rushing to the edge and hurling themselves over. They tumble down into the cool water below with a mighty splash, followed by excited cheers from their temporary but adoring fans.

Martina doesn’t need any of that.

“Fuck!” she cries out as she springs from the rocks, her body rocketing forward while arms and legs continue pumping in the air. I can see the exact point that gravity catches hold of her body, gripping tight and then yanking downward in a sharp change of trajectory that would make Newton proud.

I lose sight of Martina’s long strawberry curls as she drops, but I’m too frightened to rush to the edge and witness her plummet. Seconds after disappearing from view there’s a loud splash, followed by a joyful eruption from the crowd. Their applause carries out through the forest around us, washing through the trees like audible water.

Carefully, I creep to the edge and stare down into the swimming hole that lies below, the dark water still rippling from Martina’s plunge. A few sunbathers lay out on the shore nearby in various states of undress, many of them less covered up than I’m comfortable with, and a handful of swimmers float at the outer rim of this dazzling natural pool.

It’s a hot day in Montana, so the falls are packed.

I continue gazing, waiting for Martina to resurface as my heart rate needlessly quickens. She’s done this jump hundreds of times, and it appears none of them have resulted in disaster so far. There’s no logical reason for Martina to have any trouble this time around, but as I stare down at the reflective surface below, I can’t help the tiny seed of fear that blossoms at the pit of my stomach.

For some reason I’ve found myself caring a lot about how things turn out for her. It feels, in a word, weird.

A wave of relief pulses through my body as Martina breaks the surface, taking in a big gulp of air and instinctively whipping her red hair from side to side. She begins swimming gracefully across the water, making her way to the shore.

From up here I can see her body move in a completely new light, propelling forward with majestic elegance. She looks like a frog as she kicks her legs, but that comparison sounds brash and awkward, while Martina is nothing of the sort.

“You gonna give it a shot?” a voice abruptly questions from behind, breaking my focus and causing a startled breath to catch in my throat.

I turn around to find my friend Isaiah, his shirtless body already deeply tanned in the afternoon sun. His hair is still wet from the last leap, and I have no doubt he’d love to make another running launch off this cliffside. However, Isaiah has taken a moment away from his own madcap antics to nurture my growth as a future daredevil.

“I was thinking about it,” I admit.

Isaiah cracks a smile. “It’s not as hard as it looks. I mean, we’re only thirty feet up. You’re not gonna die.”

“People died while jumping here in 1977, 1980, and 2016,” I inform him. “So . . . it’s possible.”

“Oh,” Isaiah replies, his enthusiasm abruptly deflating. He narrows his eyes as a confused expression crosses his face, suddenly confronted by an unexpected kernel of self-doubt.

The average speed of a dive is fifteen feet per second. Therefore, a swimming hole between ten and fifteen feet deep could paralyze you in less than a second.

I don’t mention this.

“You’re still not going to die,” I assure him. “The chances of fatal injury are phenomenally low. If you want to increase your survival odds, just make sure you jump feet first. Never dive.”

Isaiah nods along as I pull him back into mental alignment.

“Plus, God’s watching over you,” I continue.

Isaiah smiles a toothy, all-American grin. My friend reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, lingering there a little longer than I might’ve expected. “Amen.”

Finally, I let out an awkward laugh and my friend removes his hand.

“Let’s see it, then,” Isaiah says, nodding toward the cliff’s edge. “What you got, Rose?”

Isaiah backs away and motions for the other kids up here to clear a path. They’re waiting and watching now, their eyes trained on me in anticipation of the leap to come.

Nine out of ten accidents occur when people are playing near the water’s edge, not when they’re focused on jumping in.

I pull off my long dress and toss it to the side, revealing the most decidedly modest black one-piece I could find online. Unlike Martina, however, I’m not yet comfortable enough to flip myself into oblivion without a good look below.

I know I’ll be fine, that most of the danger here is nothing but an illusion, but my brain understanding this is one thing and my body appropriately reacting is another. My heart is slamming hard within my chest, thundering away as a sizzling hot tingle makes its way across my skin.

