The Sand House

They stood outside, watching, waiting for a sign. Waiting for God. But he did not come; He did not meet them at the house in the desert. Only their horses and the wind and the sand accompanied them here, in front of the ancient house that was said to house the Messiah. They simply stood… waiting. For what they were waiting they did not know. They had only been told that it would be here, in this abandoned house in the desert, that they would find him, alone and waiting for them to arrive.

The grand double doors, in front of where they stood, had long been wrenched from their hinges, no doubt with the rest of the doors from the place, now scattered across the waste land just crossed. One of the travelers, the brave of the two, reached out a dark, cracked hand and brushed two blood soaked fingers across the white wood left of the door. The sand of the desert, over hundreds of years, had worn smooth the imperfections of the wood, it was now as soft as a new born foal, every crack patiently worn away, every blemish painstakingly brushed into submission.

The sand on which they stood was slightly darker than the white wood of the house, and it continued inside, blown into mountains and valleys in between the doorways they could see through the gap of the previous entrance. The interior of the house was much more chaotic, violent even, for the walls had large bruises of molding ripped from them, exposing the skeleton underneath. Large cracks, originating from the gaps, crawled up the walls and onto the ceiling, as if any moment the house might split into pieces and be blown away into the endless sea of sand.

The ceaseless wind picked up at that moment causing one of the uneasy horses to whinny, throwing their head in protest of the wait. This, along with the realization of the setting sun, threw the travelers into motion, as they prepared to enter the antediluvian dwelling.