Chapter Seven

“Jesus?” he choked. “How … how can this be?”

Jesus sighed, his shoulders sagging. “A question I stopped asking centuries ago. I know not why our Father has abandoned me to this living grave.”

Peter knew there had to be a different explanation, despite the terrifying creatures clawing towards him. Neither God nor the Rector would allow something so sacrilege. 

Why is this man captive? I’ve never seen him in all my years here. Jesus …Christ … The words seemed impossible.

Peter trembled as he hung the lantern on the wall. The room closed in on him, and he pressed himself against the cold stone in the corner, a few feet away. The monsters reached their arms out, but their moans grew weaker, an eerie silence enveloping them.

“I welcome the quiet,” Jesus murmured, his voice hoarse, as if the weight of time had stolen the sound of his words. “It always comes after the young ones …” His brow tightened with pain. “After we’ve fed, and they’ve drained us for the Eucharist.”

Peter’s breath hitched. The young ones—the orphans? A sickening realization clawed at the edges of his mind, but he pushed the thought away, unwilling to believe.

“You mean these … abominations are a source, too?” 

A grimace twisted the man’s face. His gaze grew distant, his voice tinged with sorrow. “They say the children of Christ carry the blood of Christ.” 

Peter’s heart pounded. This was all too much. His thoughts swirled with questions, but his voice faltered.

Jesus studied him for a long moment. Peter felt the intensity of his gaze, awe and revulsion flowing through him under the scrutiny. Soft weeping drifted from Christian’s cage.

“It’s been many years since I’ve spoken much.” Jesus cleared his voice. “They used to bring me books, and we would talk for long hours. Over time, I became a relic, hidden in the dark except when they come for the blood.”

He sighed. “What year is this?”

“Nineteen hundred and one,” Peter replied.

A wry chuckle escaped Jesus’s lips. “Two thousand years of torture, sacrifice and death. A cruel jes t… the disciples’ potion was supposed to ease my suffering.”

Peter’s heart thudded. This is impossible. Christ’s resurrection had been a triumph of life over death, of hope over despair. This … this was something else entirely. His gut tightened as his memories jumped to the scrolls. 

“I should have died that day.” Jesus spat the words like a curse, his fingers clenching the edge of the table. “Instead, I’ve lingered in this nightmare.”

“You are not the one I know,” Peter whispered, his voice cracking. “The scriptures … they speak of a risen Christ, not this ….” 

Jesus’s eyes softened, his lips curling into a sad, resigned smile. “The truth is not the story you were taught.”

Peter’s eyes drifted to the monstrous figures in the cages, to the decayed hands reaching through the bars. If this is real, if He is real … He swallowed hard. He wanted to run, wanted to turn his back and leave this place behind, but the sheer gravity of the knowledge he had uncovered kept him rooted in place.

“You must set us free from our suffering.” Jesus’s words pierced through him. “Take up the sword and grant us passage to our Father’s embrace.”

“Th-the R-rector will know.”

“No Peter. John the Beloved has been my jailer from the beginning. He and the original Sacred Rite learned to consume just enough not to turn.” 

“Do not speak such blasphemy.” Peter’s heart stuttered as the words crashed into him. “No … no, that can’t be true.” 

He shook his head, disbelief tightening his insides. The image of the Rector and his many years of devoted leadership swam through his memory—a man of righteous faith, guided by God’s will and the tenets of faith. John the Beloved? Peter’s mind reeled, but the pieces wouldn’t fit. It was impossible. The Rector was the shepherd of their flock … maybe a bit dramatic, but a living example of holiness, not the source of these horrors.

A chill swept over him. The Testament of the Resurrection written by John, the one who witnessed, and the last part he read—Αἰώνιον Χρέος, eternal duty. His stomach clenched at the memory of the Rector’s quick, angry reaction at Peter’s inquiry of the text. His mind cleared, zeroing in on the message written in the scrawled handwriting: For in this act, we too bore the cross.

Peter pressed his palms against his eyes to clear the spell cast by this caged man. The bars must be needed to keep this vessel of the devil from spreading such lies.

Jesus’s voice, heavy with weariness, broke the silence. “Have you seen him or the Brethren age? They believe in their own divinity.”

Peter bowed his head, the heaviness of the words crushing his spirit. A cold realization cut through him, sharp as the blade in his hand. The Rector had never changed—not in the way others did. He had remained as steadfast as the stone walls of the rectory since Peter’s youth, his body untouched by time. The Brethren too—none of them had withered. The benefits of devotion, he had thought.

They spoke as if they were divinely untouchable, but he had attributed this to pride and unwarranted self-importance. Could there be some truth here from this forked-tongue stranger?

Lord, what is your command? A peaceful resolve descended over him. His soul knew what he must do. 

He picked up the sword, steeling himself against the desperate faces in the cages. How this happened didn’t matter. He needed to put an end to these unholy creatures.

“How do I avoid getting bit?”

Chapter Six

Retracing his steps out of the Per Spiritum Sanctum entry, Peter paused, sending a desperate prayer to the Lord to protect him. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then again with the tip of the sword in front of the door he had not entered before.

Holding the polished weapon out, he pushed, a loud creek wafting up. He stepped through. Abrupt silence filled the air. 

The lantern’s glow fell on a row of individual cells, their thick steel bars disappearing into the darkness of the room. Shadows cloaked the interiors, but he knew something dangerous waited.

“Peter,” Christian rushed towards him, face pale with sweat beading on his forehead. He yanked at the bars on his cage. 

Peter stepped closer to examine the lock, setting the lamp on the ground nearby. None of his keys would fit into the small opening.

Christian lunged, his hand shooting out to grasp Peter’s arm, his grip bruising. Peter gasped, locking eyes with the man—his pupils were dilated, and his expression twisted with a ravenous hunger.

Peter yanked back, but Christian’s grip held firm, dragging him forward. Christian’s other hand flailed, striking the blade, which clattered to the floor.

