Chapter 16
Life is divided into a series of befores and afters.
We section our existence into fragments separated by milestones: before and after graduating high school, getting married, moving to a new city, losing a loved one.
Now, my life has been forevermore divided into the time before and after I’ve killed a man.
The afternoon air is heavy with the promise of rain as I walk the property, needing to clear my head after the events of the last few days. Thick, gray clouds gather in the distance, but the sun still shines for the time being.
I don't feel guilty as I should for killing that bartender. The murder replays in my mind like a video on a loop, but it feels distant, disconnected, as if I was simply a witness in the scene and not the perpetrator. It’s a relief, honestly, to not be wracked with guilt, though that should probably be cause for concern.
Can I really justify killing a man simply because he was a shitty person?
Apparently I can.
Behind the house, I discover Ambrose has a fire pit that looks unused and a massive vegetable garden. Neat rows of plants line the raised bed. I try to imagine him out here watering the garden or pulling weeds, but it’s difficult to envision. It seems too domestic for someone—something—like him.
I walk the perimeter of the multi-acre yard along the treeline, finding a small break in the trees where a worn path leads into the woods.
My dream from this morning filters through my mind, but I shove it away.
I glance over my shoulder to make sure Ambrose isn’t watching me, then take the path into the woods. The further I walk, the more the trees close in around me, their branches creating a canopy where sunlight spears through the gaps.
The forest is still a deep green, though the falling temperature each week tells me that the leaves will be changing soon.
Will I still be here when they start to fall?
Or even when they begin to grow back in the spring?
The thought of being here for another year is almost more than I can bear.
Freedom is close enough to taste now that I have an end goal, so every day spent here is a day wasted.
I rear back when a crow takes flight from a branch near me, cawing loudly and followed by two others. It takes a moment for my heart to settle back to its normal pace, and I shake my head at my skittishness.
I’ve been walking for fifteen minutes under a canopy of encroaching trees when a white building peeks through the trees.
At first, I think I’ve gone too far and found another house hidden out here in the mountains, but I recall Ambrose saying he owns dozens of acres surrounding the house.
I definitely haven’t walked that far. As I round the bend of the path, I realize it’s not a house; it’s a church.
It’s a simple rectangular building with a slanted roof behind a short steeple, seemingly lost to time but still standing.
The white vinyl siding is peeling away to expose the gray beneath, and the brick foundation is crumbling.
A couple of the windows are boarded up, but I’m surprised to see that most of the lancet stained glass windows remain.
When I circle the building, giving it a wide berth, a small graveyard comes into view as I round the other side.
It seems like a perfect recipe for a horror movie—a woman alone in the woods coming across an abandoned church with a cemetery. But though the air is heavy here, like it tends to be in any sacred space, there’s no fear prickling my skin.
I make the potentially stupid decision to investigate further, climbing the three cracked concrete stairs and tugging at the handle on the wooden door, its white paint chipped and peeling.
It opens.
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 has he actually 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 cold granite 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 of wood 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.