Rain clouds drifted over the small medieval town of San Onofre di Monti, nestled in the mountains of northern Italy. Inside its Romanesque church, the sacristan was extinguishing the candles of the side chapels one by one. He was a small, elderly man with white hair and a ghostly air as he moved between the marble columns that supported the vaulted ceiling.
When he reached the altar, he knelt, crossed himself, and approached a large, red-faced man retouching one of the medieval retablos that adorned the apse. The man's hair, a sweaty tangle of reddish curls, glistened under the lamplight. His name was Donald Williams, and he was carefully restoring the outlines of a Christ the King seated in majesty—flanked by the Virgin Mary and Saint Peter on the right, and John the Baptist and Saint Paul on the left. With his headphones on, Donald hummed to himself as he worked, his brush flicking confidently across the ancient paint.
"Signor Donald…" the sacristan said timidly. "It's time to close the church."
"So?" Donald muttered, a paintbrush clenched between his teeth.
"Perhaps we should leave it for tomorrow…"
"Out of the question. I need to finish this tonight," Donald replied curtly.
"But—"
"Nothing!" Donald snapped, turning to glare at him, brandishing his brush like a dagger. "Do you want it left unfinished? I'm leaving for Rome tomorrow—flight to Los Angeles at noon. So unless you want to explain to the bishop why this altar isn't ready for the festival, you'll either stay… or give me the keys."
The sacristan hesitated, mumbling a protest, but at last surrendered the keys. Donald barely noticed the man's shuffling footsteps recede down the nave. The sound of the doors closing echoed through the Romanesque space, leaving behind a heavy, sepulchral silence.
Donald climbed down from the scaffold, wiped his brow, and checked the locks on the front doors. Satisfied, he took out his phone and scrolled through his contacts with his pudgy finger until he found the name he wanted: Mike. He pressed the call button.
"The field's clear," he said between breaths.
"Perfect," came Mike's voice over the line.
"Where are you?"
"That's the problem," Mike replied. "We're stuck on the highway. You'll have to do it yourself."
"What? Why me?"
"There's no other choice. We'll be there in an hour—just get started."
Donald cursed under his breath, grabbed his toolbox, and switched on a portable LED lamp. The squeal of rusted hinges filled the church as he opened the door to the crypt. He descended carefully down the narrow spiral staircase, the smell of dust and damp stone growing stronger with every step.
The crypt was vast, vaulted, lined with hundreds of ancient niches—centuries-old parishioners resting in silence. In the center stood several sarcophagi, their carved effigies flickering with eerie shadows as his light swept past. Donald took out his phone again and called Mike.
"I'm in the crypt," he said. "Now what?"
"Look for the niche marked Margara Francisca. Date of death: February 1895."
Donald scanned the walls until he found it—a small, simple plaque bearing only the name. He pulled a metal bar from his toolbox and pried it open. Inside, his light revealed a brittle tangle of bones. Grimacing, he cleared them aside, sneezing as dust rose into the air.
At the back of the niche was a small panel with five buttons, each engraved with a different symbol. Donald took out a battered notebook and flipped through the pages until he found the sequence he'd copied.
"Let's see how smart you really were, Bertie," he muttered.
He began pressing the symbols, fumbling several times in the dim light before finally hearing the faint click of a mechanism. He froze, half expecting darts, collapsing ceilings, or rolling boulders like in Indiana Jones. Instead, the wall at the far end of the crypt shifted—revealing a narrow, hidden door.
Donald sighed in relief and wiped his forehead.
Inside was a small chamber. His beam fell upon a marble statue of the Virgin and Child, serene and luminous in the gloom. Donald stepped closer, studying it. The craftsmanship was exquisite, reminiscent of a Renaissance master. But as his eyes traced the pedestal, he noticed Egyptian hieroglyphs carved into the stone. The realization struck him—it wasn't the Madonna at all. It was Isis holding Horus.
Without hesitation, Donald pulled out a hammer and chisel. Setting the tip against the statue's chest, he began to strike. The clang of metal on marble echoed like gunshots. Chips flew. The statue resisted. Snarling, Donald threw his weight into it and toppled the figure. It crashed to the floor, shattering—and amid the fragments gleamed something metallic.
A small bronze disk, four or five inches across, engraved with runes and symbols around a central hole. Donald picked it up, frowning.
"Shit," he muttered. "What the hell is this?"
He sifted through the rubble for anything else, but found only dust and shards.
"Goddamn it! A thousand times goddamn it!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the chamber.
His phone buzzed.
"How's it going with the piece?" Mike asked.
"How's it going?" Donald barked. "I'll tell you how—it's gone to hell! I smashed that damn statue and all I found was a disk!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there's no egg! Nothing! The thing's empty!"
Silence. Then Mike's voice again, uneasy. "It should have been there… Maybe Victor took it."
"I doubt it. The statue was untouched before I broke it to pieces."
"We're on our way."
"I can't stay in this goddamn church—someone could come back," Donald protested.
"At this hour? Who's going to come back?"
"I don't know—the priest, the sacristan… maybe to have a little fun with the altar boys. The point is, I'm not staying."
"Fine. Wait for us at the café near the station—it's open all night. Keep your head down."
"All night? Are you kidding me? This isn't L.A., Mike—it's the middle of nowhere! There's not a single living soul in this damn ghost town! What's the plan?"
But the line had already gone dead.
Donald growled, stuffed the bronze disk into his backpack, and shut the secret door. He cast one last look at the ruined statue of the ancient goddess lying in pieces on the floor, then hurried upstairs. Gathering his gear near the altar, he slipped out into the night.
The streets of San Onofre di Monti were empty, washed in moonlight. Donald's heavy steps echoed through the narrow lanes, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He clutched his toolbox and suitcase, his heart pounding as the cold, wet air stung his throat.
He stopped for a moment to catch his breath—but the stillness pressed in on him. From every dark corner, he felt the weight of unseen eyes. He forced himself to move, checking his watch, fumbling with his phone. The line was busy.
At last, he reached the main square. It was as deserted as the rest of the town. The façades of the ancient houses and shuttered shops were cloaked in shadow. Across the plaza loomed the church—its weathered stone façade scarred by age and earthquakes.
Only the echo of his own footsteps and the trickle of the fountain broke the silence.
At its center, four stone wolves crouched around the basin, water streaming from their open jaws. Above them rose a medieval knight, sword raised high, shield emblazoned with the crest of San Onofre di Monti—a city that had known centuries of war, legends of witches, ghosts, and werewolves whispered through generations.
But Donald cared nothing for history—or art.
He only cared about getting the hell out of that cursed town before dawn.