Drip…
Plink… plink-plink.
"What… tha—?"
The rhythm of an unsettling footstep cut the cold air.
"Tap… tap-tap-tap."
Again and again.
An eye pierced the darkness, cold and unblinking, as emptiness whispered its secrets.It roamed the chamber, tracing the shadows until it fell upon the altar.
The symbol was drawn upon the stone, like the ruinous setting of a broken talisman.
Scattered mortal remains lay strewn as if tossed by some unfeeling hand, and the splintered flesh of what had once been human covered the chamber in a grotesque pattern that made the skin crawl.
At the front, resting atop the altar, lay…
A sundered crucifix leaned against the chancel wall, its severed arms outstretched in mute accusation.
Moving away from the altar to the left, shattered pews stood in obedient rows, their darkened oak polished not by care, but by blood and sorrow.
At the right, the pews stood straight, kept in solemn order, their ranks lined with precision.
The grotesque stench of flesh clung to the air, resting heavily upon the rows of pews.
At the middle of the right side of the pews, Crow Morrow sat hunched,
his head bowed low, one hand pressed against his face as dark strands of hair fell across it. Through the curtain of his
fingers, his eyes flicked across the room, wide and unblinking,
His heart was pounding, uncontrollable. Sweat dripped from his face, sliding down slowly.
His legs moved again and again.
Tap… tap-tap
A sharp twist of pain shot through his head, like a migraine, as his eyes darted around.
He tried to picture the unsettling scene ahead,
but his head remained bowed, stubbornly refusing to look up at the grotesque sight before him.
Then, as his voice dimmed and low,
"Ouch.
"It hurts.. my head".
A harsh strike seemed to hit his head. The
same twisting pain surged through him
again—this time sharper, more piercing, more unbearable.
Raising both hands to his head, he grabbed his hair tighter, clutching it with all his strength.
As the pain grew unbearable, a sharp sound cut through the air.
Crack.
This time, the wave of pain crashed relentlessly, repeating—crack, crack, crack—the muted shattering of bones as flesh twisted uncontrollably.
Madness clawed at him, unyielding and merciless, as bone snapped and flesh contorted,
unstoppable. Crow struggled to make sense of his situation,
still bowing his head, fingers clutching his hair,
gripping tighter, trying desperately to wake from this nightmare.
Moving his body left and right, Crow stood up without even realizing it, shifting the pews beside him in the quiet stillness.
The tearing, twisting, breaking of bones stopped as his heart pounded with the unsettling rhythm of fear, his hands dropping as if they held no life.
Crow Morrow: moved.
His eyes caught a shattered mirror near his feet, stealing his attention.
He gazed down at it.
For a moment, he could not recognize himself in the reflection—the grotesque image staring back at him.
In the blink of an eye, the reflection twisted into something raw and bitter: eyes filled with blood, teeth rusted, a visage he could hardly comprehend. His left leg shifted back without his approval.
Shaking to regain his balance, Crow hurriedly turned away from the altar, moving away from the pews.
He swallowed his spit , moving forward slowly, dragging his right leg.
Every step dragged after the last, guided by the grip of his delusions.
The atmosphere tightened, the air cutting through his skin like a blade.
Crow Morrow dragged himself forward, toward the wardstone door.
Finally nearing the wardstone door, Crow bent slightly, moving carefully past a jagged crack at its corner. Each step followed the last, as if by command.
The air grew tighter, heavier, and his vision blurred.
His body moved without his knowledge, consumed by delusions as the world around him seemed to slowly vanish.
Silence and emptiness stretched ahead, carrying him farther from the grip of the
delusions that had already trapped him.
He passed over the uneven cobblestones, each step echoing faintly in the stillness.
The crimson moon cast its light across the gutter water, painting it in a cold, bloody glow.
Dimmed and hazy, Crow's vision took in every step, each one copying the last, as he passed through ruined and shattered buildings.
Pitiful sights surrounded him without his noticing—beggars huddled at the corners of the cobblestones, abandoned carriages toppled and scattered across the street.
The gas lamps flickered uncontrollably, their flames guttering and dying. At last, he reached a huge building, its walls torn down, its wood old and rusted, rugged and foreboding. His hand moved on its own, pushing the door open.
One foot stepped inside, then the other, as if his body were dragging him forward. He climbed over the threshold, deeper into the darkness of the building.
Reaching the door at the end of the long, decaying corridor, he moved forward, stretching out his hand. Fingers closing around the handle, he pushed it open.
Inside, an oak desk sat in the corner, littered with papers and a brass inkwell.
At the left side of the room,
an old mahogany bed with a carved headboard dominated the corner. Crow turned slowly to face it, each movement deliberate and heavy.
Crow Morrow moved two slow steps closer to the old mahogany bed.
Overcome by exhaustion, his knees hit the ground, and he collapsed sideways onto the bed, sinking into its worn surface.
As if nothing had happened, Crow Morrow was already far gone.
His eyes were closed, his mind numb from the noise and madness — the delusions that had trapped him. He slept,
peaceful in a way that felt deeply unsettling.
A cleansing moon lingered over the space as the fog of night grew thicker and tight. Fragile, raw, and hollow, the air still carried the scent of iron mingled with blood,
drifting through the silence.
Without trembling or stirring, the silence stretched longer, though the hour was still young and unforgiving.
Morning came swiftly. Fog rolled in with it as the sun began to rise. The chatter of fowls broke the stillness,
and birds rang into the pale sky. Light slowly spilled across the world, as if trying to cleanse what had happened in the dark.
Crow murmured blasphemies in his sleep, still lost within his delusions, trapped in sleepless sleep.
He dreamed of nothing and yet slept peacefully, an unsettling calm resting upon him as spit slipped from his lips.
Then, cutting clean through the silence
a footstep.