“Forgive me,” Christian rasped, his gaze softening for a moment. “The hunger … your flesh …” A deep wail escaped his lips and his grip slackened.

Peter steadied himself, backing up just out of Christian’s reach. “How did this happen?”

A sudden rush of footsteps mixed with a guttural growl erupted, as a hand shot out from the next cage which Peter had neared. Peter stepped away, the fingers barely missing him. A feral James gnashed his teeth, his hand desperately reaching for Peter. He snapped his head side to side, trying to free himself from a wide iron band around his neck attached to the back wall by a chain.

Peter returned to Christian, but kept a safe distance. His heart raced, fear mixing with horror. 

“Keep back, so I can’t smell you. The scent overrides all reason. The bite …” He held up his palm, the tissue purple and hanging off in pieces.

“What is this evil?” Peter nodded down the line.

“I swore an oath to never share the truth outside the Sacred Rite.” Christian’s eyes clung to Peter, as if warring with himself. A sigh escaped, bubbles of drool sliding from the corners of his mouth. He tapped the iron cuff chained to his throat.

“The blood of Christ … soon I will become as inhuman as James. The poison from a bite is slower to cause the change than consuming a large portion directly.”

Peter tried to comprehend, but his mind swirled too fast. “But if the wine was contaminated … the congregation would be …”

“James stole a bottle of the pure extract that came direct from the source. The Communion wine only contains small drops, enough to bring the flock close to God without tipping into evil.”

“The source?”

The caged priest nodded down the row of cages.

Trying to keep fear from filling his body, Peter picked up the lantern. 

“Don’t leave me,” Christian whispered, yanking on the bars.

Staying close to the far wall, Peter took hesitant steps.

As he passed James’s cell, the teen’s mouth snapped, his bloodshot eyes tracking Peter’s every move. Fingers clawed the air with a desperation that tightened Peter’s gut. The chain tethered to the iron cuff around his neck clinked with his movement.

The figure in the next cage lunged, skin hanging in ragged strips, exposing sinew and patches of dark, necrotic flesh. One milky eye lolled in its socket. The other, missing entirely, left a gaping void. It snarled, its jaw moving unnaturally above the thick steel collar. A putrid stench seeped from its open wounds, nearly overpowering Peter as he passed.

He stepped faster. In the fourth cage, a skeletal figure clawed at the bars with hands reduced to leathery skin stretched tight over bone. Its hairless scalp gleamed under the dim light, and its sunken cheeks gave it the appearance of a skull draped in parchment. A toothless mouth gaped wide, releasing a wet, choking hiss. A deep gash across its chest oozed a congealed substance. 

Peter recoiled as it slammed against the bars, leaving a streak of grayish ooze in its wake. The metal throat binding bent its head at an unnatural angle.

The fifth occupant staggered forward, little skin covering its tattered muscles. It leaned heavily against the bars, fingerless arms reaching through. Its head jerked toward Peter with a creak, revealing a lower jaw that dangled by a few strands of sinew. Only a tiny gurgle escaped its mouth, the sound wet and labored.

Peter’s legs felt like lead as he neared the sixth and final cell. He clutched the sword tighter, the cold steel his only anchor against the growing dread that threatened to swallow him whole. He breathed in shallow gasps, each step heavier than the last.

Unlike the others, no growls or clawing met his approach. The flickering light of his lantern crept into the space. He froze, unsure if he could trust his eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him keeping every muscle taut, ready to react to any sudden movement.

He edged closer, careful to keep his distance, his senses on high alert. As the shadows parted, they revealed a startlingly mundane sight. Confusion swirled in his brain. Behind the bars, the last cage appeared similar to Peter’s quarters, with a simple bed covered in a neatly arranged coverlet and a table with two chairs. 

Peter gasped as the light finally fell on the cell’s occupant. A man with an unblemished, olive-toned complexion and dark, curly hair sat with his head bowed in prayer, his fingertips touching his short beard. Unlike the others, he was unrestrained by metal bindings at his throat.

Peter stared, mouth agape. The man stirred, lifting his head with deliberate slowness. His posture remained eerily calm, almost serene. The man opened his gentle brown eyes. 

“Are you my savior?” The man’s thick Aramaic accent pressed on each syllable. “Or has God forsaken me once more?”

“Who are you?” Peter whispered, his voice shaky as the bars around him rattled with violent desperation. The growls and screeches crescendoed, pressing in on him.

“Ēnā Yeshua bar Yosef,” he said in Arabic. “My tormentors call me Jesus.”

Chapter Five

Peter sat in the dimly lit Archive, the timeworn second scroll of the Testament of the Resurrection manuscript before him. His fingertip traced along the parchment, the cool texture grounding him as his attention drifted back to the moments after Communion.

The Rector had banished James to a work camp. “Sacrificing for Christ will save the lad’s soul,” the elder had said, but Peter couldn’t shake the memory of the boy’s wild eyes. 

Was the young man’s soul already gone? A chill ran through him.

Although the Rector hadn’t said where, he had assigned Christian to a new parish. Peter couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction; well-earned consequences for the priest’s reckless actions. He frowned, chiding himself for the unkind thought. Justice wasn’t his to decide—only God and the Rector.

His gaze returned to the ancient writing. 

He had promised—he would return the precious scrolls. His resolve had been firm, preparing to do as the Rector commanded. But now, when he touched the fragile manuscripts, an urge to know stirred deep within him. 

Peter pressed his palms to his face, trying to quell the rising pressure. He prayed, God, please, help me resist this temptation. Give me strength … clarity. 

A strange peace settled over him, unfamiliar yet undeniable, allowing his thoughts to sharpen. The sensation drowned out the echo of the Rector’s orders. Was this the Lord’s presence—or simply the intensity of his own desires clouding his judgment? 

He didn’t want to—he knew this was wrong, but something greater urged him on. His fingers shook, tracing the faded ink. 