This is your fight-or-flight response. Your sympathetic nervous system is releasing catecholamines and making you hyperaware of your surroundings.

The solution, of course, is grounding and prayer.

I spend a moment observing the scene around me, taking in faces on every side of the watering hole. Across the way, on the opposite cliff, even more of my peers watch with excitement and anticipation.

The Lord is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; Of whom shall I be afraid?

Some people come here to jump, others just wanna be a part of something. As the school year comes to an end and we all prepare to leap from our own metaphorical cliffs into adulthood, it’s easy to get restless. We’re all pretending it’s midsummer and we’re finally free, despite the fact that tomorrow we’ll be right back to the Monday grind.

I get the distinct feeling I’m living in what will someday be a fond memory.

With that, I command my foot to take its first step toward the edge.

My body refuses to move.

“The Lord is my light and my salvation,” I repeat. I take a deep breath and center myself once more, focused on compelling my body forward.

Still, nothing.

I remain motionless, staring out at a sea of classmates on the opposite cliffside while they gaze back at this curious standoff between mind and body.

“It’s not so bad once you start running,” Isaiah says from behind. “Once you reach the edge, the hard part is over.”

His words are kind, and I appreciate this vote of confidence, but in a practical sense it does absolutely nothing. I’m displaying textbook freezing behavior, and Isaiah has no more control over my basolateral amygdala than I do.

Suddenly, another familiar voice chimes in, hooting like a baseball coach from the dugout. “Let’s go, Rose!”

I glance over to find Martina has already climbed back up, soaking wet with a towel wrapped tightly around her body. Our eyes meet and she smiles warmly, immediately melting away the anxiety and fear that had paralyzed me with its icy grip. She winks.

I grin back, basking in this feeling for a moment, then return my focus to the cliff.

Feeling renewed, I prepare a third attempt to compel myself forward, but before I get the chance my gaze falls onto something strange across the ravine. The other side of the cliffs is fairly close, some forty feet across with a small waterfall carving its way down the middle in a never-ending cascade. Fellow classmates in their colorful swimwear line the opposite edge, but tucked back into the forest is another figure that watches with stoic intensity.

I squint a bit, struggling to parse whether my eyes are playing tricks on me through the shady wood.

A frighteningly pale woman is standing in the forest, her hair long and black as it hangs limply over her face and around her bony shoulders. It appears she’s staring directly at me, but it’s difficult to tell because her eyes lack irises or pupils. They’re solid white globes.

The woman is smiling, her expression frozen and her teeth unusually stained with dark brown and black smears. The teeth themselves are crooked and long, as though her gums have receded to provide an unnatural length.

Yet despite all of this, the strangest thing about the woman’s appearance is what she’s wearing. She sports a deep red polo shirt with a stark white name tag pinned to the chest. It’s the kind of top you’d expect to see worn by someone arriving to fix your wireless internet or telling you which aisle to check at a department store. She also wears a thick metal band around her neck, pulled tight like a collar, and khaki pants.

“Uh . . . do you see that?” I question, whispering to Isaiah as my gaze remains fixed on the woman in the woods.

Across the way, nobody seems to notice this peculiar figure, despite the fact that she’s standing less than ten feet behind them in the underbrush.

“See what?” Isaiah asks.

I point to the other side of the swimming hole, but just as Isaiah follows my gesture the eerie woman steps back into the lush Montana forest, disappearing just as quickly as she arrived.

I peer into the shadows, struggling to catch sight of her but coming up empty.

“There was a woman over there,” I continue. “She looked . . . kinda off.”

“Off how?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” I reply, then shake my head as though this futile gesture might clear out the cobwebs. I certainly don’t intend to make a scene out of some poor old woman who happens to appear, well, frightening.

Maybe she’s sick.

“Could’ve been someone’s mom checking in on them,” I suggest, offering this explanation more to myself than to Isaiah.

