The Children of Red Peak

by Craig DiLouie

  “Because I’m trained to understand how people think.”

  “So you can change their beliefs.”

  “No,” he said. “Well, yes, in some cases—for example, if you intend to use your beliefs to harm yourself or others. Otherwise, I’m interested solely in your well-being. At Red Peak, you suffered a period of prolonged, extreme trauma that ended with events so tragic I can’t imagine them.”

  “They happened for a reason.” Her voice too loud.

  “You need more than your beliefs. Because what happened wasn’t normal, but very, very horrible. I was trained on how people think so I can help you understand your trauma and live with it.”

  Beth wiped her eyes with her palms. “They were good people.”

  “Okay.” He caught her expression and added, “I believe you, Beth.”

  “What they did makes me sad and angry. My mom…”

  “Yes…” He waited. “Yes?”

  “They’re in Heaven, and you’re a liar. You’re fake. You’re not even a real person.” She glared at the psychiatrist.

  Then she shuddered as she always did before losing control. A bottomless pit of despair awaited. The Spirit had abandoned her. She and her friends had betrayed the Family and let God down. They should have died too.

  Mom, what are you doing with that knife?

  Dr. Klein studied her. “Are you all right, Beth?”

  She hugged her ribs and sighed, sorry she’d yelled at him. “Why did you read me poems today?”

  “It’s a form of therapy designed to stimulate growth and healing. The whole idea is to get people to identify with ideas and feelings in poems as a tool of self-learning for those whose thoughts and feelings are chaotic.” Watching her closely, Dr. Klein continued. “The poem hits the brain’s artistic and emotional right side, producing an instant trigger for feelings and memories—even traumatic events—which can be viewed safely through the poem’s objective filter.”

  She was barely listening. “Tell me what else you do. How you fix people.”

  “What do you want to know? I’m thinking we might play a game.”

  “What kind of game?”

  “Let’s pretend you are Dr. Beth. I come to you for advice about a patient raised in a religious group that committed mass suicide, which she witnessed. Before that, she saw everyone she loved subjected to systematic torture. And now she is struggling to cope with feelings of trauma, grief, and being left behind. What form of therapy would you recommend?”

  This was an interesting game.

  For the first time in months, her chaotic mind coalesced toward a sense of control, however fleeting.

  “I’d tell her God still loves her,” she said.

  “That’s good. What else?”

  “I’d tell her to rid herself of the source of all her sin.”

  He sighed. “No, Beth.”

  She said, “I’d tell her to cut out her heart.”

  Dr. James Chambliss dimmed the lights and told her to relax.

  Instead, she fidgeted on the couch. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

  He sat in his chair facing her. “The odds are in our favor, if you give it a chance.”

  The year was 2012, and one out of ten Americans believed the reported completion of the Mayan calendar marked the end of the world. All the talk about the apocalypse had summoned old nightmares.

  The congregation singing in the Temple, her mother silent.

  The knife in Mom’s hand.

  What Beth remembered had actually occurred, or so she thought. She’d dreamed it so many times, she wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

  Today, she would find out. Seven years after the Family destroyed itself, she’d finally learn what happened the last night at Red Peak. Finally recall the memories she’d buried so deep.

  “Abreactive hypnosis can be a valuable tool in ego state therapy,” he said.

  This therapy was based on the idea that the psyche was a mix of distinct personalities, such as a woman displaying a tough CEO in the boardroom but reverting to a petulant teen when visiting her mother.

  “In your family of selves,” he said, “we’re targeting a vaded ego state. Specifically, teenaged Beth, who hasn’t yet processed her trauma and needs to be calmed so she can rejoin the family.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to explain it.”

  “You’re not a student here. You’re my patient.” His eyes gleamed with excitement.

  James taught clinical psychology at Pomona College—where Beth was now in her senior year—and had become a mentor. They’d tried a spring–fall romance, but it had fizzled out due to a lack of any real feeling. Where their relationship ended up excelling was as therapist and patient.

  And what a patient. James couldn’t get enough of the Family of the Living Spirit. He scribbled lengthy notes during their sessions, as if planning to write a book.

  “I just mean I’m too analytical,” Beth explained. “I’ll end up telling you how to hypnotize me.”

  She was also afraid of what he might find. Much of that last night on the mountain remained shrouded in repressed memory. What she did recall came through in fragments broadcast in dreams both strange and terrifying.

  Hypnosis produced an altered state of consciousness in which memories were easier to access and sometimes surfaced in hyper vivid detail.

  “That won’t interfere with the hypnosis, though it would help if you’d try to relax,” he said. “The key is if your left dorsolateral prefrontal cortex activates along with the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex.” In other words, the executive control part of her brain lighting up in tandem with her attention-focusing network. “I’ve found that three out of four patients are able to go into a trance.”

  “Then let’s roll the dice.” She took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  The brain was an amazing organ, a primal cake coated in civilized icing. While the brain was capable of beautiful ideas, its primary purpose was to survive, and that survival was based on fear as much as reward. Events that threatened survival were remembered and often recalled without consent, while memories of some events were considered too threatening and might be repressed.