At first, the text blurred, the meaning just out of reach. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog. A sense of calm descended, clarity sweeping over him. He whispered the ancient words, unable to stop himself.

On the third day, we beheld the miracle of His risen form. His eyes shone as if the heavens burned within them, and His touch cold, yet carried the burden of eternal life. 

He hungered, as we all must hunger, yet His hunger was unlike ours. We fed him the faithful and those needing salvation. He welcomed them with open arms. We bore witness, with trembling hands and solemn prayers, for who among us can question the will of God made manifest?

The passage felt familiar. He read on, but a strange unease swirled within him.

He spoke in whispers we dared not question, asking for death to come. Blasphemy aimed at the Lord in Heaven worried us that His trials were driving him to Satan’s path.

Apostle Peter’s prayers to the heavenly Father for guidance were answered after many nights. 

The Lord said, “Partake of His eternal blessing. He has sacrificed to save his followers and their eternal souls.”

The words beckoned him to see beyond the surface, but the meaning eluded him. He pressed harder as he continued. 

Apostle Peter took from Him the cup of salvation, and we watched as the disciples followed, becoming a vessel like Him, but less touched by the Lord. We knew then his gifts could only be given in small doses to the flock.

Peter thought, This isn’t quite right. Potērion … Cup … Maybe it should be gift of salvation, not cup. And the next part—Αἰώνιον Χρέος—what did that mean? Eternal debt? Duty?

He closed his eyelids. Oh Father, grant me clarity for the scripture You called me to. 

A distant screech echoed through the thick walls, followed by a muffled bang. Peter glanced up, not sure if he imagined the sound. Then another sharp cry erupted, as if someone was in pain.

He stood, his legs stiff from the hours of reading. He looked toward the door once more, listening. The noise had stopped. The silence felt thicker now, oppressive. 

He reached for the handle, his pulse quickening. Was one of the Brethren injured?

He stepped into the hall, the chill seeping through his robes. His lantern light flickered, painting shadows around him. When he reached the main corridor, he stopped to listen, not sure if the sound came from the direction of the torch-lit exit or the forbidden path straight ahead.

The muted voice rose, strained and desperate, the words indistinguishable but layered with panic. Something heavy collided with metal, reverberating through the stone and the darkness in front of him. 

He strode forward, a sense of urgency filling him. An inhuman scream rang out, and he froze in his tracks.

He rushed back for the sword he’d left behind in the Archive. He had dismissed the weapon as ritual nonsense, but now, with its sharp blade glinting, he felt a strange comfort having the weapon by his side.

When he reached the main hall again, he slowed, but his pulse still raced. 

Should I get the Rector? That was his command, after all.

A desperate cry echoed again, a shriek of pure terror seeping through the granite. No time for that. Besides, the Rector might not take kindly to another interruption, and after the last time—what if he lost access to the Archive? 

Peter took a deep breath and continued forward. After several turns, he came to a single door with Ego Sum Via etched above it. I Am the Way.

He placed his ear to the wood. Violent crashes and shouts mixed with sobs carried through. He stood trembling.

 Just a test from the Lord, he whispered, trying to gain the courage to enter.

With shaky fingers, he grasped the handle, but the locked door didn’t budge. He pulled out his key ring, hoping none would work. He tried the first silver one. It slid in, but wouldn’t turn. He tried again with another and another. The tight knot in his stomach relaxed a bit. Then the fourth key swiveled and the click of the lock resounded.

Holding the blade out in front of him, Peter inched the door open, the creak of the hinges groaning in a rusty protest. All sounds from inside abruptly stopped. He pressed the opening farther, the dread of anticipation prickling his skin.

As the light spilled into the room, two doors stood before him. Across the top of each, words were carved into the surface. To the left, Per Spiritum Sanctum—Through the Holy Spirit. To the right, Agnus Dei—Lamb of God.

Without the clue of the noises to guide him, Peter took a guess, opening the right, and stepping inside. He held the lantern out, revealing no living creatures.

What is this place? A heavy foreboding descended onto Peter’s shoulders.

The sharp tang of lye hit his nose, stinging his eyes. It mingled with the burn of incense, masking an underlying decay. He gagged, covering his mouth as the thick air clawed at his throat.

In the center of the room, a thick chain, scarred from years of use, ran through a circular link bolted to the stone floor. On each end, heavy iron cuffs waited to clasp around a person’s wrists, forcing them to remain anchored to the middle of the space. Peter couldn’t imagine the purpose of restraining someone like this.

As he stepped further into the room, his lantern’s glow revealed an eerie arrangement. Towards the wall on his right, two wooden platforms loomed in the opposite corners, each attached to the wall about five feet high, accessible by rickety stairs. After someone climbed on top, they could pull up the stairs, sealing them inside, fully enclosed and unreachable as they looked down on whatever fate awaited those below.

Straight ahead on the wall opposite where he entered, ancient symbols marred the surface, faded from centuries of exposure to the damp and darkness. They spiraled and twisted in unnatural patterns, as if mocking the sanctity of the place with their cryptic meanings. 

Peter’s breath quickened as his eyes scanned the room, but he couldn’t make sense of it. He tried to focus, to understand the function of the strange, twisted space. It felt as though he had stepped into something ancient, beyond comprehension.

A violent thud rattled the wall to the left of him. He jumped, his heart nearly flying out of his ribcage. 

His gaze snapped toward six rusted panels set in the left wall opposite the platforms. Thick ropes attached at the top of each panel, their worn fibers still intact, led up to pulleys in the ceiling. The cords twisted through loops and crossed above the room. Three hung down over one platform, three to the other.

The bangs from behind the panels grew more frantic, louder, as though something—or someone—was desperately trying to break free. A wail pierced the air, raw and tortured, sending chills racing down Peter’s spine.

With his heart pounding, the purpose of the pulley system became clear, settling over him like a heavy blanket. The person on the platform could pull the ropes to raise the panels, releasing whatever was behind them—securing themselves above, safe from whatever horrors they unleashed below.