“I really don’t see anything,” he says, genuinely apologetic, then lowers his voice a bit. “Hey, if you don’t wanna jump, it’s all good.”

Someone else steps up next to us, a girl I don’t know who’s anxious to get things going again. “Are you gonna jump?” she asks, clearly annoyed.

I glance around to find a line has formed behind me, folks waiting their turn while I stare off into space and let my imagination run wild.

“Oh, sorry,” I mumble, stepping back.

Martina isn’t as receptive. “Chill out, she’s getting ready,” my friend retorts angrily from the sidelines.

I push away any thoughts of that curious lady in the woods, or the height of this drop, or the fact that school is ending and life is waiting for me with wide open jaws like the whale ready to swallow Jonah whole. Instead, I focus on the simple act of putting one foot before the next.

I take one final look at Martina, just about ready to step forward, when something startling and warm slips between my fingers.

Glancing down, I find that Isaiah is gripping my hand in his, an unexpected gesture of friendship.

“We’ll jump together,” Isaiah offers.

I was about to go on my own, but a little more support couldn’t hurt.

A strange coo falls from the lips of everyone watching, a sound I’m not quite sure what to make of as expressions shift into knowing smiles and glances are exchanged between this cliffside and the next.

I begin to recite a short verse under my breath, repeating it to myself in quiet anticipation. “It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you. It is the Lord who goes before you. He will be with you; he will not leave you or forsake you.”

“Go on three,” Isaiah proclaims. “One. Two. Three!”

We take off down the short runway, our feet thundering against the dirt until there’s no ground left to slam against. I push off with my final step and erupt into the air, unable to keep myself from crying out with a long scream of equal parts fear and excitement.

There are a few precious moments of high school left, but this one feels like the pinnacle of summer.

An electric tingle surges across my frame as gravity catches hold, Isaiah and I plummeting toward the deep blue below. It’s a strange sensation that my brain immediately struggles to analyze and dissect, but before I get the chance to understand it fully I’m slamming into the cool water.

My senses are swallowed by darkness, the sound of the world around me sucking inward and holding tight as I struggle to get my bearings. I’m still plummeting, just slower now, and for a brief moment my feet touch the welcome clay of the riverbed below. I push back against the bottom and swim up in a cascade of tiny bubbles, finally breaking the surface once again.

The resulting rush is incredible, my body fresh and rejuvenated in a way I didn’t quite expect.

That was my first jump ever; a welcome baptism.

I run fingers through my long blond hair, pushing it away from my face as I spit out some of the water that managed to force its way down my throat. As I sputter and cough, Isaiah emerges next to me in the dark pool.

“You alright, Rose?” He chuckles as he watches me awkwardly pull myself together.

“I’m amazing,” I reply. “I can’t believe I just did that! God is good!”

Isaiah is unable to keep himself from smiling even wider as we tread water next to each other, savoring the unexpected calm following such a gaudy stunt.

Silence falls, bathing the scene in an awkward hush.

I was so relaxed and now this is tense. Why is this tense?

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I splash some water in Isaiah’s face and let the pressure deflate with a good-hearted laugh.

“I’m going again,” I announce before slipping below the surface and swimming toward the rocky shore nearby.

*   *   *

As we drive home in Isaiah’s old Jeep, I can’t help noticing the way his eyes dance across the heating panel of his center console, focused on a dial that sits precariously shifted to the blazing hot side. I get the feeling Isaiah is struggling to tell me something—or maybe he wants me to ask something of him?—but he’s too afraid.

Truth be told, this is becoming a theme with Isaiah, and I just can’t figure out why. We’ve been close for a long time, and I’ve always appreciated the way he’s there for me through thick and thin, a reliable shoulder to cry on and a source of great Christian companionship on these long days.

“What is it?” I finally ask.

Isaiah plays dumb, glancing over from the driver’s seat as his vehicle rumbles onward. The trees of the forest have finally started giving way, revealing the modest suburban homes of Neverton.

