Vagrant Juxtaposition

Enwrapped in a heavy fog that night he made his way home, admiring how the gibbous moon made the church cemetery appear even more peaceful. He saw a glowing red cross in the sky. In this town you can hear The Voice on the radio, and he had to assume that this would be the transmission tower. But he had to wonder – could God really live in a house beneath a red neon sign?

Once he crossed the highway overpass and continued his way home he heard footsteps behind him. He had at this exact same place, every night, for the past week. Something was following him. He had never turned to see it. He had no reason to. He already knew what it looked like.

A chorus of a thousand crickets sang as he walked through the abandoned army grounds, the squat red brick barracks left abandoned, their windows shattered by stones. He reached the point of the path where the orange streetlights were blocked from view, and all the world was cast in shadow. It was exactly half-way through. All at once the crickets fell silent. He stood still. The footsteps behind also stopped. He waited.

“Have the rules changed?”, he thought to himself.

He remembered the time he was working alone at the college late at night. He had taken a break to use the washroom. The grounds had once been a high school. The washroom still had shower stalls. They stood unused, their gray curtains left open to reveal the façade of mold and tile. All except one – a single stall at the very end of the row had its curtain closed. The light seemed to dim only so slightly in that particular corner of the room. He had simply stepped back and closed the door that night. He never used that washroom again.

Tonight he tested, and took two steps forward. Nothing. He walked on, and the crickets began to sing once more. The footsteps did not follow. He continued home and never looked back.