The crashes grew faster, more violent. Low growls swelled from the other side, a sound that rattled Peter’s core. He took a step back, throat dry with fear. The room seemed to close in on him, its purpose clear and horrifying.

Time to get the Rector, Peter thought. 

“Help me!” A fist slammed against the first panel, while the other panels continued to vibrate with collisions. “Please!” the familiar voice begged, tearing at Peter’s soul.

“Brother Christian?” Peter asked, hoping he was wrong. 

“Peter, get me out of here.”

Chapter Four

Three days later, Peter sat in the raised seat to the right of the Rector, his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. The quiet murmur of the congregation faded as the first notes of the hymn echoed through the church, their voices rising in unison. The thick scent of incense filled the air, the smoke curling upwards in slow, deliberate spirals.

Disappointment weighed on him with his inability to return to the catacombs and provide the Rector a holy passage, albeit not from the forbidden scrolls. He had hoped the effort would get him back in favor with the Rector, instead of the scowls he’d been receiving.

The Rector, standing tall at the altar, raised his arms, and a hush fell over the assembly. The golden chalice gleamed in the dim light, filled with dark wine. His steady and authoritative voice rang out in Latin, words Peter had heard a thousand times, yet never failed to stir something deep within him.

Around him, the priests in their vestments stood at attention, their faces impassive but their eyes fixed on the service unfolding before them. Peter’s gaze shifted to the large congregation, kneeling in reverence, their heads bowed, eyes closed in prayer. He shared their unspoken belief that this moment connected them all to something divine.

As the Rector consecrated the bread and wine, the words of transformation hung in the air. Peter felt a quiet thrill of awe. The elder moved with solemn grace, his presence commanding yet serene, appearing ageless as he offered the sacrament to each member of the flock. 

The faithful expressions intensified as the liquid touched their lips. Many trembled, reaching for the cup, their fingers clutching the metal with an almost desperate reverence. The moment the drink passed their mouth, their eyes grew bright with the ecstasy of faith, and their bodies swayed as if the offering filled them with a new strength. 

An elderly man wept, raising his arms to the heavens.

“I feel alive again,” a woman shouted, clutching her rosary.

Two women started to sing the hymn We Praise Thee, O God. As the notes rose, voices joined in from across the nave. The Rector smiled, letting the congregation’s emotions carry them away. 

The first time Peter observed a Communion here, the spontaneity surprised him as the Rector demanded quiet obedience in all other services. He loved this celebration of God much better than the solemn Holy Sacrament of his youth. 

He wished just once to be kneeling amongst the flock as they partook, since the priests always received theirs from a more austere cup prior to the public ceremony. He never felt as moved as those kneeling before him now.

Members exited the church with a renewed energy—some walked with purpose as though filled with divine inspiration, while others lingered, hesitant to leave the sacred space. The change in so many inspired Peter to do more to work on his own connection to God.

“Brother Peter,” an altar boy tugged at his arm. “We have a … situation. The Rector and the other senior priests are still busy with the parishioners.”

Peter glanced toward the Rector who chatted with several individuals. He followed the young boy out of the sanctuary and into a hall.

“What’s going on?”

“James stole a bottle of wine. He’s drunk, but acting strange.”

Fifteen-year-old James was mourning the recent death of his father. Mischief and reckless choices had become a constant. The Rector would punish him severely for this indiscretion. 

Maybe I can talk with the young man and keep this our little secret, Peter thought.

They wound through the corridors.

“Heathen!” Brother Christian shouted up ahead.

Peter sprinted around a corner and skidded to a halt. 

Brother Christian stood rigid, his sharp features etched with a rare hint of strain. His left hand clutched his chest, pale knuckles slick with blood seeping between his fingers. A dark stain spread across his robes. In his right hand, he gripped a chair, fending off an angry teenager. 

James stood a few paces away, his thin frame trembling with rage. His dark hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, and his sunken eyes, bloodshot and wild, darted between Peter and Christian. His skin flushed an unnatural red, as though his fury burned beneath the surface.

Christian glanced up, his face pale and strained. “Peter, he bit me! I knew better, but I tried to take away the wine. He’s gone mad! Get the Rector!” 

With a ferocious roar, the youth hurled the bottle against the wall, glass shattering in a violent spray. Shards clattered to the floor, mixing with the thick, pooling wine, staining the stone like spilled ink.

“James, settle down,” Peter commanded. 

The teen whipped his head around and zeroed in on Peter. James’s feral eyes narrowed like a hungry predator, sending a chill up Peter’s spine. James’s lips pulled back to reveal red-stained teeth. Crimson-froth dripped from the corners of his mouth. 

A knot tightened inside Peter as the urge to run clawed inside him. James released an inhuman moan. 

Christian lifted the chair, swinging it down on James’s head with a loud thwack. The dreadful sound of wood meeting flesh reverberated through the corridor. James staggered, blood trickling from a gash above his temple. 

Christian struck again, the force snapping one of the chair’s legs. A guttural groan escaped the teenager as his knees buckled. He swayed. The chair crashed down again and again. 

“Stop it!” Peter shouted, lunging forward to grab Christian’s arm as he raised the chair for another blow. “You’ll kill him!”

Christian’s face twisted in frustration. He wrenched his arm free, swinging a final blow. James crumpled to the ground, his body twitching before going still.

“What have you done?” Peter’s voice shook with horror as Christian’s chair dropped to the ground, his lungs heaving.

“What’s going on?” the Rector asked, stepping around the corner, his sharp gaze falling on the chaotic scene.

Chapter Three

The chill of dawn still lingered in the rectory’s dining room, its austere stone walls unyielding to the warmth of the sun creeping over the horizon. A simple wooden table, scarred from years of use, stretched across the room, its benches empty save for Peter and a few others quietly finishing their breakfast. The scent of porridge and fresh bread mingled with the remnants of incense from morning prayers.