Tucked against the side of a horseshoe-shaped mountain range, these foothills feel distinctly separate from the rest of the world. While a vast landscape of rolling golden farmlands extends to the east, the majority of this county is swathed in mysterious evergreen forest, hiding our hamlet like a secret as looming peaks rise beyond.

I recognize every intricate step of this route, the signs and sidewalks etched into the depths of my soul. It’s a humble Montana town of 15,000 locals, so finding your way around isn’t much of an accomplishment, but it certainly makes you notice when your driver isn’t paying attention.

“That was the turn,” I remind him, charting a route we’d traveled a thousand times before. “Just get the next one.”

“Sorry,” Isaiah apologizes, shaking his head and wiping his brow. He glances at the heater once again. “You sure you want it that warm?”

I notice now that he’s getting a little red, sweating as the car continues to fill with hot air.

“Are you feeling okay?” I ask.

“It’s . . . really hot in here.” Isaiah finally cuts to the chase. “Can I turn the heat down?”

I nod.

Lately, it feels as though I can’t warm up for the life of me, trapped in sporadic states of frigid discomfort. It comes without warning, and the curious part of my mind wonders if this might be a symptom of a larger medical issue.

It hasn’t been worth bringing up with my parents yet, because by the time I’m irritated enough to do something about this sensation the chill has thawed.

I say nothing as Isaiah adjusts the temperature slightly. A notable pause lingers between us.

“Long day, huh?” my friend eventually states.

I nod again, gazing out the window as a slate of familiar faces pass us by. I recognize most of the folks strolling around this evening: merry, God-fearing families out for brisk walks as they enjoy a flourishing purple sunset above.

“I really like spending time with you,” Isaiah declares.

I glance back at my friend, appreciating the sincerity of his words. “Thanks. You too.”

“You too?” he repeats, as if my reply needs more explanation.

“I really like spending time with you, too,” I clarify. “You’re a good friend.”

Isaiah appears confused by my response, but I don’t know what else he wants from me. I’d love to dive deep and figure out what’s going on with him, but right now I’m partially distracted by just how ravenously hungry I’ve become. Isaiah wasn’t kidding when he mentioned the length of the day, and after five or six cliff jumps and subsequent climbs back to the top, I’ve found myself yearning for the sweet relief of fat and sugar in my bloodstream.

Thankfully, Mom and Dad assured me dinner would be waiting when I got home.

We ride in silence a while longer before Isaiah reaches out and readjusts the heater, pushing forth the warm air once again and bending to my wishes.

“Thanks.” I chuckle graciously.

“No problem,” he replies, strangely taciturn.

Eventually, Isaiah pulls up to my house, his Jeep turning into the gravel driveway and slowly rolling to a stop with a satisfying crunch.

“Thank you for driving,” I offer, anxious to get inside for dinner.

I throw off my seatbelt and double-check that my backpack and towel are in tow. Swiftly, I throw open the vehicle door and give a slight wave goodbye before hopping out and slamming it shut behind me, then hurry up the front walk.

I’ve only made it a few steps before another loud metallic slam answers my own. Curious, I turn and discover Isaiah has climbed from the driver’s seat and is marching after me.

“Rose!” he calls out.

I wait up, and soon enough we are standing face-to-face. There’s an intensity to his gaze, a tidal wave of emotion welling up within my friend. I can sense the impending cascade of feelings, but its shape and tone remain abstract.

I have no idea what Isaiah could possibly want.

My friend doesn’t say a word, just stares at me blankly as unknown thoughts spiral through his mind. I’ve seen this expression a lot lately, but today it has grown to a boiling point and, to be perfectly frank, it’s starting to frighten me.

“What is it?” I demand.

Isaiah leans forward and kisses me on the lips, a swift movement that’s met with my immediate repulsion.

I pull my neck away in alarm and confusion as our faces meet and then quickly part. My mind is struggling to keep up, desperately piecing together what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I didn’t . . . that was . . .”

“Oh, I—I thought—” Isaiah stammers.

