Pine Springs Summer Camp had seen better days.
I know what you're thinking. Oh, silly Death! The whole world's seen better days. And you would be right. But Pine Springs had seen much better days, and to see the place fall apart like it has is a Shakespearean tragedy of the finest. Established in 1982, the camp had been loved and popular for over two decades. Then the recession hit, along with a few other things, and the once glorious haven for kids of all ages had slowly but maddeningly descended into poverty.
When the boy and I stepped onto the camp grounds for the first time, he turned to me, clearly puzzled.
“Where are we?” he said.
“Take a guess,” was my answer.
He turned away from me and examined the place around him. We were in the middle of a large playground, complete with jungle gyms, slides, swings, even a small carousel. To our far left was an outcrop of muddy terrain that led to into a small lake, stars mirrored in its shifting surface. The air was haunted by cricket songs.
“I don't understand,” he said.
“You failed to specify a location, so I picked for you.”
I believe I was being particularly giving in this matter, by the way. Left to my own selfish designs, we would have been in Florida within the hour.
“But why here?”
“Your said you wanted to visit your family, right?”
For a moment, the boy said nothing. Then, in a voice that was barely above a whisper, came one word:
“Lila.”
I nodded.
“Your sister?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She goes to camp here. Every summer. Just like I used to. I remember this place now. It's been...it's been so long.”
We walked over to a small swing set. The frame was old, rusted. One of the swings was missing a hook, and was dangling limply in the air. Only two swings remained. The boy approached one and ran his hand against the metal chains that held the seat in place.
“Feels different,” he said.
“Things change,” I said. "Especially when you're dead. It's kind of like eating after brushing your teeth."
“Can I still sit in it?”
To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I wasn't quite sure.
“Of course,” I said. “It's perfectly fine.”
He sat down in the swing, and was almost as surprised as I was that it managed to hold his massive weight of zero pounds.
“This feels different, too,” he said sadly.
I sat down in the swing next to him. This was new. I had never done this before, and would damn sure never be doing it again. Chairs are supposed to offer comfort, security. This “swing” felt as reliable as a couch of toothpicks glued together with gum. I will never, in my wildest dreams, even begin to understand humans.
“You used to come here, too?” I inquired, trying my best to sound innocent.
“Yeah,” said the boy. “Long time ago. Well, long time for me. It's probably the same amount of time it takes for you to take a piss.”
Now that was comedy, and I couldn't help but snicker a little.
“Sorry,” he said. “That was, um, inappropriate.”
“All is forgiven,” I said. “Anyway, this sister, Lila. What's she like?”
“She's great,” he said, and I sensed no exaggeration in his voice. “She's the sweetest girl in the world. She can get a little snotty sometimes, and sometimes she does dumb stuff, like microwave water. But-”
“She did what?”
“She,” he said, but couldn't finish due to his own laughing. “She, uh, she once microwaved a bucket of water because the dog was outside. It was winter, you know, and he was cold and all. So she dumped the water on him to help him stay warm. It was funny, even if the dog was totally pissed off.”
I saw nothing funny about wet canines; frankly, I find the smell repulsive. But it wouldn't hurt to fake a laugh, so I did.
“But she's the best, man. Lila's the kind of person who would hug you for no reason, and would always come and make you feel better when you're feeling like crap. She was my friend, now that I think about it. My best friend.”
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. Story of my life. Hey, wait a minute. Why are you asking me all this? You already know this, don't you?”
I shrugged, guilty.
“Yeah,” he said, a tad accusingly. “I mean, no offense, but you're, like, the Grand Master of Doom and all, right? And you already knew she was here, otherwise we wouldn't be here in the first place.”
I shrugged again.
“Just making conversation,” I said. “By the way, I like that 'Grand Master of Doom' bit. I'm putting that my transcript.”
“So you were just messing with me?”
“Never hurts to ask,” I said. “Sure would be awkward if we showed up and mind-raped the wrong kid.”
His gaze immediately fell to the ground, and for a few moments, neither of us said a word. The only sound between us was the dirge of the crickets.
“You don't have to finish this,” I said. “You can walk away from all this right now. The damage you did to your mother can be undone, you know. Nothing is permanent, not unless you want it to be. I pull a few strings and everything will go back to the way it was, no questions asked.”
For a moment, he seemed to consider this.
“But that's the problem,” he said after a while. “Things can never go back to the way they were. Not after what happened. Not after what I did. And I'm dead. There's no way to make it up to them now. I can't fix this. No one can. All I can do is clean up the mess I made.”
“That's a lofty ambition,” I said. “And a sad one. People are getting hurt, you know. Your mother was left intact, but it is really your place to destroy the memory she holds dear?”