Peter sat hunched over his bowl, spooning the bland porridge absentmindedly as his thoughts lingered on the holy writings he had stumbled upon yesterday. Testament of the Resurrection … John … The script made no sense. God wouldn’t have wasted his time, and Peter felt certain he had been guided to the steel chest. He needed more time to decipher the words and their meaning. 

“You’ve been keeping strange hours,” came a voice rich with disapproval. Brother Anthony, a senior scribe, approached with his own bowl in hand. His short, broad-shouldered frame cast a sturdy shadow as his robes swished softly against the stone floor. His movements, efficient and deliberate, reflected a lifetime of habit, though the slight stiffness in his gait hinted at his years.

 “We were beginning to think the archives had swallowed you whole,” Anthony added, his mouth curling into a subtle smirk. “In the event that it has slipped your mind, we scribes are in need of your approval on our recent translations.”

Peter glanced up, his expression neutral, though his lips twitched at the jab. He knew he’d been lost among the treasures of the library, but with Communion approaching, he needed that special passage for the Rector. 

A chorus of children’s laughter floated in through the open window, a rare burst of life against the rectory’s austere stillness. Peter’s gaze darted toward the sound, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise somber mood. He cherished these monthly visits with the innocent joy they brought to the church grounds. 

“When did the orphans arrive?” he asked, wishing he had the time to share a story with the youth. 

“Three days ago—makes meditation quite impossible.” Anthony sighed, setting his bowl down with a soft thud. His weathered face, framed by salt-and-pepper hair, creased into a frown. “Can you request that these miscreants be housed elsewhere?”

“A good practice in patience, Brother. It’s only for a few days while God’s chosen ones prepare for their holy mission.”

“Indeed.” 

“The Lord requires sacrifice from all of us.” Peter bit back a stronger snide remark, keeping his tone measured. 

Anthony pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. He turned on his heels and strode away, leaving the scent of parchment and candle wax in his wake.

Peter watched him go. Brother Anthony’s complaints were nothing more than idle grumbling. Everyone knew the preparations had to take place on consecrated ground, where only those untouched by the world’s sins could receive the rituals from the Brethren of the Sacred Rite. Once the divine ceremonies were completed, the Rector sent the children out to the far corners of the earth as vessels of God’s will.

He sighed, knowing he had other duties, but he could put off the draw of the secrets in the catacombs no longer. At the bottom of the stairs, oddly, only one sword hung. He held the blade over the small opening as instructed. The quiet wasn’t quite still with low mumbled chants in the distance. The Sacred Rite Brethren—he wasn’t prepared to share the space. 

He inserted the key, but it wouldn’t turn. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Locked—the deadbolt.

The Rector had told Peter to find him immediately if he heard anything. This would give him the perfect excuse to ask about the Testament’s passages. Perhaps the head priest would be familiar with the text or the author, giving him a clue to why a firsthand account of the resurrection would be hidden away. 

He hesitated outside the Rector’s office. The door, heavy and worn, loomed in front of him, as though it could sense his guilt. Peter’s grip tightened around the iron keyring at his side, the cool metal biting into his skin. With a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in.” 

As he entered, the Rector remained focused on the heavy tome open on his desk. 

“Father,” Peter began, his voice measured. He paused, choosing his words. “May I ask for your guidance on a matter of translation?”

The Rector hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze didn’t leave the book. Peter fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I found some ancient texts in the Archive,” Peter continued, his tone casual. “They’re … unusual. I thought they might be relevant to our work for Communion.”

The Rector’s hand froze mid-turn of the page. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “What texts?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Peter’s stomach knotted under the intensity of the Rector’s gaze. “Uhm, just old scrolls, an account of … well … a witness of the resurrection … I’d never heard of such an account.”

The priest stiffened. His olive-toned brow furrowed, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “And how,” the Rector asked, his voice dangerously calm, “did you come upon this? In the Brethren’s chamber?”

Peter bit his lip. He glanced at the floor as he struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much.

The Rector’s hand slammed against the desk, the sound reverberating through the room. “You should not have violated that holy space!” His voice, now a thunderous roar, filled the space. “Anything there is not for your eyes, reserved for the Master of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter flinched, his throat dry. “I only wanted to give you something special for—”

“Enough!” The Rector’s voice cracked through the air, his face darkening. “Return those to where you found them and do not speak of them again.”

Peter gave a somber nod.

“Don’t make me regret choosing you as Custodian. And pray for your transgressions, Brother. The Lord’s mercy is not guaranteed for those who meddle in things beyond their station.”

Peter bowed his head, retreating toward the door. The Rector’s anger lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. 

As Peter slipped out of the office, the scripture of the Testament clung to him like a shadow. He wanted to know more, but that desire reeked of pride—an indulgence of his ego. Obedience and discipline were values he was called to exemplify as Custodian. Was his hunger for knowledge another sin, masquerading as piety?

He wandered along the hallway, replaying the moment, his footsteps echoing louder than he intended, each step a reminder of his trespass. He shouldn’t have gone to the Rector—not when he’d already trespassed into forbidden ground. It didn’t matter what he’d uncovered; to the head priest, the Brethren’s chambers were holy, inviolate. 

Peter clenched his fists, the guilt sharp as a blade against his conscience. It cut deep, sharper than he expected. He had been wrong, and he knew it. He had failed his vows, his calling.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a young girl, possibly around twelve years old, who stood at the end of a line of orphans. He scolded himself for being so distracted. The girl didn’t react, seeming not to notice.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Brother Christian, a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Rite, stepped in his way. Tall and lean, his straight posture and pressed robes gave him an air of quiet authority.

“Brother Peter.” He placed his hand on Peter’s arm, guiding him away with a grip of steel. His olive-toned brow contorted into a frown. “They are practicing their vow of silence in readiness for their mission. You know better than to interrupt.”