Gradually, the true nature of this moment falls into place with breathtaking clarity.

I shake my head, my lips tightly sealed as I let this gesture do the talking.

“So, you’re not . . . ?” Isaiah is still having trouble completing a sentence.

“Definitely not,” I reply.

“But I thought,” he repeats, a surprisingly meek moment for this typically stalwart guy.

“Nope,” I say as my head continues to shake from side to side.

Isaiah takes a moment to straighten up, processing this information in a state of awkward rigidity. I can tell he’s fighting some powerful internal battle, struggling to calm down.

Suddenly, he turns and begins the march back to his car. Before making his way around to the driver’s side, however, Isaiah erupts in a startling display of violence as he punches the passenger door.

I jump as the Jeep makes a hollow metallic thump, startled at first and then concerned for his hand.

That probably hurt.

Isaiah doesn’t react to the pain. Instead, he stomps around the vehicle and climbs inside, slamming the door behind him. He starts his car and hits the gas, peeling onto the road in reverse and scattering gravel everywhere.

I watch in silence, still not sure how to react as Isaiah’s Jeep disappears down the road.

Eventually, the front door opens behind me and my father sticks his head out, his chiseled jaw and familiar black-framed glasses shadowed in the dying light of day.

“Was that Isaiah?” he calls. “You should’ve asked him to stay for dinner.”

Seconds later, my father realizes the porch light is off and makes an awkward humph sound that it seems only dads are capable of. He quickly flips a switch, illuminating the scene.

“There’s my girl,” he says.

I solemnly retreat to my father, still completely silent as I wrap my arms around him in a warm embrace. We stand like this for a moment as I allow his protective paternal aura to envelop me, then I finally pull back as my stomach gurgles.

I can already smell the garlic spaghetti sauce as it bubbles and churns on our kitchen stove. I’m thrilled Mom opted for pasta this evening.

My father, Luke Darling, is a kind-eyed man with dark features and thick glasses that make him look like Superman. Of course, just like Peter Pan, I’ve never actually read a Superman comic, but the cultural relevance of this secular hero has somehow permeated my life.

It’s concerning. Jesus Christ is the only true superhero.

“I’m so hungry,” I announce.

“Hi, So Hungry. I’m Dad,” my father retorts, prompting a playful groan to escape my throat.

We head inside and I immediately find myself bathed in spiritual warmth, a cozy sensation that causes the ice in my veins to melt away. That lingering chill has finally taken its leave, disappearing with such little fanfare I hardly remember it was there in the first place.

My mother, Lisa, greets me in the kitchen with a loud and excited wail. “Rose!” she cries out as though I’ve been gone for years, a sauce-covered wooden spoon gripped tightly in her hand. “My baby is back!”

Mom wraps her arms around me and plants a firm kiss on my cheek. When she pulls away, she immediately motions to the dining room table, coaxing me toward my place setting at the end.

“Hope you’re hungry,” she continues. “I made spaghetti.”

“I can smell that,” I reply warmly, “with extra garlic.”

My parents exchange excited glances, thrilled by this culinary transgression. We’re being bad tonight.

Mom is always well put together, but this evening she’s looking especially done up with a lime green dress and a string of pearls around her neck. Her makeup is less subtle than usual, a little extra red in the tone of her lips that she wouldn’t dare try if we were leaving the house this evening, and her stark blond hair is held back with a white band across the top of her head. She’s a small woman but full of energy, and tonight her natural beauty is on full display.

People say we look alike, and right now I can truly appreciate what a compliment that is.

I take my seat at the end of the table while my mother continues to move back and forth across the kitchen, hard at work as she guides this meal across the finish line with radiant enthusiasm.

Eventually, my father makes his way over and sits down next to me, a peculiar look in his eyes. He’s staring like he’s got something to say, an amused smirk just barely visible at the corners of his mouth.

“What?” I question.

“I see the light of the Lord in you tonight,” my father informs me, a compliment I’d take to heart if not for the fact that this loving message feels tethered to something I don’t understand.

