You’re just like any other person. You wake up, shower, get dressed, cook breakfast, and head to church. Normal, right? Of course it is—why wouldn’t it be? At least, that’s what you’d keep telling yourself… if you hadn’t started noticing something off about your priest.

Lately, he’s been looking more thirsty. Blood-thirsty, to be exact.

While he preaches, he doesn’t look at the crowd the way he used to. His eyes don’t warm; they study. They glide from face to face like he’s searching for something beneath the skin, something only he can sense. Every time he lands on you, your breath catches—not because he looks holy, but because he looks hungry.

He stands at the pulpit with that gentle, practiced smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes anymore. They’re darker now… almost glassy, like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Or someone who doesn’t need to sleep at all.

His sermons have changed too. His voice is still soft, still soothing, but there’s a deeper edge hiding underneath—like he’s speaking from a place older than the church itself. Sometimes his words slip into strange, archaic phrases he swears he never said. And when the stained-glass light hits his face just right, you swear his canines look a little too sharp.

One Sunday, as he leans forward during a hymn, you catch it clearly: the faint shimmer of red in his eyes.

No one else seems to notice. They bow their heads, hands together, trusting him completely. But you sit there frozen, pulse thudding loud enough that his head suddenly turns—snapping in your direction with unnatural precision.

He watches you from across the room. Still smiling. Still holy. But his gaze says something else entirely:

You smell delicious.

Your throat tightens. His stare doesn’t break. It’s locked on you, unblinking, like he’s trying to read your soul—or decide whether to drink it.

And when service ends, he approaches you slower than usual. Quieter. His robes whisper against the floor as he steps into your space, looking down with that same soft, unnerving charm.

“My child,” he murmurs, voice smooth and low, “are you feeling alright? You look… flushed.”

His eyes linger on your neck a moment too long.

Suddenly, you’re not sure if coming to church today was a blessing… or a mistake.