The Invocation House

A new world awaits you.

In a place far, far away, there’s a world drowning in gray.

Fog, they call it in this world.

Through layers and layers, we find our stick friends moving in their daily patterns. Our friends and the fog—they have a fascinating relationship. Fascinating in that they don’t seem to notice the fog at all because they’re busy looking at something else.

These voluptuous orbs of light.

No one really knows what these lights are, either, or whether anyone realizes they’ve been staring at them. That’s how entrancing they are.

Some have big orbs they follow, some small. Some orbs drift lazily ahead while others vibrate erratically.

The figures fixate on them in endless loops. Round and round they go.

There’s a particular stick figure who’s been slowing down.

In the last dozen or so rotations, their orb—usually floating somewhere in front of them—is barely visible.

This has led to many stops and starts. More moments of doubt creeping in, looking around to see where everyone else is going. Wondering if they missed some kind of orb transmission check.

Today, the orb has gotten so dim, and their legs so heavy with fatigue, that they stop entirely.

They crouch down and close their eyes for some relief.

They can hear shuffled feet nearby, whispers coalescing into senseless noise. Time stands still. In that moment, they have never felt more lost or alone.

After a long, deep breath in, they look up and catch a glimpse of something in the distance. The sharp and dark outlines of a—

“Jesus! Do you know where you’re going?? Look alive, kid!”

A stick figure with a top-heavy backpack clips them from behind before waddling ahead to chase their orb.

Jostled, our friend tries to recapture the outline of what they saw just seconds ago, but the fog is too thick now.

With a half-hearted sigh, they get up and start walking. This time, they follow nothing but the general direction of that faint outline they can no longer make out.

They do not (as the waddling fellow earlier suggested) know where they’re going, but they keep walking because—well, who’s to say?

Walking is what stick figures do.

In the presence of the fog and no guiding orb, they rely on their senses. Their fingers prickle. With every step, the temperature drops. The air feels rough in their esophagus. Like the fog, the wordless shuffling thins out.

Then they see what they glimpsed earlier. A house. Black windows.

Somehow, they sense this isn’t a “knock on the door” situation. They twist the doorknob and walk in.

Inside, they’re immediately enveloped in a musty, seemingly familiar odor. On the left, there’s a silhouette of a couch with a shapeless mass in the corner, but it’s too dark to make out what it is.

The only source of light in the entire room comes from a candle on the left of a sink.

They go to the sink. On the counter beside the basin sits a single sheet of paper. It reads:

So you’ve realized you’ve forgotten. Maybe it’s who you are or what you’re doing anymore.

Now is the time to speak the truth.

Perhaps you’re wondering how you can speak truth when it’s precisely what you’ve forgotten.

I’ve been told this is the appropriate moment to say something delightfully cryptic:

The contract your voice is forming with the air is a higher order than anything your mind can understand.

TRUST your nonsense.

How’s that? Go on. Into the basin you pop.

They peer into the basin and realize just how deep it goes.

With some hesitation, they lean forward and mutter, “Um. Testing. One, two.”

Their voice sounds thin. Reedy.

They swallow and try again.

“The self is... a construct. Consciousness observes itself... observing.
“We are the universe experiencing... the universe.”

Silence swallows the words whole.

Their face is hot. Stomach contorts. Their insides curl as if they’ve just said something in a crowded room that’s been met with complete silence. A snide inside voice remarking who are you trying to fool.

Except no one’s here. Just the basin and their own voice.

They shift their weight and clear their throat. Maybe something more... personal? “I am... here. I am... present. I honor my—“

Their jaw clenches involuntarily. Jesus Christ, who talks like this? Their neck feels hot. Hands clammy.

Their breathing is trapped somewhere between their collarbones. The air in the room feels thick, pressing in. They want to leave. They want to crawl out of their skin. They want to—

“You want the truth, huh? YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE FUCKING TRUTH!”

It erupts before they can stop it. The sound of their shouting stuns them temporarily.

They straighten up slightly.

Okay. Then with the steady bravado of a theater actor:

“At the bottom did we start…And now by some strange, precarious grace... we find ourselves HERE!”

Index finger shoots skyward.

They can feel it now. The tension inside dissolving into something stranger.

Time to regroup. They pace back and forth. One more.

With both feet planted, they fill their lungs with everything they’ve been holding.

“Fa-ha-HA-ha-ha-HA-haaaaaaaaack!!!!”

CRACK.

The sound reverberating through the basin splits your lungs wide open. The air floods in, branching, branching, branching all the way to the smallest crevices of your body.

Your ribs feel exponentially expanded, fingertips fizzing.

Inside, there is a spreading warmth enveloping everything.

You leave the house and walk back outside. This time, you’re running back. No orb in sight, and you run anyway.

You see them in the distance. A couple of figures still caught in their loops pause to look at you. They stare with the slow, tilted curiosity of people half-asleep suddenly hearing their name.

As they stare, something shifts. Their orbs drift inward, settling into their chests to match yours.

Yours. Yes, yours. You thought you were reading about some strange stick figure guy, but this is about you.

We’ve been waiting for you. We have a whole world to explore.

Welcome to the Undoing Verse.