“They're all of me,” he said. “She's better off without them.”
“Something tells me she would think differently.”
“That doesn't matter,” he mumbled, hanging his head.
“Well,” I said. “As long as we're not taking anyone else's feelings into account...”
I stood up.
“Might as well head off, then?”
The boy nodded, mouthing “yeah”, but stood up with all the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate.
I teleported us approximately seven miles in a vaguely north-east direction. The world seemed to bend around us, twisting and turning as we made our way up, under, through it. We skidded to a stop on a long track of dirt.
The boy, at this point, wasn't very surprised.
“Nice,” was all he said.
“I think the word you were looking for is 'impressive' or 'fantastic' or something like that.”
He shrugged.
“Let's just go,” he said, and began walking.
We were on a dirt road now, surrounded by a seemingly infinite choir of trees. Branches cut the moonlight into scattered webs across the ground. The stars were still out, twinkling indifferently to the hurting world beneath them. I walked behind the boy, keeping an even pace. We passed a cabin, labeled 12. An image of a pony-tailed girl was inscribed beneath it, as if to say that yes, boys, this is a girls cabin, and don't let us catch you in here.
“What cabin is she in?” the boy asked.
“24,” I said. “I'd say about half a mile up the road. Sorry about the sloppy teleporting, by the way. Really missing my coffee right about now."
The boy made a noncommittal, grunting noise. So much for friendly conversation.
We walked in silence for an uncomfortable eight minutes and twenty-six seconds before arriving at Cabin 24. We stopped, and the boy glared at the cabin.
“Last chance,” I warned.
“Let's go.”
With that, we walked across the small yard in front of the cabin and, with the skill and precision of a pair of ghostly thieves, silently infiltrated the cabin. Of course, being apparitions and all, we basically just phased through the walls. But it was still neat. Go ahead and pretend you don't think I'm cool.
The cabin's interior was just as you'd expect it to be: sparse, with nothing more than the essential furnishings. Clothes, chips and makeup supplies were littered about the floor. The air smelled vaguely of perfume, and someone had taken the liberty of carving the legend ML + DR onto the wall and encasing it within a poorly drawn heart.
The walls were lined with bunk beds, four in all. All the beds were occupied. Not a creature was stirring, except for some cockroaches, and that was to be expected, this being summer camp and all.
“Which one is Lila?” whispered the boy.
“Don't bother whispering,” I said in the most abrasively loud voice I could muster. “We're dead, remember?”
“Sorry,” said the boy, still in a low voice. “Old habits.”
A pause. The boy was scanning the beds, looking for a familiar face.
“Little help?” he said. “Which one is she? I can't see in here, it's dark as hell.”
“What is with you people and hell? You think it applies to every adjective in existence. Bright as hell, dark as hell, smart as hell, stupid as hell, fat as hell, skinny as hell, sexy as hell, ugly as hell, scary as hell, funny as hell. It's ridiculous, really. The only one that really applies to it is 'hot as hell', and that one's only half true.”
The boy shot me a glance. I think it meant “Please stop talking so much about nothing.”
“Sorry,” I said, but didn't mean it. I pointed to a sleeping girl in a bottom cot on the south-east side of the small room. “That's your sister, by the way.”
He turned his head, squinted, and – upon seeing that it was indeed his sister – swallowed hard. He approached her cautiously, as if she were a bomb ready to go off at any moment. He got down on his haunches beside her. She looked an awful lot like him, if I do say so myself. She had some of the brightest blue eyes I've ever seen and – trust me on this – I've seen a lot of blue eyes. The boy reached out to stroke her hair, but realized halfway through the act that it would be in vain. Things don't feel the same when you're dead, after all.
"Do I just –" he began, stumbling over his words.
“Just like before,” I said, not without a tone of exasperation. “But you don't want to do this. You don't have to do this. You can stop this right here and right now. It's not too late, not yet. But there comes a point where it will be too late, and there won't be anything you can do about it.”
“That's what I'm aiming for, aren't I?”
“There are worse things than being remembered, Caleb.”
He paused, his hands on his sister's face.
“There's what I did,” said the boy. “That's so much worse.”
“There's such a thing as responsibility,” I said. “But I guess you gave that up when you forced the cops to unload their bullets into you. Why not take it one step further, then?”
“If you're trying to make me feel like shit,” said the boy. “You're doing a hell of a good job. But if you're trying to get me to back down, then you're failing.”
“So I'm the failure here?”
Once again, the boy was silent. He leaned over and kissed his sister on the forehead. He then reached forward and slowly dipped his searching hand into her head. It phased through just as easily as it had before. The girl moaned painfully in her sleep, and it almost undid him.