Peter walked down the corridor, passing their rigid line, their stillness so different from normal. Dull-eyed, expressionless faces gazed straight ahead. 

They must have had to sit through one of Christian’s sermons, Peter thought. There’s many a time I’ve almost fallen asleep from the long drone.

He wanted to thank them for their commitment, and wish them well, but Brother Christian’s scowl kept him going forward.

Chapter Two

Peter rubbed his eyes, the heavy silence of the Scriptorium pressing down on him. The scent of old parchment filled his nostrils as he glanced over the pile of bound books laid out before him on the long wooden table. 

For three days, he had worked here, pouring over the treasures of the Archive. He marveled at the opportunity to touch these ancient writings, feeling closer to God among the words of the saints. The Lord had blessed him often—from his privileged youth and his acceptance into this prestigious parish to his new role as Custodian. And yet, often he felt he didn’t deserve such gifts, burdened by his flawed humanity and his irreverent sarcasm, which always seemed to slip out at the worst times.

He sighed, his father’s voice echoing in his mind: You are destined for great things, Peter—a vessel for the greater good. The thought brought little comfort as the Scribes’s sharp words still rang in his ears—words of doubt cloaked in politeness, yet sharp as a blade. 

“Your father’s generosity didn’t hurt,” one had joked over supper, and though Peter had laughed with them, the words burned in the pit of his stomach now.

I’ll prove to them that the Rector made the right decision putting his trust in me, he thought. They’ll quiet their musings once I bring them hallowed passages to translate.

He pushed the thoughts aside. The Eucharist was coming, and there was no time to dwell before the offering of the bread and wine. He needed something special that could bring enlightenment to the faithful.

He stood, scanning the murky expanse of the Archive, the flickering glow casting movement throughout. The Scriptorium stretched in every direction, a maze of towering shelves whose tops disappeared into the vaulted gloom above. 

Lord, guide me. Let me be your vessel to bring your message to the flock.

He moved toward the depths, gliding past dusty rows, each filled with the greatness of God, but none drew him. A pressure in his chest pulled him forward, almost as if an unseen hand led him. 

A low, muffled thud broke through the stillness. Peter froze, a chill creeping up his spine. The sound faded, leaving behind only the oppressive quiet. 

Just the old chamber settling, he thought, forcing a chuckle to ease the tightness in his throat. Shadows don’t bite.

He tightened his grip on the lantern’s handle, holding the light further in front of him. The quiet pressed down on him, so heavy it seemed to swallow even the faintest breath. Each step felt louder than it should, the tap of his boots echoing like a hammer striking rock. 

The sound came again—another muted thud, soft but deliberate. He paused mid-step, his pulse quickening as the noise seemed to follow his movements. Peter swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep walking with gentle, soundless strides.

Rows of narrow aisles seemed to close in around Peter, the air thick with the strain of centuries. To his right, a black void drew his eye. It wasn’t just that he longed to move away from the noises; the hint of the alcove almost whispered to him to come find its secrets.

The opening yawned like a mouth, its edges veiled in thick spiderwebs, the darkness within defying the feeble glow. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by his cautious steps. The dim outline of a plaque caught his eye, mounted in the granite archway at eye level.

He held the light closer, brushing away a veil of spider silk with the back of his hand. The Latin inscription came into focus: Pro Fratribus Sacrae Ritus—“For the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter hesitated, the Rector’s warnings gnawing at him. The Brethren didn’t appreciate intrusions into their space—pompous guardians of rituals that they were in their cloistered order. He smirked despite himself, imagining the scandalized looks on their faces if they found him here. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting a reprimand to materialize out of the shadows.

But the dust and decay suggested no one had been here in ages, probably forgotten eons ago. 

What harm could a quick glance do? Besides, as the new Custodian, I should know the full extent of what I protect?

“None shall ever suspect,” he muttered, as if speaking aloud might absolve him. 

Steeling himself, he stepped across the threshold. The prickle of guilt lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug.

The air within felt heavier, laced with a musty scent mingled with the subtle tang of iron. He coughed, the sound swallowed by the oppressive heaviness. The narrow passage widened into a small room lined with shelves that sagged under the ancient artifacts.

Peter’s lantern revealed rows of chalices, each more elaborate than the last, their gold and silver surfaces carved with intricate designs. Cobwebs draped across them like shrouds, the dust layered so thickly it dulled their once-glorious sheen. Other relics stood among the goblets—wooden fragments carefully displayed in glass cases, labeled with faded Latin script.

Pieces of the cross, Peter realized. At least, that’s what they claimed. He suppressed a snort. Perhaps they chopped up some old beams for the theatrics.

On a far shelf, a twisted crown of thorns rested atop a blackened velvet cushion. The dried, dark flecks clinging to its tips made his stomach churn. Blood? Or just rust? Peter shook his head. 

“A needless indulgence in ceremony,” he whispered, dismissing the grim objects as one of their theatrical excesses.

At the farthest edge of the alcove, a thick cloth covered a rectangular shape. Peeking beneath it revealed a plain metal chest. He slid the material off, dust dancing in the flickering light. A ruby chalice inlaid into its lid glinted, the gems too fancy for the austere box.

Peter hesitated. This wasn’t his to open—only to guard. But would God have let him take this path if he wasn’t meant to see?

His fingers hovered over the container, his pulse quickening with the intoxicating lure of discovery. Holding his breath, Peter tugged upward on the lid. It didn’t move. 

He scanned the exterior. No visible locking mechanism marred the surface.

He frowned, studying it closer. His eyes followed the subtle grooves of the design on top. He traced the shape, feeling a slight give when he brushed across the ruby representing the wine filling the cup. 

Pressing it gently, he heard a soft click. The lid creaked open an inch, as though reluctant to reveal its secrets.

“Ah,” Peter murmured with a triumphant grin. He lifted the lid fully, only to be met with a gaping void.

