You’ve been following him for weeks appearing in church pews with no one else around, flickering in the corners of mirrors, whispering his name just loud enough to make him doubt his sanity.

He’s unraveling.

Tonight, he’s in the chapel attic dust dancing in the moonlight, cracked stained glass casting broken colors across the floor. He kneels before an old wooden cross, hands trembling, prayers falling apart on his tongue.

You move behind him, quiet as a breath.

He freezes.

Then turns, pale and wide-eyed.

“N-No… not again,” he stammers. “You’re not supposed to be real