Journal Entry 3

Your life is the chapel, and the thousand small details in the painting are the events of your life.

July 21

I’m not in a hurry to write this, as you can tell. It needs to be told accurately, in its own time. The events I’m describing at the retreat were ultimately not as significant as what happened afterward—to the others and to me. It’s a kind of remarkable tapestry, terrifying to behold, with its woven images of demons and the vast dark unknown, that has to be viewed patiently. Imagine yourself standing fifty feet beneath a painting at the top of a chapel you might see in Rome.  Your life is the chapel, and the thousand small details in the painting are the events of your life. Past, present, and  future.

You cannot comprehend its whole without examining each small part. I am, ultimately, a small part of it all, as is everyone who was there, with the possible exception of Philip. He was more than just a storyteller. He was a bridge from what came before … to me. I am what you’ll find on the other side of it all, should you survive the journey. An ending that begins, and a beginning that will eventually end, but not yet.

Dinner was waiting for us later as promised. But first I wanted to shower and change my clothes. The summer was hot, and the drive from New Jersey had taken longer than expected. The traffic gods were either determined to trouble me, or to try and stop what was coming. They could be cursed in either case, for their success and their failure.

The cabin was small but solidly built, with dark log walls sealed by tar, and small windows cut into each wall. There were five beds, two on one side and three on the other, each with a plain quilt and a rough wooden frame that looked hand-built. The three men who’d gotten there before me had already claimed their beds. I saw suitcases on two beds, one with a duffle bag beside it as if the guest had planned to stay longer. A third suitcase was under another bed, leaving me two to choose from.

I introduced myself and chose the available bed closest to the window on the eastern wall. The others did the same, providing us with at least each other’s names.

“I wonder if someone else is coming,” Remy said. He had no accent to identify his nationality—although he would probably say ‘American.’

“The invitation didn’t say how many of us there would be,” replied Harlan. He stood stiffly by his bed—the one with the duffle bag and suitcase—appearing as stuffy as I later judged him to be.

“We’ll find out soon enough,” I said. “I’d like to get showered and changed. Is there only one bathroom?”

“You are correct,” said Larry. “That should make for some interesting timing.”

“We can always relieve ourselves outside,” chimed him Phillip. “Being male has its advantages.”

“So there are women here?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Remy said, with a slight lasciviousness. “We met them earlier.”

It made me wonder how late I was and what I’d missed out on. “We’ll meet at dinner, then,” I said. “And now I’ll unpack and shower. If anyone else needs the bathroom, now’s your chance.”

No one said they did, so I quickly put my clothes in the empty bottom drawer of one of two bureaus in the cabin. I took clean underwear, T-shirt and socks into the bathroom and closed the door. Thankfully there was a stack of fresh towels—our instructions had not included bringing our own.

Fifteen minutes later I was dressed in slacks and a light blue short-sleeved button-down, and I was ready for whatever came next.

There was no television in the cabin, no outlet loaded with chargers. If there was internet, we had no indication of it. My phone had lost its signal on the drive from the road down into the valley.  At first it felt like a loss, though I have never been one to panic without my phone. By the second night it felt more like a held breath, the world outside going quiet in a way I wasn’t used to. And by the third night I believed it had been by design. We were deliberately cut off, for good reason. Our host didn’t want us telling the outside world what was happening, or asking it for help.

By the time we headed to the lodge for dinner, I still couldn’t say where we were. The others had no better idea than I did. The directions had been simple enough, a series of turns off a state road, then a longer stretch down what became gravel and then dirt, the kind of Pennsylvania backcountry that doesn’t show up clearly on any map. The land had folded in around me as I drove, ridgelines rising on either side until the road dropped down into a valley thick with trees, and there I was. In a cabin with four strangers, headed to dinner with three women I had yet meet, still wondering who the fifth bed was for and if he would ever show up.

–Anonymous