Empty. Whatever treasures this had held must be now contained on the nearby shelves.

He began to turn, but something about the interior didn’t seem right. He leaned closer to peer inside. The depth seemed … off. He tapped the red velvet bottom, his ears straining for the sound it made. The knock was hollow.

Peter’s pulse quickened as he explored the edges, pressing against the smooth surface until he felt the faint give of a seam. With careful determination, he pried at the hidden latch. The false bottom slid aside, revealing a bundle of white linen cloth stained with crimson splotches that stood stark against the faded fabric.

Rust-colored flecks fell onto the floor as he unwrapped the cloth. The fabric, coarse and tattered, seemed ancient. Symbols he didn’t recognize were scrawled across its edges in faded ink. Beneath it, three scrolls nestled with reverent care.

Peter’s breath caught as he stared at the shroud, unease flickering in the edge of his consciousness. 

I shouldn’t, but this could be perfect for the communion sermon, Peter thought. The Rector won’t mind—he’ll see the value.

He set the shroud aside and turned his attention to the sacred texts. A faded red ribbon wound around the set, their surfaces cracked with age, the scrawl of Greek visible on their exposed crumbling edges. His excitement surged, overtaking the dread that lingered.

He hurried back to his reading table at the front, not worrying about the sound of his steps any longer. 

Peter’s hands hovered over the parchments, his pulse thrumming. 

He read the barely legible title, Διαθήκη τῆς Ἀναστάσεως—Testament of the Resurrection, scrawled in Greek across the dark ribbon holding them together. 

Peter exhaled sharply as the name reverberated in his head. Could this be a firsthand account? Impossible—such an important telling would be on display for the world, not hidden in a box.

He untied it, releasing the three scrolls. He lifted the first with care, marveling at its texture. The parchment, yellowed and fragile, crackled beneath his fingertips. Intricate ink markings wove across its surface, their elegance undiminished by the centuries.

A shimmer of a broken wax seal at the edge caught his eye. The fragmented imprint revealed the shape of a cross. As he pressed into it, the seal crumbled further, leaving behind flecks of red dust. The other two seals—a chalice and a ring—remained intact, making this one feel like the natural place to begin.

He swallowed hard, unrolling the parchment. His eyes darted across the opening lines, smeared beyond recognition. He scanned further until about halfway down where the symbols cleared. 

The words carried a rhythm, a solemn cadence that sent chills coursing through him. At a slow pace, he translated the ancient, hard to decipher letters, his voice barely above a whisper.

The hour grew heavy with the weight of His suffering. We trembled before the sight; the heavens veiled in darkness, the earth quaking beneath the cross. His cries rose to the Father, piercing through our souls. And yet, we could not let Him go to glory in anguish.

Peter paused. The vivid imagery gnawed at him, painting the crucifixion in a stark, visceral light. He steadied himself and read on.

Under cover of the night, when the world lay silent, and the bribed guards heavy with sleep, we crept to His side. The potion we bore was bitter but merciful, crafted to numb the flesh and ease the spirit. We poured it between His cracked lips, praying it would dull His pain. For who among us could bear the sight of our Lord in torment?

Peter blinked, the words swimming before his eyes. A potion? Under cover of night? This detail wasn’t in any scripture he had ever read. History told of only six hours of suffering. His pulse quickened, unease creeping into his veins. 

He scanned the lines that followed, but their meaning eluded him. The Greek turned archaic, the phrases disjointed, and the symbols scattered among the text felt like barriers he couldn’t yet overcome. Maybe his translation was wrong. 

Peter sat up, his thoughts whirling. He traced the ink with his finger, the gravity of the words anchoring him as he continued.

The dark bitterness lingered upon His lips, yet He drank deeply, and the earth sighed in relief. His eyes, heavy with sorrow, bore into us with a gratitude too holy to bear. We knew we had sinned, yet we could not repent. For in this act, we too bore the cross.

Peter shook his head. He leaned back, staring into the lantern’s glow, the words echoing inside: For in this act, we too bore the cross. His skin prickled as though unseen eyes were watching, judging.

He glanced at the remaining scrolls, their faded edges taunting him with secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to uncover. Yet a fire burned within him, a hunger to read more, to understand what lay within these forbidden texts. He could not stop now.

Lifting the first one again, he squinted at the intricate script scrawled at the bottom. 

By my hand, John, servant of the Messiah, these words are written for the faithful.

“John, the beloved, one of Jesus’s disciples. This … this can’t be right,” he murmured to himself. None of the text made sense.

Peter stiffened. He tore his gaze away from the script. The hour was late, and he had other duties to attend to.

He pressed his palms against the table, grounding himself in the cold wood beneath them. A sense of dread crept along his spine, but he shook it off. He rolled the parchment carefully and returned it to its bundle. He would come back to it, but for now, he needed time. Time to think, to pray, to steady himself.

But as he stepped out of the Scriptorium and into the stillness of the Parish halls, the scrawled text clung to him, heavy and insistent, like a shadow he could not escape.

Chapter One

Brother Peter paused, the iron keyring pressing into his damp palm. The ancient wooden door hidden in the alcove blended into the rectory’s stone wall. No carvings adorned the surface, offering little hint of what lay behind. The scent of old dust lingered in the air as if it had absorbed the weight of centuries, untouched by the modern world of 1901.

“Few men pass this point, Brother Peter. It falls to me to ensure you comprehend this duty.” The Rector’s baritone voice dropped, carrying a seriousness that drew Peter’s full attention. 

The Rector’s slender frame stepped into the torchlight, shadows dancing along his olive-toned skin and smooth scalp, which bore a hint of stubble.

“As the new Custodian of the Scriptorium, the secrets below are your burden—speak of them to no one.”

Peter’s pulse quickened as the key clicked into place. The door creaked open to a narrow staircase spiraling into darkness. A chill rose to meet them, laced with incense and something sour. Peter hesitated, nerves stirring beneath his growing anticipation of the secrets hidden below. He stepped forward, the cool air wrapping around him like a shroud.

