Chapter 2: Tori

I’d circled Luna Avenue for far too long, and it was dark when I finally arrived at the monastery, key and overnight bag in hand. I paused outside to take a good look at my new home. It was impractical, to be sure, both in terms of location and suitability as a house. While the countryside was beautiful, the drive out from the city had put quite a few miles on my odometer, and the lack of neighbors for miles around was…well, unsettling. Starting over all alone with this house in the middle of nowhere had seemed like a better idea before I was scrawling my name across a deed and sliding it over the table to Guy. But this extreme seclusion was completely self-imposed, some sort of million-dollar act of masochism, and I couldn’t blame anyone but myself.


It sure is beautiful, though. The monastery—my monastery—was enormous, surrounded by trees and a stone fence. The building formed a square, enclosing a yard where I was considering building a pool, and the towering white walls led up to gray roofing and twin green-topped steeples. Light from inside shone out through the stain glass windows onto the walkway as I passed through a lawn marked by gravestones and up to the oversized front doors. I slid my key into the key hole, turned, pushed with all my might against the heavy door, and headed inside.


This particular entryway opened into the sanctuary, and I hurried through towards the other side, heels ringing across the marble floor. Amid the rows and rows of empty pews, the high ceilings and the thirty-foot windows, I felt small and insignificant. That’s the point though, isn’t it? That’s why they build churches this way. They know exactly what they’re doing. In the shortest path from one door to the next, I had to pass under the crucifix, which was item #1 on my remodeling checklist. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with the sanctuary, but the crucifix had to go, that was certain. Not exactly appropriate décor for an agnostic, and it sure wouldn’t lighten the mood at parties. I glanced up at Jesus and shook my head. You loved those people and they just nailed you to a cross…you know, I can relate.


Clear of the sanctuary, I headed towards the living quarters where I’d be spending the night. The movers weren’t scheduled to arrive until the next morning—not that they had much to bring. I’d purchased a few necessities—a dining table and chairs, a bed and an arm chair—but for now I’d be sleeping in one of the beds left in the dorm by the monastery’s last inhabitants. As I pulled a set of silk sheets from my bag and began to make the bed, I couldn’t help but think of the last person that slept there. For all I knew he’d died right there in that bed. Maybe he was smothered with a pillow…It was a ridiculous thought and I tried to shake it, but all those stories about the haunting of the monastery had my imagination running wild. There was a reason (besides the price tag) that no one had bought up the monastery before I got to it. Rumor had it that the ghosts of monks killed in the monastery roamed the halls, though it wasn’t quite clear what had happened to them. Apparently a significant number of potential customers before me had found out about the haunting and backed out. As for me, I loved ghost stories, scary movies, all of it. Alex and I had watched scary movies every Friday night while eating Chinese food, one of our favorite traditions. He always got so spooked, and that made me feel less scared. One of us had to be the brave one.


It was easy to be brave with Alex. Here, now, alone…but I’d had enough feeling sorry for myself for one night. I just needed to keep busy. There wasn’t any unpacking to do yet, but I could check my emails and settle a few things for the company. There were meetings to schedule with researchers, a breakthrough on the horizon with just a little more funding. I pulled my Macbook from my bag and pulled up my company email, ready to work until I fell asleep. But even there, I couldn’t escape Alex.


G.M. It was all because of him. Once upon a time we were going to have a baby, our own baby, a “gynecological miracle” for two biological men. It had seemed impossible when we first discussed it, a dream we loved to dwell on that we knew would never come true. We picked out names, sketched ideas for nursery decorations, and discussed the merits of various birth months. We knew that we’d let the sex be a surprise, and that we both wanted a baby girl. Of course, we were realistic, too; Alex and I thoroughly researched adoption, though we knew the difficulties we would face. The world didn’t see me as a mother. But then G.M. took off, and our wildest dreams were suddenly in reach. We were so close to having it all.


Well, Alex is going to have it all. Impulsively, I logged into Facebook and pulled up his page. Immediately I felt nauseous. There they were, Alex and Penelope, beaming as they pointed at Penelope’s bulging stomach. She was gargantuan, a tank, features distorted by her rapid weight gain, but she was glowing that pregnancy glow that somehow made up for everything. They were sitting together on the couch, Alex’s hideous couch, and Alex looked happier than I had ever seen him in all the years we spent together. There was no telling how many times I’d visited this webpage since Alex left me for this woman, and yet the pain never eased. But I kept coming back for more. I learned all I could about Penelope. She was young and attractive, with dark skin and hair and what my mother would call “child-bearing hips.” She was good for that, anyway, and apparently that was what mattered most to Alex. Actually, it was probably the only thing that mattered to Alex now, because it couldn’t be some deep connection that drew them together. Penelope knew nothing about Alex—nothing real, nothing important. She didn’t even know about me. I’d bumped into them in the city one day, headed into the restaurant where Alex and I ordered our Chinese takeout every week. Alex, ever-polite, introduced me as Stella, an old family friend he hadn’t seen in years, and by the look on Penelope’s face, I could tell she didn’t know any different. To add salt to the wound, she was wearing my favorite pair of heels, which I’d abandoned at Alex’s place after the breakup. I played along with his lie, unwilling to make a scene, and as soon as they were around the corner, I dumped out my unopened takeout boxes, sat in my car and cried.


But tonight, I didn’t feel like crying anymore. I felt like doing something drastic. Yes, I wanted Alex to be happy—but not with her. Not now. She’d taken my place, she’d stolen by life, and she deserved to pay for it. Maybe I’ll egg her car. I’d egged someone’s car in high school once, the star member of a rival glee club, and while it was satisfying at the time, it seemed much too juvenile for an adult. I’ll steal her identity. Another bad idea. I had no idea how to go about it, and it lacked some basic, physical element that would make revenge truly satisfying. I could punch her. I could beat her up. I could…


A loud crash somewhere down the hall disrupted my dark thoughts, and I jumped to my feet. I’d already worked myself up with thoughts of Penelope, and now the startling sound had my heart beating a mile a minute. What is that? “Who’s there?” I called into the dark, almost expecting an answer. Perhaps there really were ghosts here. A crash came again, and I froze. Then, floorboards creaked.


Summoning up all my courage, I headed out of the dormitory and down the hall to investigate. It’s not a ghost, it’s not a ghost, it’s not a ghost…There’s a logical explanation for this. I repeated my mantra in my head as a clacked down the hallway, the impulse to tiptoe thwarted by my stilettos. As I approached the staircase, a third crash came from right behind me, and I broke into a run. Too late, I noticed the rug at my feet, as my left heel caught and I tripped. For the briefest moment, I was aware that I was falling towards the stairs. Then I hit my head on the banister, and everything went black.