Seconds later, Mom is setting down an enormous dish of spaghetti before us, steam rolling off the bright red sauce as it floods our nostrils with a robust aroma.

“Luke!” my mother blurts playfully. “Give her a moment!”

My dad smiles and leans back in his chair, still eyeing me mischievously.

“Okay, what’s going on here?” I glance back and forth between them as my mother takes her seat.

My query goes ignored as our conversation takes a sudden intermission, Luke and Lisa reaching their hands out to take my palms in theirs as we lower our heads. Nobody has to say a word as the three of us fall into our nightly routine.

We offer our prayer in unison, eyes shut tight as these words bounce from our mouths in a familiar cadence. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Bless us so that we may know our place in His kingdom as servants. Bless us so that we may give service to the Lord and the righteous lambs will be spared when the scale of ends meets the scale of means. Bless the Kingdom of the Pine for lighting the darkened path that our Shepherd walks. Amen.”

I begin to lift my gaze, but before I get the chance my father launches into an additional blessing. He’s clearly caught the spirit this evening. “And bless the Prophet Cobel, for the wisdom he has bestowed. Bless the Four Tenets that guide us. But, most of all, bless our beautiful daughter on this important day. Amen.”

“Amen,” my mother and I respond in turn.

The three of us lift our gazes once more, taking a beat before getting to work and dishing out some pasta.

Lisa can’t help chuckling to herself. “Most of all,” she repeats, shaking her head. “Don’t get cute, Luke.”

She’s referring to the part where my father placed my blessing above that of the Four Tenets and the Prophet Cobel. This is bad form and I’m a little bothered by it, but we’re playing it fast and loose tonight.

All I can do is refrain from pride and do better when it’s my turn to lead.

Out of respect, I run though all Four Tenets in my head, with a particular focus on number three this evening.

Respect—I will honor when I do not understand,

Integrity—I will believe when I do not witness,

Service—I will strive when my sin is heavy,

Excellence—I will persevere when my body does not.

“So,” Mom begins, curiosity overwhelming her tone and elevating it into a playful singsong frequency. “How was your date?”

I raise an eyebrow as I stab the mass of noodles before me, utterly confused. I begin to twirl my utensil. “What date?”

“With Isaiah!”

I can’t help laughing. “At the falls today?” I question. “It was fun, but that wasn’t a date. We’re just friends.”

The cold chill I’d felt earlier immediately surges through my body, causing my hand to seize up and my body to shift awkwardly in the hard wooden chair.

My parents exchange glances again, as though passing some unspoken relay baton between them. My father clears his throat for a moment, ready to take over.

“He’s a handsome guy, don’t you think?” Dad suggests.

I shrug. “I mean, sure.”

Mom butts in, unable to wait longer than a single question and answer before leaping back into the fray. “You don’t like that?” she demands to know. “You don’t want a boyfriend?”

I can’t help the barely audible scoff that escapes my throat.

We all love Jesus in the Darling household, but my parents are typically the ones who hoist this flag the highest and elevate my faith on a daily basis. I’m thankful to have two spiritual warriors consistently by my side, and through their pious diligence I’ve come to carry my own innate parental severity.

The idea of them actually encouraging me to have a boyfriend is shocking. I suppose my recent twentieth birthday could be the marker that set them off, but the turn they’ve taken is so alarming I’m left wondering if it’s a trap.

“I think I should be focused on school right now,” I offer, hoping this is what they want to hear.

My mother reaches out and places her hand over mine, causing me to return a fresh spool of spaghetti to the plate.

“Honey,” she begins softly, “the Lord wants you to start a family. You’re a woman now, and finding a partner is a very important part of His plan. I know we’ve been a little . . . strict about this before, but you should know it’s okay.”

I’m not sure how to react, staring down at the table before me.

My father clears his throat, a sign he’s about to launch into a brief diatribe of religious theory. “You know, when Tobias Cobel established the Four Tenets he did so in a way that was pretty genius. A lot of people see him as a man of faith and entrepreneurship, which he was, but he was also a family man.”

