Immortal Memoriam

Lights, blinding and fuzzy, strobed around Agent Lewis Neal’s brain. Throbbing and flashing images kept time. Disoriented and in pain, Neal tried to make sense of where he was, what he was seeing. Fiery pain made concentration nearly impossible. Still, he tried, somehow knowing the only way out was to puzzle together what came before.

Clap! Chanting, people.

Boom! Money. Stacks of cash.

Clatter! A little black book.

Pieces started firing around in Neal’s mind, accompanied by chaos and doom. He felt another presence there, something god-like. Both peaceful and violent at once. Protective and vicious. Snarling, unending agony. Eternal euphoria. Eyes boring right through his soul. Neal opened his mouth to scream as the realization came into sudden, sharp focus. But no sound would come out.

Two weeks prior, Agent Neal got the call that would make his career, the case that could promote him to Bureau Chief soon. A cult take-down. For months, an undercover agent had infiltrated a little-known group called Immortal Memoriam. A tip by a trusted minister had spun the Bureau’s head fast in the group’s direction. In fact, the top agents couldn’t figure how they missed such a dangerous organization right under their noses.

Neal couldn’t really blame them, though. The stuff was just unbelievable. And their once-prosperous town was in desperate need of the sudden influx of cash being pumped into their economy. Still, Neal and the other agents were glad the minister put the health and lives of his flock ahead of lining his own pockets. Sally Jorgenson was the particular parishioner who pushed Pastor Smalls to contact the FBI.

Bureau Chief Soren had personal reasons for jumping so quickly on board. His own sister had been exhibiting similar symptoms. At first, it was subtle. Chief Soren’s sister, Jill, had called one of his children by the wrong name. Understandable, he thought. He himself had run through the gamut of five names in times of fluster, especially when the kids were young. They didn’t see their aunt too often. Perhaps it was just a slip. But something seemed off--not like a lapse, but an erasure. Chief Soren couldn’t quite place it, but twenty years of investigating things that didn’t seem quite right made for a trustworthy gut.

As time went on, Jill Soren began losing more of her mind but was growing her bank account in inexplicable ways. Great infusions of cash would suddenly appear, she’d tell her brother, but she had not a clue from where, or how, or why. Chief Soren was beginning to worry about Alzheimer’s disease and severe kleptomania in his sister. But where would Jill be able to steal such large amounts of cash? There were no bank robberies nor major thefts in the recent months and surrounding areas. Had she committed some huge crime decades before and memory troubles were causing her to slip up?

Nothing seemed plausible until Sally Jorgenson’s symptoms caught the caring pastor’s attention. As with Chief Soren’s sister, Sally’s memory slips appeared innocent at first. Calling his wife Patricia instead of Meghan. Posting on the church’s social media page that she loved their organist when the small parish had only a piano for its services. Giving more than ever to the Sunday collection basket. Though the church could use the cash, Pastor Smalls knew Sally was on a fixed income and couldn’t afford to give much.

In fact, the pastor had noticed a significant uptick in giving from several parishioners. And come to think of it, those people had seemed scattered of late as well. But Pastor Smalls tried to focus on gratitude and opted to ignore the gnawing feeling until the day Sally Jorgenson placed $500,000 in the offering plate, asked him how such a handsome man could be single, winked, and sashayed away.

When Chief Soren heard this account, he knew in the instant that things were more than off. Something was very, very wrong. And it had a dark, hopeless feeling about it. He therefore picked his best men and began watching the doings of those who Pastor Smalls had indicated were behaving strangely. It wasn’t long before they began getting some answers.

Every Wednesday evening, after church-night supper concluded, a group of seven members would follow each other to a remote wood on the outskirts of town. One by one, they’d exit their vehicle, and one by one, they’d approach the edge of the wood, give a nod, and disappear. When office gossip spread about what the stake-out team was seeing, reactions varied from fear to laughter, depending on that person’s particular beliefs. But the stake-out team wasn’t laughing, for they knew something sinister was happening in the woods. Though they watched all night, these agents never saw the people come out of the woods. How could these folks then be at their jobs and their homes the following day?

Thus, the necessity for an undercover operation was born. After deciding on the agent, a single and loner male, Soren hatched a plan. “Herman” was rather unknown in town, and he would begin attending Pastor Small’s church and attempt to befriend one of the seven targets. Should he prove successful, he would get invited to whatever mysterious place was compelling these congregants. Straightforward, as far as plans go. It took several weeks for Herman to receive that invite, and like clockwork, at the adjourning of the prayer meeting, the caravan, now numbering eight, set out for the wood, parked, gave the symbolic nod, and disappeared for the night.

Excitement pulsed through headquarters as Chief Soren and his agents eagerly awaited Herman’s arrival the next morning.

“He’s here!”

“Hey, ‘Herman!’ How was it? What was it?”

“Come on! We’re dying here. Tell us!”

Herman’s utterly confused face told his colleagues all they needed to know.

“What was what like? What are you talking about?”