“Hold on, Lila,” he said, his voice cracking. “It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay...”
He continued the process, driving his hand deeper and deeper into her memory. For a few seconds, he fished around inside her head, his eyes bulging with determination.
“Got it,” he said finally.
He began to withdraw his hand from her head. Then, with a sudden jerk, something yanked it back inside. He struggled to pull it out, annoyed at first, but became more and more desperate the the struggled went on.
“Death,” he said loudly. “This – I'm – I'm stuck! Something's pulling me in.”
“She's dreaming, I think.”
“Help me!”
“How?” I said dryly.
“What do you mean, HOW? You're the Grim Freaking Rea-GAH!”
His entire form exploded with pain as he was pulled, hand-first, into his sister's mind. First the hand, then the arm, then torso, and finally legs. Like a shark devouring its prey, there was nothing the victim could do to save himself from its grasp. I watched as Caleb Chesterton disappeared. Possibly forever.
He awoke, somewhere between a moment and an eternity later, in a grassy field as bright and shiny as emerald. The sky was clear and cloudless, the sun a bright, smiling face staring back at him. The entire world seemed to be singing, though what song he had no idea. He stood to his feet.
The fields went on forever, yes, forever and a day. Majestic mountains overlooked the eternal valleys. A running river pierced through the landscape, its water as clear as crystal. Flowers sang and danced in circles, singing church songs and blowing bubbles. At the top of a nearby hill, Lila and Caleb were running around in a circle, both grasping a rope between them.
“Ashes, ashes,” they sang in unison. “We all fall DOWN!”
And they did fall down, in the same synchronization they used in song. Brother and sister tumbled down the hill, collapsing onto the ground next to each other in a fit of giggles and laughs.
The boy wasn't sure what he was looking at. The person he was watching – the boy with Lila – was his spiting image. His clone, perhaps, or maybe his twin. Is this what she dreamed of? Playing with me in some fantasy world cut off from reality in every possibly way?
As they stood up from their tumble, the playgoers took notice of their new companion.
Lila gasped.
“Oh, Caleb! Look! Look!”
The other Caleb looked at him.
“Wow!” he said. “Hey! Fella! Hey, you over there!”
Caleb – ghost Caleb, dead Caleb, our Caleb – stammered for a few moments before he could form words.
“Hey,” was all he managed to squeeze out.
“Hey, yourself,” said the Dream Caleb. “Golly, sir, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but you look a whole lot like me.”
“Not really,” said Lila. “I mean, he kinda does.”
“Are you kidding?” said Dream Caleb. “He looks just like me.”
“Maybe if you tilt your head and squinted or something,” said Lila, still not fully convinced.
“Hey, other me,” said Dream Caleb. “Who's your friend?”
Caleb turned his head. I was standing next to him, silent and ninja-like as ever.
“Death?” said Caleb. “Where are we? What took you so long? Who the hell's that guy?”
“Dream world, coffee run, mental projection of all memories pertaining to you.”
“Say,” said Dream Caleb, as the siblings approached us. “You fellas wanna join in? I sure could go for a game of tag right about now! What do you say, Lila?”
“I dunno,” she said, eying us suspiciously. “That one,” she said, pointing at me, “is kinda old-looking. I don't think he's healthy enough to play tag. And the other one...I dunno, mister, you give me the heebee jebbees. Sorry.”
She might as well have punched him in the stomach. I saw the hurt on his face, but neither of us said anything.
“That wasn't very nice, Lila,” said Dream Caleb. “Remember: we always give people a chance. Everyone is good, deep down inside. Remember?”
“I think so,” she said. “Okay! You can play with us if you want. Even you, old guy.”
Caleb turned to me.
“Can we?”
“She can't wake up,” I said. “If she does, we'll be trapped here, in her mind, until she dreams again, and God only knows when that would happen. We could be stuck here awhile.”
“Would that be bad?”
“Aside from the world ending due to the fact that Death is trapped inside a little girl's brain playing ring-around-the-rosie...no, it'll be perfectly fine.”
“What are you guys talking about?” said Lila.
I opened a portal behind us, leading back into the waking world.
“Grab him,” I said. “And let's go.”
“Grab him?”
“He's the memory of you,” I said. “Isn't that what you came for?”
“So we just take him?”
“That's the general idea.”
“Caleb...” said Lila, grasping onto her brother's arm. “What's going on?”
“I don't know,” said Dream Caleb. “Something bad, I think. I don't like the looks of this.”
“I'm not doing this,” said Caleb, his gaze fixed on me. “Not like this.”
“It's the same thing you did to your mother,” I said. “Now you see it from her end. Every tear and scream. Do it. Or leave this business behind you altogether.”