“Tenet number four: Excellence,” my mother chimes in. “I will persevere when my body does not.”

I already know where they’re going with this, but I honor the moment and listen respectfully.

“To live on,” Dad continues. “That could mean your spirit ascends to heaven, or a business you’ve built keeps turning a profit. It could also mean your family line lives on.”

I nod. “Understood” is all I can think to say.

“You like Isaiah, don’t you?” my mother pushes, repeating her initial question. “Bill and Anna tell us he’s really into you.”

I now realize any denial regarding this supposed date will promptly be discarded and we’ll be taking another spin around the maypole. Clearly, there’s an answer my parents want to hear, and if I hope to enjoy this plate of spaghetti I’ll have to give it to them.

Still, I refuse to lie. That’s a sin.

“Today was good,” I reply, stretching my enthusiasm as far as it can possibly go. “Isaiah is really . . . nice.”

Immediately, the tension in my mother’s hand softens. She releases her grip as both of my parents sit back in their chairs, finally allowing me a moment of rest.

I don’t look up as I eat, but from the corner of my eye I see them watching with absolute satisfaction. They’re not even touching their food, just allowing the gratitude to wash over them as though I’m a toddler who finally learned to walk.

Eventually, the evening kicks back into gear and my parents plunge into their food. It seems my simple answer was just enough to satisfy whatever they were looking for.

Still, a host of questions continue to linger in the back of my mind. Why were they talking to Isaiah’s parents about our day at the falls? Everyone in Neverton is pretty closely knit, especially members of the congregation, but as far as I knew Bill and Anna didn’t have a strong rapport with my folks.

I try letting it slide and moving on, but the circumstances of this meeting remain firmly planted in my mind, unable to budge no matter how diligent my attempts to slip past.

Finally, I turn back to my mother, my curiosity getting the better of me.

I open my mouth to speak, but instead of any coherent words spilling from my throat, I find myself erupting with an unexpected cough.

Instinctively, I reach for the tall glass of water on the table next to me, swiftly downing the cool liquid and trying again. However, this time I’m met with the same result at an even larger scale.

Something’s tickling the back of my throat, flooding me with frustration as I struggle to speak or even breathe. I begin to cough harder as expressions of grave concern wash across my parents’ faces.

“Are you alright, hon?” Dad asks.

A sudden, final cough unblocks my throat as air pumps forcefully from within, blasting forth the seed of my discomfort in a singular heave.

I gag slightly, struggling to collect myself as my father pats me on the back with loving grace. “Something go down the wrong pipe?” He chuckles.

I nod, taking another long sip from my water glass. I gaze down at the plate of spaghetti before me, hoping to find the culprit, and gasp abruptly—nearly choking all over again.

A small black insect wriggles atop my pasta, slathered in sauce as it hopelessly flits its wings in a futile attempt to escape.

“Oh my word,” my mother blurts, leaning forward to get a better look.

My father does the same, adjusting his glasses as he struggles to take in this tiny, unexpected guest.

The whole family is silent for a moment, reeling.

“Must’ve accidently swallowed the poor thing,” Dad suggests.

I open my mouth to reply, but this simple movement causes an abrupt spasm to overwhelm my throat. I let out a loud, animalistic retch as a cascade of black erupts from deep within me, pouring through my esophagus and spilling across the plate.

The upheaval is so sudden that my parents nearly fall backward in their chairs, letting out cries of alarm as they reflexively push away.

When this ejection finally stops, I stare down in utter horror, my body trembling as my mind races to understand the bizarre, squirming mass that’s now heaped onto my pasta and scattered across the table.

This black pile is churning and moving, crawling over itself as tiny wings flutter and miniature legs kick the air. I scream as I realize this is not some toxic liquid but a dark porridge of living creatures, little flies born deep within my body before their sudden expulsion.

