I saw the church on the grey horizon miles before I felt compelled to drive up to it. It was rickety looking, even from a ways away, like something out of *Scary Stories To Tell In the Dark.* The splintered, weathered boards holding it together were a faded beige, singed with black bits and chipped (white?) paint from decades before. I absently drove in its direction. Mesmerized, robotic actions guided me up the winding hill it sat atop.
There were no other cars here. It looked long abandoned, despite the still functional and newish wooden doors. I approached the front steps, an odd energy permeating my senses. It felt like there was a force pulling me into the structure. I didn’t feel like I was choosing any of it. I had certainly driven myself there, but it all felt so unconscious.
The massive oak doors opened into a rather well-maintained vestibule. Flyers and organized piles of pamphlets made it suddenly clear that this was a functioning church. It opened into a surprisingly opulent nave lined with red carpets and two rows of 12 or so richly brown pews. A series of candles lightly illuminated the room, aided by the striking late afternoon sunlight via the long, narrow windows. The altar was flanked by a massive stained-glass window, depicting a crucified Jesus weeping long tears of blood. It was pretty ominous, but years of Catholic school had pretty much desensitized me to the more heavy-handed aspects of religion.