Becoming

It was just supposed to be for a week.

We’d wanted to spend Spring Break somewhere new, having exhausted every other destination trip in the area, and everyone’s hometowns on previous holidays. Jordan had a friend on her swim team who had family on the island, and was able to hook her up with a hotel room for all of us for half the usual price. It was just a couple hours by ferry from the school, so we all piled into Rigel’s hand-me-down minivan and set off, huddled together in warm flannels as we watched the fog swallow us whole, waiting for it to mercifully spit us out.

We all already knew it was haunted; that was half the appeal, if I’m being honest.

Corbyn Island was home to one of the most prolific cults in the Pacific Northwest, according to all the travel blogs we’d read beforehand. As cults often are known for, they worshiped some kind of demon…thing? It was pretty unclear, and all of the articles we’d found contradicted themselves and each other quite a bit. I had a book written on the place stowed away in my backpack; all speculation, of course, but still a fascinating read. It was officially disbanded in 1910, when the local government figured out about their more “unsavory” activities. The town was advertised as being a supernatural hotspot, filled with the ghostly presence and tombstones of the cult’s unfortunate victims.

A perfect vacation for a group of five nosy college students with severe burnout and too much time on their hands.

We’d requested the “most haunted room” in the old manor-turned-hotel, and settled in, fighting over who got to double up in the two twin beds and who was stuck on the fraying, faux leather couch. That night, we crowded together on the itchy carpet around Hugo’s laptop to binge every Addams Family property known to man, before passing out in a snoring, uncomfortable pile, beds be damned. I miss the bone deep content of that moment more than I could ever describe.

The next day, we went out with the intention of getting answers about the mystery of this place. And we did, with shocking ease.

Everyone was so nice to talk to, so receptive to our questions, so goddamn happy to help, it felt like we were doing them a favor instead of the other way around. I brushed off their friendliness as a lifetime of dealing with equally curious tourists, ignoring the tug in my gut that didn’t trust their hungry smiles and feverishly bright eyes.

As they showed us the maps and plaques eagerly, my focus strayed to a latin inscription that marked each one that I recognized, but couldn’t immediately place. Esse est omnem partem perdere quae te non definit. I resolved to look it up later, brushing off my own uneasiness as the half-assed hunt continued. We wandered over every inch of that town, taking pictures and goofing off until the sun started to dip towards the horizon, reveling in the immortality of that fleeting moment.

Jordan was the first to go.

She was the only one of us who insisted on swimming on the trip, despite the chill in the air. She made an effort to on every trip, even when the nearest body of water was the hotel pool; said it made her feel connected to everything. She waded in far deeper than the rest of us, with me opting to curl up with a book on the dock to avoid getting myself sick from the cold.

It’s likely why I was the only one who saw what happened to her.

At some point, she just started going in further, past her knees, her waist, all the way up to her chest. I was half asleep, my confusion muddled as I listened to the lapping of the waves and ringing in my ears. Was that ringing? The ocean was near black against the gray sky, mist swirling in to meet and meld with the water beneath it, and the kelp on the surface, dormant before, began to writhe with a pattern unlike the waves they were wrapped around. They snaked forwards, and for a split second I thought they were going to tangle her up, heart leaping into my throat as I sat up, lethargy beginning to leave. But as I looked closer, eyes searching, desperate, through the rapidly thickening fog, I could swear that the winding vegetation was almost…attached to her, spreading out from arms that didn’t seem like skin and bone anymore. Our eyes met once, hers glittering ocean green and glazed over, before I lost sight of her completely.

We waded for over an hour before calling the police, wandering up and down the beach and screaming her name like she’d hear it, who knows how many fathoms deep. We were as precise and detailed as we could when they pulled out their papers and pens, assuring the officers that there’s no way she could’ve drowned, Jordan’s an excellent swimmer, we’re certain. I kept my mouth shut, certain that my hazy input about hypothetical sea monsters would only cause more problems. I had to have imagined it, seconds away from dozing off surrounded by all of my friends, feeling safe for the last time. I had to have. They wrote everything down, nodding as we filled them in on the spots we’d already looked.

We did everything right.

But something deep within me shuddered, watching the grins of the officers, empty of real sympathy, as they recited their questions and compassion with an ease that spoke of far too much familiarity.

They wouldn’t bring her back to us. They weren’t even going to try.

We went back to our room, shaken, and tried to call her dad, but the cell towers there were known to be notoriously spotty, and none of our messages went through. I don’t think anyone slept that night; half of us bothered to try, while the other half desperately tried to distract themselves from the worry crushing us all. I just laid awake on the couch she’d claimed, book still lying unfinished next to me as I stared up at the ceiling, following the cracks in the paint as they built labyrinthine patterns between the wooden beams, trying not to think about how Jordan’s eyes were brown, not green.

About who might be next.

The next couple days were filled with us trying to enjoy the rest of our vacation, but every aspect of it started to include some form of investigation. Rigel was at the head of it, buying up maps and flashlights and ordering us around with a wild intensity that I didn’t often see. We set out, packs full as we wandered the many hiking trails surrounded by graveyards, calling out Jordan’s name until dusk settled over our heads. Ash and Hugo clung to me and each other, eyes darting around in the gloom as Rigel took the lead, forcing cocky bravado to keep our spirits light. I was the only one who noticed when they paused, several feet ahead, as a familiar ringing filled my head.

