“Were you born like this?” I ask. “Or is it some vampire type of thing where you were made immortal?”
His movements slow as he organizes tools in a drawer.
“The vampire thing isn’t too far off, I suppose. I was dying,” he states. “I don't remember all the details—though I'm sure that's by design—but I was given a choice to pass on or stay alive in this form. I chose this.”
“What do you mean you got a choice? How did that work?”
“I had a heart condition that I didn’t know about, and one day, it just gave out. I was only thirty eight when it happened. Everything went dark, but then I was in a sort of dream—only I knew it wasn’t a dream. There was a powerful presence there, and I know I spoke to It, but the conversation is hazy now as it was when I awoke. All I know is that It had given me the choice to return to this life, living it out for as long as I chose. But in order to continue living, I had to…” He pauses. “Well, you know that part.”
“So what, you spoke to God?” The shock in my tone is evident. This is even more unbelievable than I imagined it would be.
He shrugs. “I’m not really sure. Like I said, it's hazy, and a lot of the details are missing. Maybe God, maybe the Devil, maybe something in between. It's impossible to know.” He says it like he's talking about a conversation with a local farmer and not some omnipotent supernatural being that can bring people back to life.
“Why would you choose to stay alive?” The questionslips past my lips before I realize it was meant to stay inside my head.
Ambrose’s dark eyes pierce me as he lowers himself into a chair about ten feet away. “Why not?”
“It’s one thing to not want to die because you’re worried there’s nothing after this.” Admittedly, that had been one of my biggest wonders when I thought about killing myself. Does anything come next, or am I just gone forever? I’ve never really believed in God, but apparently my lack of faith was misplaced according to what Ambrose is telling me. “But if you were given the choice between staying here and going to an afterlife, I just don’t understand why you’d choose to stay.”
“Call it curiosity,” he says, running his fingers along the armrest of the chair he’s in, seeming to examine the wood grain. “I wanted to experience life to the fullest before I gave up. There are so many simple pleasures in this life, and each day brings a new one.” He looks directly at me, and I avert my gaze. This is all too intense, and the way he examines at me makes it feel like he’s looking into my very soul.
“Plus, I'm not sure there is an afterlife,” he adds. “Just because there's some powerful being in the space between life and death doesn't necessarily mean there's a Heaven or Hell, or whatever else one might believe in. There are infinite possibilities, and that's just as scary as the idea that there's nothing at all.”
The storm accelerates, rain drumming against the roof and echoing through the room. With the car port open, the sudden rush of cool air blows through the garage carrying the earthy scent of petrichor. When the wind whips faster, raindrops dart into the garage, and Ambrose is forced to close the car port door to keep the wood pieces from getting wet.
The space suddenly feels more intimate as we’re shut in against the storm raging outside.
“I’m not sure how long this storm is supposed to last,” Ambrose says. “We either run inside now or chance getting stuck out here once the lightning starts.”
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest. Already, the air in the garage feels heavier without the cool breeze floating through it, and I’d rather be in the house if the storm is going to pick up.
Ambrose puts away the last of his tools, and we both stand at the door to the garage preparing to make the run to the back door of the house.
“Ready?” he asks, grinning.
“Ready.”
We sprint across the slick grass, cool rain pelting our skin and seeping into our clothes. Thunder rolls through the hills, closer now, and we stumble through the back door, breathless and smiling.
The air conditioning on my damp skin raises goosebumps across my arms.
“Would you like to join me in the living room?” Ambrose asks.
I nod and follow him down the hallway, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and wrapping it around my shoulders before sitting.
“What other questions do you have?”
I think for a moment. “Have you done any jobs in your life besides selling your furniture and wood stuff?”
“I have. Believe it or not, I initially went to college and double majored in English Literature and Philosophy. I was a teacher at a small college for a handful of years, I worked as a ghostwriter for many well-known authors, I did physical labor in some places.”
Well, that explains the books. And the mind games. And the muscles.
“How long have you been alive?”
He hesitates before answering, “I was born in the 1880s.”
My eyes widen. Holy shit. Almost one hundred and fifty years. It takes me a moment to regain my composure to ask my next question.