“I can't,” he said.
“Big brother...” said Lila..
“Is that a promise?” I said. “Then come with me, and we end this right here, right now.”
“Death, please...”
“One way or the other,” I said. “If you want this memory, this is how you have to do it. I won't be responsible, not for this. It doesn't have to be this way, Caleb. There is still time.”
The boy hung his head, gritting his teeth. He let out a pained groan.
“I...I can't,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can't let her know. I can't let her know...”
He turned to Lila and her brother, the latter shielding his sister with his body.
“I'm sorry,” said the boy as he approached the pair. “I am so, so sorry.”
The dream was changing now, perverting itself. The emerald fields were becoming a sickly shade of brown, the sky overcast and the sun sinking from the sky. The majestic mountains were crumbling. The songs had stopped and the flowers were dead. This was no dream, not any longer. This place was a nightmare now, a Hell.
The boy lunged forward and grabbed hold of his twin by the arm.
“I'm so sorry,” he muttered as he yanked the two apart.
“NO!” said Lila, grasping ahold of her brother's arm. “You're not taking my brother! I won't let you!”
The Dream Caleb said nothing, as if he knew – the moment he touched the skin of his other – what was happening and why. He stared at the ground, his gaze fixed hopelessly to his feet as he was dragged towards the portal. The only opposition came from Lila, screaming at the top of her lungs as her brother was stolen.
“You're not taking him from me! Never! PLEASE DON'T TAKE MY BROTHER!”
The boy, weeping and swearing under his breath that he was sorry, continued to drag the memory away. He pulled it by one arm as Lila desperately held onto the other. She pulled as hard as she could, clinging to her with every fiber of strength inside her. As they reached the opening, she must have tired, for she collapsed onto the ground in a gasp of sobs. Her face was swollen with tears, her eyes puffy and red. She crawled on the ground as Caleb pulled the image of himself through the chasm.
“Please,” she wept, her voice cracking as the dream world collapsed around her. “Don't...”
The memory turned to her, his eyes stained not with tears, but with the sorrow of understanding. As the chasm closed behind him, his lips trembled to form one final word.
“Lila...”
The girl lay sprawled on the ground, and wept as she watched the portal disappear, taking her brother with her. The dream had disintegrated into chaos. She was alone.
Back in the cabin, the boy lay on the floor, grasping the memory in his hand as he too wept. The thing was dead in his hands, its will to live lost and forgotten. I stood over him, feeling no need to comfort him.
“Why?” he rasped. “Why'd you make me do that?”
“I didn't make you do anything,” I said as level-headed as I could. “You did what you wanted to do. I told you to leave, to let it be. But you humans refuse to take responsibility for what you are. I wish I could call you names and belittle you and make you feel even more like shit than you already do. But the truth is, you're all the same. You're all cowards, running from others and yourselves. You make me sick.”
“How many more?” said the boy. “How many more do we need to erase? I can't – I can't do this anymore.”
“I think one more will do,” I said. “And then you'll be done, just as you wish.”
He got to his feet, still breathing in heavy, painful chunks. I didn't bother telling him he could stop with the damn breathing already.
“The last person,” he said. “Who?”
“I've got an idea or two,” I said, opening a gap in reality.
The boy turned and gave the girl a final, lingering look.
“Be good,” he said, and there was more sadness in those words than I believed possible. “Be good, for me.”
He turned away, and followed me through the void. The cabin disappeared behind us. We walked in silence, both of us forever tired of the other's company. I was ready to be done, and so was he. Nothing more needed to be said.
We breached through the other side and into a dingy hospital room. There was a man on the bed, hooked up to everything from an IV to a breathing apparatus. He was a trim, unshaven man in his mid-forties. His eyes, even closed, were tired and worn.
"Who's this?" said Caleb.
“This is the man you killed,” I said. “Or the man you thought you killed. He'll be the last one to go. The last one to suffer.”
The boy's eyes widened.
“He's alive?” he said, his voice filled with shock.
“For now. I can feel him slipping away. I'd say it's a fifty-fifty at this point.”
The boy approached the man and laid his hand on the man's chest, as if to feel his heartbeat. The Life Support monitor chirped, as if to confirm that the man was indeed still of this life.
"God, I don't..."
He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Don't what?" I asked.
"I don't even recognize him."
He put his free hand over his face.
"God, I am so sorry," he said. "I am so, so sorry."
"Sorry about what?"
"I'm sorry I hurt him. I'm sorry for what I did."
“You know this man?” I said.
“Yeah,” said the boy, choking back tears. He tore his hand from his face and turned to me. “He's my father.”
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