2

CALL NOW

Luke’s eyes go wide as he bears witness to the crawling, fluttering insects. He glances at my mother, then springs into action.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Dad yells, leaping to his feet and rushing to the sink. He crouches down and throws open the cabinets, rummaging around before pulling forth a handful of large garbage bags.

Immediately, my father yanks open a bag and begins to shovel flies inside with his hands, scooping the whole mess across our dining room table, spaghetti and all. I’m still in shock, frozen in abject horror as time continues rolling on around me.

I can hear my mother praying under her breath, but the second she begins my dad reaches out and places his hand on her forearm. This stops Mom in her tracks.

The interaction lasts no more than a few seconds, and thanks to the other bizarre occurrences erupting simultaneously around the room, I might have missed it. However, my father’s action is arguably stranger than the sauce-covered insects scattering in every direction.

Never before have I witnessed Luke Darling silence a prayer.

“Everything’s fine,” my mother abruptly pipes up, desperately helping my dad clean the table. She gets to work swatting some of the renegade flies that’ve managed to keep their wings dry and take flight. “Accidents happen.”

“How is that an accident?” I blurt, my voice even more shrill and panicked than expected.

My father cinches his bag of sauce and insects and stands abruptly, stomping out our back door and disappearing around the corner. I hear the loud thud of a plastic trash bin echo through the darkness, then nothing.

I stare quietly at the open door for a moment, realizing now that Dad is hesitating before making his return. A few seconds pass before he reenters, only this trip over the threshold has drained any sense of urgency from his expression. Not only is Luke calm and collected, but the vague hint of a smile has crept its way into the corner of his mouth.

He seems amused.

“God’s plan can feel pretty crazy sometimes, huh?” Dad says.

I glance over to catch the flicker of doubt on Mom’s face suddenly transforming into agreement. She’s nodding along.

“What do you mean?” I retort. “I’m sick.”

“Oh, honey,” my father continues, shaking his head as he sits down and takes my hands in his. “You’re not sick. You must’ve just swallowed something at the falls.”

“A bug in the water,” Lisa chimes in.

My instinctual reaction is to reject this idea, but there’s something about it that kinda makes sense.

Regardless, I’ve yet to come up with a better explanation.

My father is right about one thing: God works in mysterious ways.

“You think I swallowed a bug? In the water?” I repeat.

Both of my parents are nodding along, agreeing profusely.

“And it . . .” I start, then cringe as I trail off, disgusted by the thought. “Laid eggs?”

“I guess so.” My father nods. “Nature can be pretty weird!”

“I don’t know many insects with a life cycle that fast,” I say, running through a sudden barrage of potential variables in my head and speaking the thoughts out loud as they come to me.

My dad notices my mind working overtime and interjects. “Hey, don’t stress yourself out. Right now you’ve got more important things to worry about,” he offers. “You’re about to graduate.”

Mom gently pushes my enormous glass of water toward me, encouraging a drink.

I take a long, satisfying gulp as the cool liquid soothes my irritated throat.

I finish and set the empty glass back down. “Don’t you think I should go to the doctor?” I ask with lingering unease. “I’ve been feeling really cold, too.”

“Let’s just keep an eye on it,” my mom suggests, placing her hand gently against my hair and running her fingers along the back of my head in a deeply soothing gesture. “I’m sure everything’s fine.”

“Well, not everything’s fine,” my dad chimes in. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really in the mood for spaghetti anymore. Who wants to order a pizza?”

*   *   *

My eyes scan the screen with deep intensity as I carefully work my way through an enormous wall of pixelated text. Above the cascading sentences is a photo of an insect, similar to the flies I coughed up earlier but lacking a select few distinguishing features.

Over the course of the last hour I’ve gone from anxious and worried to deeply fascinated, consumed by a flood of information regarding the common Hexagenia limbate. While the average housefly has the lifespan of one month, Hexagenia limbate experiences an entire lifetime over the course of a single day.

That being said, their larval stage lasts much, much longer. If I were to swallow enough larvae at precisely the right time, then maybe I’d find myself in a situation like the one I just experienced over dinner.