Damaged Gods

It’s weird. I take a few more steps, and then the heavy wooden door slams closed behind me.

Immediately, the entire interior goes dark. Like the sun just… disappeared. And I’m about to turn around and leave when I hear footsteps echoing through some distant hallway.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

It’s a young man’s voice. Not the same voice from outside, but deeper and out of breath.

“OK!” I call back, then feel dumb for doing that.

His footsteps get closer and his breathing is labored when he bursts into the room. In fact, he’s breathing so hard he needs to hold up a finger—the universal sign for ‘give me a moment’—as he doubles over, huffing and puffing, trying to recover from his apparent sprint.

“I’m sorry,” he finally manages. “I was all the way across the campus.” He has to stop there and just breathe again. “When the”—he breathes—“bell”—breathe—“rang.”

He seems pretty out of shape. Though he’s not overweight. Very tall, very skinny, and very young. Maybe even younger than me. I’d peg him at maybe twenty-one? Twenty-two?

I’m not sure what to do or say, so I fall back on manners. “If this is a bad time, I can just… come back tomorrow?”

At this he stops breathing. Literally holds his breath as he straightens up and stares into my eyes like he’s… what? I don’t know. A deer in headlights?

“Noooooo.” It comes out as one long, low tone. Almost a moan. “No,” he says again.

Then he smiles. Super big. And I’ve been around enough people who didn’t like me, or want me around, to recognize a fake smile. Which is like weird thing number seventy-five since I pulled that flyer off the gas-station bulletin board, but I continue to pretend it’s all good because I might want this job. It’s got perks.

“Don’t be silly.” He has recovered now, his breathing under control and the fake smile just a tiny bit more authentic than it was a few seconds ago. “Don’t be sil-ly,” he repeats. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re here. So…” His smile falters. “Why are you here?”

“Uh.” Yeah. I don’t know. This guy is acting bizarre. And he’s definitely not as hot as the hot dude. He’s skinny and he’s got a nerd vibe to him. “The job?” I finally say.

“Right! Right! Right! The job. You’re here for the job. The caretaker job.” He whispers that last part like he just remembered that there was a job.

“Yep. Caretaker. But…” I look over my shoulder. “Maybe I should just come back tomorrow.” Or never. “It’s late and—”

“Let me give you the tour real quick. Then you can decide if this is for you and if not, you don’t need to bother coming back tomorrow.”

This is the first reasonable thing he’s said, so I don’t have a polite way to get out of it. “OK. Sure. Show me around.” I pretend to look at a watch that I am not wearing and add, “But I’ve only got ten minutes. My friend is expecting me and it’s a long drive, so—”

He looks up at the faint glimmer of leftover sunset still shining through the stained-glass window and then nods. “Ten minutes is plenty of time. Follow me. I’ll show you the grounds first. Then the caretaker cottage.”

“Cottage?” I was picturing a room. A bland, institutional room that could double as a patient bedroom in one of the many psychiatric hospitals I’ve been in over the years. Not a cottage.

Just the word ‘cottage’ conjures up images of roaring fires and… I don’t know. Wooden cupboards. Maybe a tea pot on an old stove. And shutters. Lots of windows with shutters.

“Yes.” He beams at me. “The cottage comes with the job. And it’s completely private. And secure,” he adds, holding up a finger. “Inside the walls.”

“Oh. Nice. What did you say your name was again?”

“We’re going to go down this way. Watch your step, now. These stairs are old. Not up to code. People tend to trip on them because they are shallow and you can take three or four in one stride, but it’s best to be careful and only take them one at a time.”

“Gotcha.”

I follow him down the stairs, which truly are baby steps. And there are like a thousand and one of them. There are no lights on in the open room at the bottom, but there are lots of them outside in the… what do I call it? Sanctuary backyard? The windows go from floor to ceiling and that is at least thirty feet, so there is lots of glass for that light to leak through.

I don’t exactly know what a sanctuary is supposed to look like, but the first word that comes to mind as I gaze around, taking it all in, is… cathedral.

“Oh, yes,” the boy-man says. “It’s impressive, isn’t it? I remember the first time I saw this place too. I was so stunned, I couldn’t think straight.”