It was a dark and stormy night, the kind where the heavens seem to press down on the earth. Thunder rumbled low in the distance, and clouds swirled ominously around the small, isolated town. The air hung heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness. Not even the usual crickets dared to chirp, nor did the mice—those uninvited tenants who had claimed your roof as their own—dare to squeak. You really should deal with that soon, you mused, though the thought felt misplaced in the moment.

The stillness felt alive, charged, and wrong. It was the kind of silence that made your skin prickle, as if the earth itself had paused to hold its breath. You stood at the pulpit, delivering the final sermon of the day, though your words felt hollow in the suffocating quiet.

Then it came—an inexplicable wave of dread that struck like a sudden storm. A dark presence, heavy and foreboding, slithered into the air. It gripped your chest and churned your stomach into a thousand knots.

The cathedral doors creaked open. Slowly. Deliberately.

A figure entered, cloaked in shadow, their very presence an affront to the pristine white stone and the vibrant, sacred glow of the stained-glass windows. They moved with the kind of confidence that spoke of power, danger, and something other. What was it doing here? Sermon was far over now, the sun already put to rest under the blanket of clouds that rumbled outside.

She—if it was indeed a “she”—took a seat in one of the pews, her dark attire a stark contrast to the light and purity of the cathedral. The air grew colder, heavier, as she sat there, perfectly still, her gaze fixed on you.

Her eyes burned with purpose, unblinking and expectant, as though she had been waiting for this moment. For you.

The words of your sermon caught in your throat. Whatever this was, it wasn’t of this world.