A few blocks down from where I lived was the temple. It was the largest temple in the west of the city and every weekend worshippers flocked to it with offerings, hoping for luck in their intake exams or job placements. During the week, however, the area was a ghost town, and the small park in front of the temple filled with drifters, elderly or sick-looking individuals who you were never quite sure had homes to return to at night. They would spend their time sitting on the stone benches, staring into space, or playing chess on upturned crates, no doubt with some pitiful sum wagered on the outcome.
People had good reason not to go to that district during the week. An air of decrepitude hung about it, and the shops lining the road to the temple were dusty and run-down. What they sold was unclear. Most had thick amber bottles stacked in the windows, and if the light was particularly strong you could catch a hint of dark clusters floating within. There were rumours that some of the proprietors sold poison, and a persistent urban legend circulated that one woman had killed her husband and daughter by adding it to their soup before taking her own life. Once or twice, I would hurry past the temple park on weeknights and hear an argument break out amongst the derelicts. Someone would have been talking to the empty air too loudly, or spitting on the floor too close to the others, and recriminations would start flying. Nobody ever got seriously hurt, it seemed. I’m not sure they would have the strength in their limbs to do real damage to each other, although the broken beer bottles littering the bushes were another matter.
One night, having very little to do and wanting to stretch my legs, I decided to visit a different convenience store, on a route that would take me past the temple park and those strange shops. Perhaps I wanted the thrill. Just as I passed the entrance to the temple, I noticed that the heavy iron gates were unlocked. An LED sign in the archway above encouraged visitors at all hours. I’d assumed that it was closed at night, and I felt a sudden urge to go inside.
It was eerie within the temple. Ebony statues of the gods looked out at me from the rings of guttering candles, and the demons carved into the balustrades no longer seemed quite as ridiculous as they did in the daylight. The prospect of encountering some of the vagrants from the park mingled with the sense of spiritual danger as I wandered through the courtyards. It was a damp and chilly night, however, and before long I was ruing that I hadn’t gone instead to my local store to top up my supplies of beer and snacks. Even if I left the temple then, I’d still have another fifteen minutes walking back. Outside, I heard a bottle break and a shout quickly joined by others. Feeling rather foolish, I decided to leave the temple and head home.
That’s when I saw the man with ash on his face, sweeping his threadbare broom across the tiles. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low across his brow and a stained boiler suit. I could see he had smeared his cheeks and chin with the grey powder, and my mind leapt to the braziers scattered around the temple, used for burning incense or offerings. Combined with the way he swept, fast and hard, like he was venting his anger on the floor, made me keep a wide berth. He was mumbling something to himself as he scraped his way across the courtyard. Only the purest, he said, and then: Got to be pure. The smell of incense and stale beer mingled in my nose. I felt ill. When he turned to sweep another section I walked past him and out into the street at a clip. A few seconds later I heard someone call out behind me, but I didn’t turn my head.
The call came again. Someone wanted my attention. I sped up, practically jogging, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead to the trunk road. When I walked past those glass-bottle shops, I could see muted light coming from the back rooms. In one of them was the silhouetted figure of an elderly woman, not doing anything, just standing there among the cloudy objects.
When I got back home I fell into an uncomfortable sleep. For a few days after my trip to the temple I had a bad fever. I assumed it was from going out on a chill night without a jacket. That was the reason that made sense, rather than believing that sweeping man had somehow tainted me. In any case, I avoided the temple and the park for a long time. It was only several months later that a bus on diversion dropped me off nearby. The streets were streaked with rain, and without an umbrella I had resigned myself to getting soaked. As I slopped through the oily puddles, collecting the accumulated grime on my trainers, I saw that the vagrants in the park were still there, gathered in a tight circle around a game of chess, sharing a few umbrellas. They turned to look at me as I trudged past, but nobody called out or approached me.
Feeling thoroughly wretched, I walked into the convenience store to get out of the downpour. It was freezing inside, with the AC still going full blast. A chiller cabinet full of beer awaited me, but when I got closer I saw the handles were dirty. They were coated in a grey powder, turned to claggy mud in parts where it had gotten wet. The lights weren’t working in some of them either, rendering the bottles were dark, uninviting. I looked down at the floor and sure enough, there was a strange scratchy pattern on the linoleum.
My fever came back again that night. I lost a good five pounds as my body purged itself. I still drink, but I don’t go to temples anymore.
Alexander James 