Dead silence, topped with dread, filled the meeting room as Chief Soren and his men exchanged fearful glances. Herman had no memory of the prior night’s activities, no memory of even being on assignment. He seemed otherwise unharmed, physically at least. Yet once again, that feeling of off-ness pervaded the air. It was at that very moment, looking at Herman’s confused grin, that Soren noticed it. Almost imperceptible. So tiny, unobtrusive, simple. On Herman’s neck, just under his earlobe, some redness still apparent, were tattooed the letters “IM.”

After the shock dissipated, Chief Soren called a private meeting of his two most senior agents, Lewis Neal among them. A short while later, they nailed down an amended plan. They would simply send Herman back on assignment, but with a camera installed into his eyeglasses. If whatever was in those woods was stealing Herman’s memory, then technology, memory’s understudy, would take the starring role. If Agent Neal had only had the ability to remember in that moment, he could have saved them the trouble.

And so it was that months of weekly recordings were checked, double checked, discussed, and compiled until the day Agent Neal got his coveted phone call. Go time. Only five agents, all equipped with cameras, were sent to enter what the Bureau now knew to be some sort of structure, photograph any paraphernalia, and get out. Their ultimate aim was to capture evidence about Immortal Memoriam’s leader, a mystery that had eluded them thus far. Should they encounter any trouble, their cameras would reveal this to the back-up teams who were on the ready nearby.

Agent Lewis Neal specifically was tasked with finding and photographing the little black book, which seemed to play a central role. On the video retrieved from Herman’s glasses, there was an obvious but yet unknown correlation between what the people inscribed into it and how they emerged back into their lives. They all thought it key to breaking things wide open, and Agent Neal found himself more than a little excited to have his name on this case. Quietly, stealthily, the agents approached the edge of the wood. One at a turn, they gave the small nod. One at a turn, they disappeared.

Agent Neal gasped and flailed, frantically searching for something, anything, he could grab onto. It was so dark and fast. So much pressure. No one could survive such a journey. Pulsing, hot, squeezing, choking. Propelled at such a speed Neal’s eyes rolled into his head. Off in the distance, or maybe right beside him, Neal heard chanting sounds swirling and echoing, flitting in and out so quickly, he couldn’t be sure they were real. Right as Neal reached his limit, it all just stopped. Enshrouded in bitter coldness, the agent’s breath was the only thing he could see, the pitch darkness having remained. Feeling around, Neal sensed he was in some sort of room. Despite the cold, Neal felt like there were walls and a roof. And he felt strangely safe, despite the terror he had just endured. Lulled as a newborn baby in its mother’s arms. Everything odd and new and frightening, but somehow protected. He could feel a force pulling him in gently, but with authority.

But wait! Something was wrong. Where were the other agents?

“Ricks! Lopez! Jones? Williams? Where are you?”

Cold, dark silence. No wind. No creaks. No breath. No voices. But Neal knew he wasn’t alone and the peace he had just felt seeped out of him as quickly as the icy cold seeped in.

Pulled back into the present, Neal illuminated his flashlight, bracing for whatever attack would come. But no attack or enemy appeared, at least not of the physical kind. Before him stood a long corridor, tiled and white like a hospital. This was no hospital, however. On both sides of the hallway, lining it for as far as he could see, was person upon person, all with vacant eyes, slack faces, and plastered on their mouths, that same confused semi-grin they had seen so many times on Herman. One by one, these comatose beings slowly raised their arms and pointed down the corridor in the direction of a red door Neal had not noticed before.

Agent Neal slowly, shakily made his way toward the door, unsure why he made that choice, unsure if it were even a choice at all. Time seemed eternal and instant at once. Then he was there, the red door larger than a castle entrance, the hallway stretching for miles behind him. He slowly pulled down the latch and pushed in, the door opening with unexpected ease. Preparing for what awaited on the other side, Neal inhaled deeply and stepped over the threshold.

It seemed for a moment that all of Agent Neal’s fears were unfounded or at least overblown. The room was ordinary, despite the more than odd situation. Small like an office, it had no windows, was sparsely furnished, and was lit by rectangular fluorescent fixtures. Aside from a table and two folding chairs, there was one small podium in the room. Instantly, Agent Neal bolted toward it, for upon it lay the little black book.

Filled anew with trepidation, Neal snapped a photo of the journal before his trembling hands reached to open the first page. What horrors would he find? What unspeakable atrocities were recorded here?

“You must be kidding me!”

Neal almost laughed. Each line of the journal contained a name, a date, and a monetary amount, all followed by a short description. Things such as, “My son’s birth,” “My wedding day,” and “My mom’s last Christmas.”

“These people are trading their memories for money?”

Neal felt irritation at all the people who’d been so obviously duped and drugged. He felt silly for the fear he’d let rule him, embarrassed that he thought this case was anything more than one of drugs and money. And thus, his pride overtook him as he picked up the book and wrote, “Lewis Neal. March 3rd, 2021. $20,000. ‘The reason I am here.’”