Tagged: Short Story

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.