I sense movement to my side; a voice cracks, wracked with emotion yet dry and stiff, across the room, “Who are you? Why are you here? Are you with the church?”
Startled, I look to my right, my eyes widening as I knew that the houses owner would be here, yet I had not expected him to be here. Naivety had fueled my entry into the house. As my gaze refocuses from the initial shock, the figure before me comes into sharp focus, as I quickly survey him up and down. Steel gray hair, tinged with occasioning waves of a light brown, contrasts with soulful, slightly set-apart caramel eyes. Slight stubble rolls across the top of his mouth, connecting to a bushier patch underneath. His sharp facial features accentuate a lean frame. Dark washed jeans and a slate gray dress shirt, paired with a black cardigan give him an almost ethereal presence. Opposed to myself, he stands against the wall, hands in his pocket, surveying me with a quick glance of suspicion and intrigue.
“I’m Alistair. I grew up down the street and well. . . ,” my hands wringing as I continue, “Yourself and the house have intrigued me. I was raised to dismiss you but I can’t.” I begin to back away slowly around the corner of the doorway, wary of his reaction.
His brow furrows as he slides his hands into his pockets. “Well well, that is a reason for you to have come in. I had a feeling that someone would come by eventually. I expected your illustrious reverend one of these days,” his voice tinged with anger, the front of his jeans wrinkling as a fist formed inside, “to come in and try to convert me. To convince me to leave town. To fucking conform to the standards of the town. You grew up here. You’ve listened to them, been raised to dismiss me. What have I done?” Anger manifests from him: cold, seething, and vehement. The wind blowing in from the window seems to impart him with it’s icy bite.
Taken off guard by the anger which radiates from him, I oddly maintain my ground although every strand of my being and my best sense are informing me that this could prove detrimental. “You see sir, I was never told why I was to avoid you. I was simply expected to,” the southern hospitality I was raised with kicking in. “My parents never spoke of you, nor your house. Everything that I heard came from First Baptist. Especially Rev. Taylor,” slinking back against the doorframe as I said so, both as a means to comfort myself and to anchor closer to the exit.
His expression hardens as I mention Rev. Taylor. “That man is a disgrace. He has failed his congregants in so many areas. The last time that I checked, persecuting others isn’t in your moral code,” his words tinged with venom, and perhaps. . . sadness.  “That church is a farce. Sure, there may be good people there but Christians? People who I am supposed to look to as moral stalwarts? Individuals who have acquired truth and simply want to share it with me? Fuck no” The words are shot out rapidly, dripping with anger, his eyes narrowing all the while.
Listening to him has a peculiar effect upon me. While everything that I’ve been raised to believe is pushing me to become angry, to reach out and berate him for the sentiment of his messages, yet I can’t. I’m compelled by his stature, his words, and his presence. “I agree. I certainly have fond feelings for the town and the people here. I’ve lived here for eighteen years. All that time, I’ve been intrigued by you. Well, by what the townsfolk have painted you as.
Silence fills the room, blossoming into a behemoth of indignation and mystery: two opposing souls clashing against one another while life continues to spin slowly, and an ethereal bond forms; not of love but of comradery and muchness. I begin to question what I have awakened by entering the house. While I do not believe that he is malevolent or harmful, I am wary of the cold anger manifesting from his lean frame. The silence cuts to my core, as our gazes meet, each standing a silent vigil: unaware of what the other is processing, betwixt bouts of anxiety and concern. “You are not what I expected at all. I was raised to see you as a malformed image of what I see now. The townsfolk do not yearn to understand who you are. Rather, they are content with the misinformed lies fed to them by Rev. Taylor. I’m not sure who you are. I’m certain of that, but in the same vein, I highly doubt his claims.” I continue to wring my hands as I speak, nervous as to the effect that they will have. I don’t feel fear but uncertainty. I don’t know who is before me, and here I am, opening up.
“You’re different. Far brighter than the townsfolk it would seem,” a smile cracking across his face as he continues, “Perhaps I was wrong. The reverend is a well-intentioned but utterly and wholly misguided fool. A man more interested in his own safety and the carefully created town which he has been carefully cultivating, then the people who live there. Not for their own good, of course, but that is another discussion. That is. . . if I haven’t frightened you off, and judging by your expression, I would wager that I haven’t.”