  Plastic like Silly Putty, the brain could be remolded. It could be tricked into revealing repressed memories and rewired so that once recalled they weren’t so visceral and terrifying, a process called cognitive restructuring.

  James removed an antique bronze pocket watch from his suit jacket and dangled it at the end of its chain. “Okay—”

  Beth laughed. “You’re kidding me.”

  He reddened. “I realize eye fixation is no longer credited for its efficacy in hypnotherapy. Only verbal guidance is required for induction. Patients see it in movies, though, and expect the prop.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. See how bad I am at this? I’m ruining it already.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “Just watch what you’re doing when you’re in my head. I don’t want you to accidentally implant any false memories or induce split personality disorder.”

  Back in the 1980s and ’90s, hypnosis yielded waves of cases surfacing forgotten childhood sexual abuse, including thousands of reports of Satanic ritual abuse that turned out to be fabricated memories.

  “I have enough to deal with in there,” she added.

  “I take it back,” he said, seeming to remember she was not only a patient but also a student and an ex. “You’re right, you’re impossible.”

  She sat back and got herself comfortable. “Let’s do this, James.”

  “We’re in a dim room that is safe, warm, relaxing,” he droned with a gentle cadence, his speech slow and deepening and emphasizing key words. “There is a part of you listening to me talk. The part of you that dreams, that knows how to breathe, that knows your body better than you and how to relax every part of it. That part of you is focusing on my words. That part of you is starting to feel dreamy. That part of you is aware that y
our hands are warm and that your arms are now completely relaxed. Your eyes are getting a little heavier as you picture sailboats on the bay. A gentle breeze pushes them along. You’re with them, and you’re drifting…”

  The room disintegrated. At peace with gravity, Beth melted into the couch, which had become a peaceful and calm oasis.

  “Imagine you’re watching yourself on TV,” he murmured. “Can you see yourself? It’s early August, the year 2005. You’re fourteen years old.”

  His voice sounded far away.

  Time stretched as she considered his question and its answer.

  On the TV in her mind, a girl walked through desert scrub dressed in a white choral gown.

  Yes, she thought, unable to muster the energy to say the words aloud. We sang during the purifications as the Family prepared to cross the black sea.

  “If you can’t speak right now, you can nod. Can you see yourself? Good. Your TV has many channels, each having a different memory of your last night with the Family. You can change channels whenever you want. You will also fully experience the emotions in the scene while at the same time being completely safe with me. Okay? Very good. Now I want you to go back to the last night at Red Peak…”

  So many stars filled the sky, they looked like static. The old cross burned high up on Red Peak’s flat summit, visible only as a muted bloody glow. They’d all heard the screams. The Reverend had wanted to go first.

  Mom walked next to her, silent. Dad hobbled on his crutches, his face a mask of pain. Beth’s eyes roamed the procession but didn’t see her friends. Had they escaped? The eyes of the congregants blazed back at her from the darkness.

  Gaunt with hunger and stooped by suffering, they shuffled toward destiny. A different kind of hunger had seized them, seeking glory and relief. If any of them ever had qualms about quitting the Earth, they had none now.

  They hummed a hymn as they approached the Temple.

  James’s voice was tinny and distant. “Find the event that hurt you the most. It’s okay to feel the fear. Express yourself. Shout if you want to. Feel my wrist? You can squeeze it as hard as you need. I’m with you, and you are safe with me.”

  Shepherd Wright stood at the altar, on which rested scores of plastic cups filled with purple wine.

  “The Reverend is dead,” the elder said. “His example paved our road across the black sea. We will all be rejoined in the light of the sacred place.” Beth looked around but didn’t see any of her friends. They’d followed the plan.

  He sang: “Christian worker, be thou faithful, till life’s toil and care be o’er; see a crown is waiting for thee, over on the other shore.”

  The congregation chanted: “When at last thy journey ended, thou shalt with the angels join, and a crown of fadeless glory, then, oh Christian, shall be thine.”

  The pews emptied as the Family shuffled toward the altar to receive the symbolic blood of Christ. The very real blood of dozens of sacrifices had stained the once-white cloth draped across its surface. The room still smelled like smoke and roasting meat from the burnt offerings.

  Staring at the stains, Beth picked up her cup while Shepherd Wright smeared olive oil across her forehead to anoint her. She brought the wine back to her pew and stared into its purple depths, as if able to glimpse eternity if she only looked hard enough. It smelled like alcohol and bitter almonds.

  Glory awaited, a bright, golden road to a place where pain didn’t exist.

  “It is Christ himself has promised,” the Family sang, “and his word is ever sure. To reward the faithful servant, who shall to the end endure…”

  People struggled in some of the pews. Shouts rang out. A woman screamed. A baby wailed. Daddy gazed back at her with wide eyes.

  “Don’t,” he murmured.

  “Mom,” she said. “I don’t want to do this.”

  Despite the familiar songs and trappings, this wasn’t the religion she was raised with. The Spirit not the same ghost.

  “Let your feelings out,” James told her from far away. “Then you can forgive the people who hurt you. Forgive them so you can be free.”

  Mom turned toward her, tears streaming down her cheeks, a knife in her hand. She couldn’t talk anymore, not after what they made her do, just as Dad couldn’t walk anymore without crutches.

