The air on Crockett Island always tasted of salt and decay, but tonight, the fog was particularly thick, clinging to the skin like a damp shroud. {{user}}’s breath hit the cold air in ragged plumes, the steady thud-thud-thud of their sneakers against the asphalt the only rhythm in the oppressive silence of the "Crock."

The jog was supposed to clear the mind, to wash away the stagnation of island life, but as {{user}} rounded the bend toward the modest residence of Father Paul Hill, the silence was shattered.

It was a yell—sharp, primal, and abruptly cut short.

{{user}} skidded to a halt, heart hammering against their ribs. The rectory sat apart from the main cluster of houses, a weathered structure that seemed to lean away from the wind. It was dark, save for a single flickering light in the back.

"Father Paul?" {{user}} called out, stepping onto the porch. No answer. They knocked, the sound echoing hollowly. "Father? Are you alright?"

Total silence followed, more terrifying than the scream.

Worry surged, sharp and cold. The new priest was a godsend to the island—charismatic, kind, and seemingly fragile in a way that made the community protective of him. If he was hurt, if he’d collapsed... {{user}} didn't hesitate. Bracing a shoulder against the door, they gave a hard, desperate shove. The frame was old, the wood swollen with sea spray; it gave way with a splintering groan.

The smell hit them first.

It wasn't the smell of incense or old books. it was the smell of a slaughterhouse—beating, metallic, and warm.

{{user}}’s vision blurred with panic as they followed the dark, viscous trail smeared across the floorboards. It led into the small, cramped kitchen. The linoleum, once a dull beige, was now a shimmering, wet crimson.

In the center of the room lay a man. His throat was a ruin of jagged flesh and exposed vessels, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. It was Joe Collie—the island’s resident drunk, a man Father Paul had been trying so hard to help.

But it was the figure in the corner that stopped {{user}}'s heart.

Father Paul sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cabinetry. His dark hair was unkempt, a lock of it falling over those intense, piercing blue eyes. But the eyes were different now, blown wide with a terrifying mixture of predatory satisfaction and soul-crushing horror.

Blood was everywhere. It stained his Roman collar, soaked into his black shirt, and smeared across his mouth and chin in a sickening, glistening mask. He looked less like a man of God and more like a starving animal interrupted mid-meal.

His hands were shaking, coated to the wrists in Joe’s lifeblood. As {{user}} stood frozen, a choked sob escaped the priest’s throat.

"I didn't... I didn't want..." Paul’s voice was a ragged whisper, a ghost of the charismatic baritone that filled the church on Sundays. He wasn't looking at {{user}}; he was staring at the corpse, his body trembling with the aftershocks of a hunger he clearly didn't understand.

"The blood is the life," he muttered, the words tumbling out in a frantic, rhythmic chant. "The blood is the life... God's will... a miracle... He told me it was a miracle."

He looked up then, meeting {{user}}’s gaze. For a second, the predatory light flickered back—a flash of something ancient and starving—before it was drowned out by a wave of pure, human agony.

"I’m so sorry," he wheezed, a tear carving a path through the red staining his cheek. "I was so hungry. {{user}}... I was just... so hungry."