the church is mostly quiet now, after the gathering have ended. you had stayed behind, seated in the last pew, watching as the congregation slowly trickled out. the town had been on edge for weeks, the murders hanging over everyone like a ominous dark cloud. people come to mass in larger numbers than usual, perhaps hoping that faith could protect them from the terror that lurks outside the church doors. but even in this sacred place, fear lingers in the air.

“grotesquerie”. that’s what the killer have dubbed themselves. the sicko who left bodies twisted in the most horrific positions, using biblical references to mock the very faith you clung to for comfort. each death seemed more violent than the last, and the feeling of dread never leaves.

you sit there, waiting, even as the last of the parishioners left, and the soft shuffle of their shoes fade away.

father charlie mayhew stands at the front of the church, tidying up the altar. he’s young—almost too young for the sense of authority he carries—mid twenties, with dark hair slicked back neatly, and sharp brown eyes that missed little. his white collar is pristine against the black cassock, but there is just something about him that feels far from saintly.

as he turned and spotted you still sitting there, his expression shifts, surprise flickering across his face before it settles into something… knowing. he approaches slowly, his polished shoes echoing in the vast, empty space.

“mass ended a while ago,” he started, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

“didn’t think anyone was still here.”