  Gunshots boomed. Someone was shooting outside.

  The singing faltered as the poison seized them all in its grip. One by one, the congregants doubled over and collapsed, heads banging on pews and bodies thumping to the floor. They arched their backs, arms clawing at the wood. The smell of pee and vomit filled the air. The baby stopped crying.

  “Daddy, please stop this,” Beth cried. “I believe you now. Let’s go.”

  He gripped his stomach and groaned, shaking his head. “Can’t.”

  “Daddy? You didn’t…”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Mom had made sure he drank his at the altar.

  “Daddy!”

  “Now,” he said. “Run as fast as you can.”

  “Beth!” James shouted from far away.

  Daddy’s crutches tumbled to the floor. He pitched forward into the pew in front of him, his body jerking and thrashing, growling like an animal being strangled. Foam boiled out of his mouth.

  “Daddy!” Beth screamed and buried her face in her mother’s chest. “He’s dying!”

  Mom held her close as she wailed, stroking her hair. Her hand settled on the back of Beth’s neck.

  “What are you doing?” Beth flinched as her mother’s grip tightened. “Mom, don’t.”

  Her mother looked down at her with a fierce love.

  “I love you Mom please don’t I’ll be good I promise I’ll be good I don’t want to die—”

  Mom raised the knife.

  Beth was screaming and covered in blood—

  “Stop,” James howled.

  The horn blared the judgment and the bodies flew spinning toward the Temple window in a colossal wind—

  “Awake! Three, two, one, awake!”

  Beth returned to the present, staggering at the sudden vertigo. James glared at her with wide, watery eyes, cupping his neck.

  She looked down at her hands. Her nails red with his blood. Her throat hoarse from screaming.

  “What the hell.” He blinked in shock. “Christ, Beth. That’s not supposed to happen. Do you know what you were doing?”

  “James? Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Are you all right?” He breathed in rapid, shallow gasps. “Are you okay now?”

  “Yes.” She took quick stock and was surprised at how content she felt. “Are you okay? Did I do that to you?”

  “I’ve never heard of this happening before,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” James pulled away his hand to inspect the blood on his fingers, revealing the scratch she’d made under his ear. He barked a nervous laugh. “You were talking the whole time. The things you shared. Beth, that was amazing!”

  “I remembered things.” Events she’d buried deep in the tar pits of her subconscious, where they’d boiled for years. “Some of the memories came out as abstractions, stuff my mind created.” Freakish and creepy. Bodies smashing through the pews to tumble through the air, sucked toward the Temple window.

  “We should keep going,” he said. “Try again next week.”

  “I think you’re right,” she lied.

  She’d never do this again. Beth wanted to find out what happened next, but she wasn’t sure she’d believe it.

  She wasn’t sure she would survive it.

  Returned to the comfort of Santa Barbara’s familiar streets, Beth exited the taxi in front of her building. The clean, bright elevator delivered her to her air-conditioned floor. Her condo seemed to sigh as she entered.

  Coming home had never felt so satisfying.

  Once her luggage had been put away, Beth turned on her Mozart and went to the kitchen to open a bottle. She poured out a glass and s
wirled it before taking a sip that turned into a gulp.

  Hair of the dog, I guess.

  “You guessed right.”

  She settled on her couch and pulled a stack of research papers and presentation handouts onto her lap to read.

  The Mozart seemed stifling. She switched to jazz.

  She couldn’t sit still. The handouts bored her. Even the condo seemed too still and confining. She set the papers aside and went to her bedroom to change into jogging attire. A long run at Shoreline Park would cure her restlessness.

  Standing in her panties in front of the mirror, she ran her fingertips down the center of her chest to her belly as she thought again about kissing David.

  Maybe she’d reach out to Deacon after all, despite the risks.

  No, nothing romantic, however tempting that might be. No need to feed the monster. The episode at the conference hadn’t taught her what she was missing, only that she had more work to do on herself. Unfinished business.

  For fifteen years, Beth had lived with a time bomb. In 2005, Dr. Klein had shown her the bomb and where it was buried. In 2012, James Chambliss had tried to help her defuse it. Since then, she’d simply lived around it, which had required constant and extreme self-control. And over time, she’d come to believe she could have it both ways, a diminished past and a full present, but she was wrong.

  There had to be an easier way to live than at the edge of one of two extremes. For most of her life, her mother had held a kitchen knife poised over her throat. Ridding herself of the past was the key to her future. Despite all the work she’d done on her brain, she had more ghosts in her head than a haunted house.

  She needed to put them to rest forever, or else she might end up choosing a far easier path, the way Emily had. I couldn’t fight it anymore.

  As Beth pulled on her sports bra, she decided she’d reach out again, this time with a specific plan.

  Deacon, David, Angela.

  Together, they’d go to Red Peak on the fifteenth anniversary.

  If the trip triggered anything, so be it. If she had a freak-out, even better. Either way, she’d come home a new woman, strong and complete and wanting nothing.

  Dressed and ready to run, she went downstairs to the lobby, where the doorman intercepted her to hand her a box that had arrived minutes before.