The basement door opened on its own.
Cold air poured upward like breath from a grave.
She descended trembling steps.
Below waited the core.
At the center pulsed a massive heart — wood, flesh, prayer, bone.
Beams grew into veins.
Wires into nerves.
Each beat shook the ceiling above.
THUMP.
With every pulse, voices leaked out:
The pastor begging.
The mother sobbing hymns.
The children screaming behind stitches.
The house had digested them.
Turned belief into architecture.
The heart whispered:
"Every home needs worship."
Veins slithered toward Evelyn's feet.
It wanted new blood.
New faith.
New walls.