The door squeals on rusty hinges, and the sound echoes in the empty space. It’s a small church, obviously abandoned long ago, but some long-forgotten pews and dozens of candles sit untouched in the space. Dust motes swirl in the disturbed air, catching the colorful beams of light streaming in through the stained glass windows.
The thick, musty air makes me cough, but I push on, taking cautious footsteps that echo off the vaulted ceiling as I make my way down the center aisle.
How long has it been since someone has been in here? A thick layer of dust covers the pews, and half-burned candles litter the altar and the windowsills.
When I step onto the altar, I search for anything else that might be hidden, but I don’t find much. Only a bible open on the podium. Curious, I pick a verse at random from the page it’s open to and read it aloud.
1 Peter 5:8
“Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.”
I can’t help it. I cackle, the sound bouncing off the walls of the church. Maybe someone should have warned me about that a few months ago. Then I might not be in the predicament I’m in now.
I shake my head in amusement and turn, speaking aloud as I stare at the crucifix on the wall. “Great joke, big guy.”
I’ve never really believed in God, but my newfound knowledge that the supernatural actually exists makes me wonder. To me, religion was always like the grown-up version of believing in Santa Clause—mostly harmless, a motivator to act with moral integrity, and a good way to control people because they believe an omniscient presence is always judging.
But if Ambrose is able to exist and prove that my assumptions have been wrong, it’s not impossible to think there may be some sort of deity out there. Hell, maybe Santa’s real too. Would anything really surprise me at this point? Probably not.
After scouring the church for anything else that might be of interest, I head back outside and meander through the cemetery. There’s a path leading around the back, and I follow it into the small maze of headstones that have become faded with time. Most of the dates of both life and death seem to come from the 1800s, and it makes me wonder how long this church has sat here forgotten and unoccupied.
If this is on Ambrose’s land, how long hasheactually been here? I know he’s essentially immortal, but how long has he actually been doing this? It’s something that has crossed my mind, but I haven’t felt the burning need for an answer until now.
I trail my fingers across a faded name carved in the coldgranite headstone—Emma, 1882 - 1975—and wonder what sort of life this woman lived. The 1800s seems like such a long time ago, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s just a tiny blip in time. I’ve been thinking about the grand scheme a lot more lately. Life and death, good and evil, immortality. If I think about it too much, it’ll overwhelm me, but I also can’t help but wonder after everything that’s come to light.
What sort of things lurk beneath the perception of humanity? Now that the supernatural side of life has been revealed, it's impossible not to wonder what other mysteries might be real.
So many questions have come up since I found out what Ambrose is that I can’t ignore them anymore. I don't particularly want to deal with his cocky attitude, but I can't turn down the opportunity to potentially learn more about the metaphysical side of life just because he takes delight in pissing me off.
As I make my way back to the house, following the path through the trees, I decide that if he can't be tolerable, maybe he can at least be educational. If I’m going to be stuck here for a while, I may as well learn what I can.
The sky is gray now, massive clouds obscuring the sunlight and the air still, as if the forest is holding its breath waiting for the rain to spill. In the distance, thunder rumbles across the mountains.
I’m about to walk through the back door of the cabin to find Ambrose and escape the impending storm when I notice a light shining from the massive detached garage behind the house. As I walk closer, I see that one of the two car port doors is open, and Ambrose is hunched over and focused intently on whatever he’s working on.
“What's all this about?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe as the smell of sawdust fills the air. There are pieces ofwood everywhere in various states of finish. A pile of untouched two-by-fours is on the floor beneath the table, a dark, wooden dresser without drawers sits against the wall, and a heavy mahogany desk is in the center of the room where Ambrose leans over it.
He glances up and flashes me a smile. “I like to do some woodworking in my spare time. I go out every once in a while to auctions and buy old furniture that needs some work, then refinish it and sell it to a guy in town who owns a shop where he resells it.” He sets down the screwdriver he had been using to put handles back on the desk drawers. “I guess when you're essentially immortal, you've got to find some sort of hobbies.”
“You talk to people in town?” The information surprises me, though I'm not sure why. I suppose I imagined him living in complete isolation, like some sort of mystical hermit.
He chuckles. “I may not be entirely human, but I'm not Dracula.”
“When I first got here, the man who drove me said the devil lives in these woods. Would you happen to have anything to do with those rumors?”
The corners of his lips lift in a conspiratorial smile. “I might. Keeps people from getting too curious and snooping around.”
I step further into the garage, drawn by curiosity despite myself. “I want to know more about you.”
“Ah,” he says, a smirk spreading across his face. “I was wondering when you'd succumb to my charms.”
I roll my eyes. “That's not what I meant.”
He gestures to a rocking chair near the wall. “Take a seat and ask away, then.”
I settle into the chair, gently pushing my toes against the floor to rock back and forth as I watch him clean up.
Where do I even start? There's so much I want to know, so many questions that have been multiplying since I discovered what he is. The first thick raindrops tap against the tin roof.