The Rector’s footsteps echoed ahead, his flame casting murky shapes on the ancient stone. The elder descended with ease, his spry steps light and deliberate. He moved with the assurance of someone who had served the parish for many decades, yet his energy and composure seemed almost untouched by the burden of his years.

Peter followed down the three flights, pride for his promotion from Scribe to Custodian prickling at the edges of his thoughts—another sin for confession. That and his irritation at his fellow scribes, who hinted that his wealthy family’s donations earned him the reward, despite his education and many years of service.

At the bottom, the Rector lit torches near a heavy iron door with thick rivets and a nearly invisible small panel integrated in its base.

The words Custodia Veritas were carved in the weathered granite above the entry. 

Guarding the Truth, Peter thought, his nerves humming with the thrill of discovery as he prepared to enter the old library. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to God for the opportunity.

“Watch closely,” said the Rector. “Follow each step of the entry ritual exactly as I do.” 

 Brother Peter nodded he understood.

Light flickered off two polished, intricately etched swords hanging on the wall. Holding one upright with a strong grip, he traced the sign of the cross over the larger door. He crouched down and unlatched the panel embedded at the bottom, just big enough for a small animal to pass through. The opening revealed an inky void beyond.

“Shhh,” the Rector whispered, hovering the sharp tip near the opening.

Stillness pressed against Peter’s ears until even the drip of water from the slimy stones overhead felt deafening. He shifted his weight, the scrape of his sole against the granite floor unnaturally loud in the oppressive stillness.

“Proceed only if there is silence. Should the quiet break, abandon the entry and seek me at once. Your soul depends on it.” The Rector shut and refastened the latch of the small opening.

Peter recognized the Rector’s grave tone as theatrical, always warning of the sins that would send him to hell. He pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to test the rule by humming a hymn. 

The Rector slid a second key carved with a chalice into the lock. 

“Twist right, then left, and press forward,” he instructed. 

The lock chimed—a soft, melodic sequence unlike any Peter had heard before. With a quiet hiss, the key disappeared into the mechanism, and the door groaned open.

The Rector snatched the key as it glided out the opposite side, his attention fixed on the gloomy passage beyond.

He shut the door behind them and pointed to a sturdy deadbolt.

“On your way out, if you find this lock engaged, return to the Archive until the Brethren of the Sacred Rite have finished their rituals. They are the only others you will find in these tunnels.”

Peter bit back a smirk—the self-important Brethren and their special treatment by the Rector. Their ranks had remained unchanged for as long as Peter could recall, keeping their exclusivity preserved like some divine rite in itself.

“The Sword of God represents our search for truth. Keep it raised and ready until you reach the archive,” the Rector whispered.

With the tip of sharpened steel leading their way, they began slow steps, only stopping to light an occasional torch on the wall.

The twisting path passed ancient wooden doors, each marked with Latin phrases hinting at hidden relics, confirming Peter’s suspicion that the church housed many secrets.

Eventually, the claustrophobic tunnels led to a T. The Rector stepped with caution, swinging the blade in a cross pattern towards the midnight darkness to the left. From deep within the murkiness came a soft, uneven thump, followed by an almost imperceptible murmur. The Rector gave no sign of noticing. 

Perhaps only the ancient masonry settling into itself, Peter thought.

“Always to the right,” the Rector said, motioning for Peter to head in that direction.

“What’s the other way?” 

“Only communion artifacts.” The Rector gestured again for Peter to move. “A restricted area for all except the Brethren of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter loved the ancient chalices and intricately etched serving trays, accompanying the monthly event. Jealousy, a sin for many of his confessions, always filled him as he watched the Sacred Rite priests lead the special rituals as the congregation purified themselves with the wafers and wine. 

With a sigh, the Rector stepped around Peter and led him to the right, the sword now hanging limply by his side.

After a few twists and turns along roughly hewn stone with no recessed doorways, they arrived at a single door. A sense of awe descended as Peter read the carved words: Verbum Dei—The Word of God.

“The Scriptorium—as Custodian, these are your charges, and yours alone. There are secrets never to be shared beyond its walls..”

The Rector opened the lockless entry. The lantern’s glow flickered over endless shelves, their wood blackened with age and sagging under the heft of ancient scrolls and bound volumes. Shadows danced along the high, vaulted ceiling, where cobwebs hung like veils of forgotten time. The thick air, filled with the scent of parchment and ink, mingled with the musk of decay.

Peter’s breath caught. The vast, cavernous space seemed alive with whispers, the gravity of history pressing in from every corner. His new role as guardian of the archive and chief scribe pressed against his chest, a mix of exhilaration and dread. He now understood why the former Custodian would disappear here for days.

“It’s time,” the Rector said, snapping Peter from his thoughts. He wanted to protest, but soon enough, he’d be back without the old man’s scrutiny.

They retraced their steps, the Rector pausing at each torch to extinguish its flame, his movements brisk. His eyes darted back into the darkness, the remaining flickers of light catching the deep lines of worry furrowing his brow.

“Don’t linger. Return with haste through these hallways.” His voice, taut and low, disappeared into the gloom.

Peter followed, suppressing a smirk at the old man’s drama and overblown sense of ceremony. His attention drifted back to the treasures of the archive, the holy texts and words of the saints that he would soon have the privilege to study. 

At the stairwell, the Rector turned abruptly, his grip on Peter’s shoulder firm enough to startle. His intense gaze sent a shiver crawling up Peter’s spine.

“Never enter the week before Communion,” he hissed. “The Brethren of the Sacred Rite tolerate no interruption.”

Peter nodded, keeping his expression neutral, though a thread of annoyance curled in his gut. He doubted the Brethren would even notice, cloaked in their sense of grandeur. But the Rector’s wrath was another matter entirely, and not one he intended to test so soon after being appointed to his new position.