Son of Job

I scanned the silhouette of jagged, snow-covered roofs cutting across the ever-grey sky.

Even though it was the middle of the day, the barely perceptible pale-blue moon mocked me from above. It reflected the light of the sun but none of its warmth. It would be weeks until the orange star wrestled its way past the taiga’s tangled treeline.

Shivering, I dropped my gaze back to the empty street. I strained to see any sign of house numbers.

Raising my hand, I pointed to the shack on the corner.

“I think it’s this one. This one’s Jobov’s.”

“No one’s home. Look — no footprints. Why bother?”

Sure enough, an unbroken blanket of deep snow lay from the road to the front steps of the dark dacha. A large pile of windswept powder blocked the front door.

“Let’s knock anyway.”

After wading to the entrance, I thumped on the door loudly. We paused for what seemed like minutes.

“Thock, thock, thock!”, I rapped again.

We continued waiting.

Just as we turned to leave, the door slowly shuddered outward, slicing the top off the snowdrift.

A gloomy figure stood against the even bleaker backdrop of a pitch-black room.

With forced smiles, we explained that we were from the Church.

The door opened wider, and we cautiously ducked inside.

I was immediately aware of the absence of the familiar wave of heat wafting from decades-old radiators — the warmth that I’d come to expect upon entering a stranger's home.

I winced as I noticed I was just as cold as I’d been moments before.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized the drawing room was completely barren, except for what appeared to be a single large object covered with a heavy blanket.

The shadow beckoned us further into the next chamber, past some sort of heavy shroud hovering over a threshold.

Two over-turned buckets were offered as seats, and the ghostly shape settled onto a third, situated near the window.

The dim moonlight revealed the hooded spector possessed two eyes and a mouth.

The face of a sullen, middle-aged Russian man began to take form.

As if to prove humanity, a gloved hand gestured towards a soiled, coverless book lying on the windowsill.

“I was reading when you knocked,” the man explained.

I noticed a kitchen stove standing in the corner. One lit burner provided just enough warmth to be perceptible.

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Part II:

In our broken Russian, we introduced ourselves as missionaries from the Church.

We carefully asked if he was ok. He began, slowly, as if trudging through deep snow, to explain his plight.

“One day I was walking home from work when a group of teenage boys asked for a cigarette.

I told them, ‘I don’t smoke.’ (Being a Mormon, even though I haven’t been to church in a long time, I don’t smoke.)

They didn’t believe me.

They got angry.

Then they all started beating me, beating me bad. Once they knocked me over, they bashed my head in on a curb. I woke up in the hospital.”

I nodded, not even beginning to have any idea of what to say.

“I was in the hospital for several weeks. When I finally recovered, at least somewhat, I went home. I went home only to find that the place was empty.

My wife left me and she took everything.”

My mind began racing, searching for any intelligible response. He continued,

“And although I’m somewhat better. Well… I can walk… I still can’t work. So, I’m just… here…”, he trailed off.

Sensing he’d concluded his story, my companion and I feebly conveyed our belief that God loves him and that there is hope.

We asked if he prays.

“Not often… but, but I prayed this morning. God is what keeps me going.”

After a short conversation, we got up to leave.

“Thank you”, the man whispered as we stepped back out into the lunar landscape.

I glanced back just as the door thudded shut.

An hour later, I sat as a sea of hulking, snow-laden pines slowly slipped past me. I watched dejectedly as the sky sunk from a midnight blue to an inky black.

The rhythmic clanging of steel on steel lulled me into a trance. Gradually, my gaze relaxed. My chin dropped silently onto my chest.

I hardly noticed as dark figures floated past me, their long black garments barely making a sound as they brushed the seats.

Each carried inside them the tragedies of a hundred generations. Their own lived horrors ladled into the cauldron of cruelties unique to their bloodlines. As we traversed the taiga together, that concoction slowly dripped into me.

Eight years later, I still dream of ghosts.