The air in the cathedral is thick enough to swallow. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone. Every "crunch" of the creature's movement feels like a physical blow to my psyche.
I am not a warrior. I am a man with a vintage lighter and a memory of a brother that hurts more than anything.
I press my spine against the cold, dented stone of the pillar. The rough texture bites through my coat, a grounding sting in a world that has lost its gravity.
The flame of my lighter flickers, a tiny, defiant soul in an ocean of ink.
I see it now. Or rather, I see the absence of it.
About twenty paces away, near the base of the charred cross, the darkness moves. It doesn't move like a person, it ripples like oil on water.
A limb, far too long and segmented like an insect's, drags across the floorboards.
Crunch.
My breath hitches. I force my lungs to steady. In the silence of my own mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like my brother's whispers: "If you can't run, be still. If you can't be still, be the fighter who survives."
But I am no fighter, nor a survived. I am prey.
I slowly begin to slide my hand into my inner pocket. My fingers brush against a small vial of salt—a habit from previous cases, a superstition I never truly believed in until the world turned sideways.
Is this it? Is this the end my life?
To die in a forgotten house of God while I have no idea... What happened to [him].
The thought brings a bitter taste to my mouth.
I won't die, I can't die. Not until I know what happened!
Suddenly, the air behind me doesn't just feel cold—it feels wrong. The molecular structure of the shadows begins to vibrate.
"I'm telling you, Steve, if he died, I'm never seeing that five spot again. It's the principle of the thing!"
The voice cuts through the cathedral's suffocating dread like a rusted blade. It's loud, obnoxious, and utterly, painfully familiar.
I don't turn around. I can't. My eyes are locked on the skittering horror by the cross, which has now frozen.
Its head, if you could call that pale, multi-eyed bulb a head, swivels toward the sound of Kori's voice.
"Shut it, Lad," a flatter, gravelly tone responds.
"The atmosphere is thin here. You'll attract the Bottom-feeders." Steve flatly exclaimed.
"Already did!" Kori chirps.
A roar erupts from the center of the cathedral. The creature lunges, its form unfolding into a nightmare of barbed wire and translucent flesh. I squeeze the lighter, the heat of the flame burning my thumb, but I don't let go. I can't be in the dark. Not again.
A gust of frost sweeps past my pillar, turning the putrid air into shimmering crystals of ice.
VROOOOM—!
The roar of a chainsaw engine rips the silence into bloody confetti. The darkness is suddenly illuminated by the sparks of metal grinding against supernatural bone.
"GARFIELD!" Kori's voice bellows over the mechanical scream. "Don't you dare go into the light yet! You still owe me for that sandwich in '92!"
I slide down the pillar, my legs finally giving out as the adrenaline crashes. Through the chaos of sparks and shadows, I see them. Kori, looking entirely too comfortable in a place of death, and the skeletal silhouette of Steve, moving and observing the creature, intently as if it's something that shouldn't possibly exist.
I stare at the flickering ember of my lighter.
"I'm going to double the interest on that five dollars, Kori," I wheeze, my voice cracking.
"That's the spirit!" Kori shouts, burying the chainsaw into the creature's thorax with a sickening squelch. "He's alive, Steve! The debt lives!"
I close my eyes for just a second. The smell of rot is replaced by the sharp, ozone scent of Steve's presence and the pungent fumes of chainsaw gasoline.
I'm still trapped. I'm still terrified. But at least the silence is gone for now.