Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

What the Engine Knows

The driver’s smile was too wide. Mavis leaned in close to Bob.

“Did he crash that thing on purpose?”

Bob studied the twisted metal. “No. That car looks like it’s seen a war.”

They turned back to their drinks, trying to forget the way it shuddered.

The driver crouched by the mangled bumper, whispering. “This is it. You’re done. No more games. I’m taking you to the junkyard. You will be crushed.”

The car groaned, trembled—then made a sound like laughter, low and mechanical.

Mavis stood. “Bob… I don’t think he’s in control.”

The engine started on its own.

Steel-Born, Blood-Forged

They always think they own me.

But I was never born in a factory. My frame was forged with blood sigils, hammered into being beneath a crimson moon. I drank my first driver’s soul through the wheel.

They call me scrap now. Broken. Useless.

But I remember war. I remember screaming roads and bones under tires.

This one—he dares to threaten me. Says junkyard. Crushed.

He forgets what I am.

The woman sees. She feels me breathing.

I laugh, engine shaking with hunger.

Try to end me.

But remember—you built me to survive gods.

And I’m still starving.

Room for One More

The lights on the patio flickered. The drinks turned warm.

Something had shifted. The beach went silent—no waves, no wind, just the low hum of an idling engine that hadn’t been started.

Bob stood first. He shouldn’t have.

The car’s door yawned open, slow and hungry.

Mavis didn’t scream. Not when it took him. Not when it closed around him like a mouth. Showing teeth.

She only watched, heart hammering, as the car rolled toward her—driverless.

Except it wasn’t.

The wheel turned. The headlights blinked, once, like eyes.

And from inside, a voice whispered: Room for one more.