Hopscotch and Phantom Choirs

I don't want to go down the stairs, so I hop down each floor using the balcony railing as leverage. Three steps and I'm down on the ground, away from the rope and the underground well. I feel no sting of cold iron against my palms, no shock traveling up my knees when I land. The physical impact just doesn't register here.

The streets and buildings are clean. No bodies of zombies, no wreckage of dinosaurs, no scorch marks from the eastern beam attack. As if the disasters have a clean-up crew that resets the neighborhood to its pristine start point. I am unsure which direction to choose. My feet do.

I don't cross the street, don't have to, as the entrance to the neighborhood where the church dwells is on my side of the street. And even from here, I still can see the light on the third-floor windows, like a beacon of a landmark. The neighborhood gate stands tall, the iron arch staring down at me. I run past it, past the tall white wall of the first building, where lizards and flickering light rest, past the gated house adorned with vines and a tall tree, and turn to the right corner. The street is empty and dark, but I can see the light ahead to my right. Taking up a huge landmass is the abandoned restaurant, looking festive, as if it could take in all the non-existent guests. I avert my eyes; I need to focus on the road ahead.

There is a dead end ahead, so I turn left, into a street with almost identical buildings on both sides, the Christmas light decorations hanging above my head. Seems like summer right now visually, though the air carries no heat or humidity. But they are always eager for Christmas, aren't they? At that moment, the church bells ring, echoing across this whole little place, as if signaling for me to quickly get there.

I keep running. If I continue straight ahead, I will reach the front entrance of the church, but my gut instinct tells me not to. It is better to enter any building from a side entrance, so as not to attract attention from any watchers from the high bell tower. So halfway through the street, I turn right into a small, short alleyway, then left to another block of houses. I notice the squares and numbers drawn on the road surface, like someone just playing hopscotch here earlier. A tiny artifact of a lost empire. At the end of this road, I finally see the side entrance to the church: a green square, slightly rusty metal door.

It is not locked; the hinge is slightly open, waiting for me to get in. It makes a creaking noise as I open it. The whole yard is deserted, aside from the marble benches and flowerpots neatly adorned on the sides. As if noticing my presence, the choir noise echoes from inside the building itself. I get in from the side sliding door and sit in one of the church pews. I look up at the top of the roof. No one is there, yet the instrument plays; maybe it is prerecorded. Looking in front of me, the neon lights are still on the Christ statue in the center, the Mary statue on the left, and the Joseph statue on the right. The candle and incense make a swirly pattern when they come in contact with the light. I watch the smoke curl, but I smell no incense, no burning wax. It is like a phantom mass is going on at the moment. I can’t find what I need here, listening to the choir song on loop.

So I cross the room to get to the other side of the building, and here it is: the entrance to the bell tower. The door is unlocked just like the green door earlier. I take a few steps back and look up. The bell is still, and it seems like no one or nothing is up there. I let out a breath—purely out of habit, since my lungs don't ache from the run—and take a first step to the spiral stairs. They are narrow, the stone worn smooth in the center. The choir's looping song grows muffled beneath me, replaced by the hollow hum of empty space. 

I can see the whole churchyard from here: the big arch of the front entrance, two large altars of saint statues on the left and right corners. Only when it is empty like this can I admire how massive the yard is. Before I know it, I am already at the top, and the wind is blowing against my face. It ruffles my hair, but it carries no temperature. It is just the visual illusion of moving air.

Without me even touching it, the bell swings back and forth, and the sound echoes through the whole neighborhood, reaching even to the fortress. I lean forward toward the brick railing and look in the direction the sound travels. From here, I can see the rooftop balcony, the side that has the water filter tank, the sky window, and the wavy roof next to it. I am mesmerized by the sight, as if the house just hypnotizes me.

Then I see it. A small figure, standing on the wavy roof, waving at me. There is supposed to be no one there. A cold dread—mixed with a bizarre, suffocating sense of familiarity—pins me to the spot. 

The church bell stops swinging.