No, not ringing. Singing.

They panted softly, hunched over, and I slowly made my way to them, listening to their snarling breaths as their hair thickened, prickling on end out of skin that was rapidly being covered over by it. They cocked their head, listening intently to the melodic, inhuman melody, and in a split second, I watched their pupil slit, right before they took off into the brush on all fours.

We shouted after them, giving chase as best we could, but I pulled them both to an abrupt stop soon enough, realization locking my joints in place despite their pleas to keep going. The thing we were chasing turned back to us, fur covered and with too sharp teeth, before letting out a howl and resuming its hunt. They were gone far before we lost them.

I led both of them back in the direction of our hotel late that night in a stunned, horrified silence, but only Hugo and I made it all the way back to our room.

Ash had always been quiet, but the comforting kind of quiet. The kind that blankets you, and promises to listen, to stay and let you rest for a little while. But this was a different kind of quiet; it was cold in the face of her usual warmth, numbing her features until all that was left on her face was cool indifference. We were at the edge of the woods when I reached out to her, trying to offer some form of comfort.

My fingers went right through her skin.

She looked at me, eyes lacking pupils and irises, lacking any recognition at all, as the oppressive fog rolled in again, swallowing the trees. Her hair lifted from her shoulders, color draining from her as her body went soft and hazy around the edges, dissolving into the mist. Hugo screamed, stumbling backwards, and underneath it, I could hear the soft notes of that irresistible hymn that I was starting to love and loathe equally. I grabbed his hand and dragged him in a direction that felt better than standing there, watching our friend go incorporeal, just as helpless as both times before. We crashed in one twin bed that night, exhausted, but together, and sobbed ourselves to sleep.

I woke up to Hugo perched on the edge of the couch, typing away on his laptop and muttering to himself. The moment I was ready to go, he dragged me to the small museum the moment it opened with a plan to divide and conquer, learning everything we could about what had happened. On the way, I explained what I’d seen happen to Jordan and Rigel in as much detail as I could, and he drank all of it in, eyes locked on mine with an intensity I didn’t like, even in its normality.

When we got there, he was off like a shot, grabbing pamphlets and hurrying through a corridor before I could blink. I sighed, more fond than irritated at his usual desperation for knowledge, and got to work, heading in the opposite direction. But after an hour of translating Latin and rereading old manuscripts, I could feel worry prickling at my nerves, urging me to go and check on him. He said he’d call me if he found anything, is whatever he’s found really that complicated?

I wandered through the halls, getting lost twice in the deliberately confusing exhibit architecture, before I found his bag, leaning up against the wall, I walked in, a smile lifting onto my face, but any relief I may have felt disappeared the second I got a good look at the creature in his seat.

It had far too many pure black eyes, muttering with a mouth I could no longer see to itself in what sounded like Latin as impossibly dexterous fingers tore the pages he’d been reading. Multiple arms sprouted from its shoulders, grasping onto more paper and books, almost spider-like in their precision. It was engrossed in whatever it was studying, as curious as he once was, and I wanted to scream from the ragged, torturous pain of being the last one left alive. I backed away slowly, terrified of one of those eyes deciding that I was too interesting to leave alone, my mouth falling open to cry for help.

But any words that might’ve tried died early in my throat the moment I realized we weren’t alone in the room.

There were museum attendants passing it more books, chatting away cheerfully like it would respond, humming that infernal tune to themselves as they cleaned the room. One turned to me, eyes bright, smug, hungry, and I just ran. I hadn’t stopped running until now.

I took the car keys and the next ferry home that night.

I’ve done enough research since then to have figured out the name of the supposed demon the cult so revered: Lilith, the biblical Mother of Monsters. I don’t know if she’s actually the real Lilith, that soft-singing eldritch being that pulled everything I love into her embrace.

But I don’t think that matters much.

It’s my understanding that the cult was founded on the basis of wanting to achieve perfection, focusing their efforts on becoming the best, most polished versions of themselves. But when it became too hard to differentiate between what they loved and what they were, they decided to consult Lilith herself. They made a deal with her, willing to trade whatever they could for purpose, to become better, more themselves, or so they thought. In return, she took their humanity. Ours. Mine.

Esse est omnem partem perdere quae te non definit

“To exist is to destroy every part that does not define you”.

I shouldn’t dwell on it. I got out, and as much as I wish there was something I could do to save them, I can’t. But I can’t escape the feeling I still get, when something under my skin itches, urging me to join my friends, to give into the monsterish qualities planted deep in my bones.

Who will I become, I wonder?

What parts of me are strong enough to eclipse the rest, tearing me into pieces and remaking me into the most obsessive version of myself? Maybe it’s my godforsaken curiosity, constantly casting my gaze into the fog rolling in off the coast, calling me back to a place I’m starting to think of as home.

Maybe it’s why I’m sitting in a minivan that was never my own, keys in the ignition, recording my final thoughts for you to read on this ripped up notebook paper, so you can save yourself, before the ferry leaves the dock and your choices stop being choices and become instinct.

Jack of all trades, master of none, better to be than master of one.

Don’t look for me. You won’t like what’s left.