Tagged: Short Story

Chapter Nine

“I can’t. Is there another exit?” His eyes darted along the walls.

Jesus moved further into the room. He pointed to an iron, crudely shaped lever, jutting out of the opposite wall from the entrance door. “The chute where they discard the remains of the sacrificed.”

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “No time. Do it now, before …”

Peter stumbled down the steps, the weapon dangling from his fingers. He hesitated before the lever, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He shoved it upward, the mechanism groaning as if reluctant to obey. 

A low rumble shook the chamber as stone scraped against stone, the cover sliding back, widening into a gaping hole in the floor. The putrid scent of death enveloped the room.

A deep, guttural growl echoed, chilling Peter to his core. He turned slowly, his breath catching as Jesus’s face contorted into a grotesque mask. His eyes blazed with feral hunger, his features twisting in a maddened snarl.

“Your flesh …” he croaked, his body shuddering as if fighting an invisible force. “Lord, please … help me.”

Peter froze. His heart pounded. His grip tightened on the sword.

Jesus took a hesitant step, his senses clearing. He dropped to his knees, his hands trembling in supplication. 

“Lord, don’t abandon me to this urge.” The words, once a cry of desperation, now carried the force of an impossible battle. Protect me, he seemed to pray, but his voice cracked, breaking under the strain.

Peter’s gut tightened as he shuffled forward, torn between what he saw and the man he had to save. He reached out his hand to help the man up.

Jesus’s head snapped up, his gaze narrowing in hunger. His features twisted again, this time fully consumed by the monstrous transformation.

Peter didn’t hesitate. He bolted toward the platform as rapid footsteps thundered behind him. He yanked the stairs upward, but Jesus’s fingers gripped the edge, his strength unnatural as he dragged the steps down. Peter lashed out with a desperate kick, his heel smashing into Jesus’s forehead with a sickening thud. 

Jesus staggered, his balance faltering for a moment before he lunged again. He jumped, seizing Peter’s ankle, yanking him off the platform. The sword flew from Peter’s grasp, skittering across the room.

They tumbled, crashing to the floor in a chaotic heap. Peter’s body slammed against the growling, snapping monster beneath him.

Peter clawed his way across the cold, blood-slick floor, the sharp sting of bruises and scrapes drowned out by sheer panic.

He grasped the hilt. With a desperate yell, he drove the blade into Jesus’s shoulder, the metal biting deep into flesh and bone. Recognition flickered in the man’s eyes. 

“Please,” Jesus begged, sinking to his knees. His palms folded in prayer.

Peter wrenched the blade free, blood spilling in thick rivulets. Jesus’s face twisted in agony, his humanity slipping away as the beast within clawed its way to the surface. Peter raised the sword high, his muscles tensed. He brought the weapon down in a savage arc. The edge cleaved clean through, sending Jesus’s head tumbling into the gaping pit. His body collapsed in a lifeless heap, red pooling at its base.

Peter stood frozen. His sword hung limply in his hand, its blade slick with blood. The enormity of what he had done clawed at his mind, but there was no time to think. The heavy exterior door groaned open, its hinges shrieking like a warning bell. Peter turned, numbness covering him like a blanket.

The Rector stepped into the room, his figure framed by the flickering lantern light. His calm, unnerving dark eyes fixed on the body crumpled at Peter’s feet. For a moment, neither man spoke, the air thick with unsaid accusations.

“What have you done, Peter?” The Rector’s soft voice carried condemnation, rolling over Peter like a distant rumble of thunder before a storm.

Peter staggered back, his grip tightening on the sword. “I—I freed him. Ended all their suffering.”

“You could have joined us, a hand of God and keeper of the light, instead …” The Rector’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed, their intensity sending a shiver down Peter’s spine

“Centuries of devotion—gone,” the Rector growled, his voice rising with an edge of fury. “You think you’ve brought salvation? Who are you to question the will of God?” His tone hardened, and for the first time, Peter saw something beneath the calm facade—something dark, almost feral, flickering in the depths of his eyes. The Rector balled his fists, his body beginning to vibrate with a rage that seeped onto his face.

Peter took a step toward the edge of the pit, his legs shaking. “You’re no servant of the divine. You’re … you’re monsters hiding behind faith.” Revulsion rolled over him. Anger welled up at a deity who would let this happen. “Evil men led by a false God. I renounce it all.”

He had no time to mourn this loss of belief. The darkness of the pit seemed almost inviting, promising escape from the horrors around him. Without another word, he staggered forward and leapt into the void, not caring what happened to him next.

A distant scream echoed above him—“No!”—fading into the void as he crashed onto a slick, putrid mound. The vile stench of decay rose like a suffocating fog, clawing at his throat.

Peter scrambled down the grotesque pile, his palms sinking into the slimy remains of the orphans. He groped blindly through the suffocating black, not caring where he went. 

Directionless, he stumbled through the endless void, each step dragging him deeper into an abyss that mirrored the emptiness in his soul. Tears streamed down his face, a torrent of anguish unleashed by the shattering truth: there could be no God. His whole life, everything he believed in was a lie. Torment poured from his soul in deep wails.

He slammed into a jagged stone wall, the impact splitting his brow. Warm blood dripped into his eye as he collapsed to his knees. Prayers he had once whispered with devotion now bubbled to his lips, but each felt like poison on his tongue. 

He sank to the slimy ground, resolved to sleep in this blackness until the end took him. Time unraveled in the dark—days, years, or centuries—he didn’t know. 

Over time, the relentless drip of water filled the silence, each drop mocking his parched throat. When his thirst clawed at him with unbearable ferocity, he staggered toward the sound, driven by desperate instinct.

 A wisp of cool air brushed his face, stirring a flicker of hope in the suffocating gloom. Step by trembling step, he moved forward, until a hazy shaft of golden light pierced the shadows ahead. He blinked, momentarily blinded by the brightness. 

Below the jagged cliffs where the Parish lay, the lake stretched out like a silver mirror, its stillness broken only by faint ripples that lapped at its shores. The icy water crept up his ankles, then his knees, its chill biting deeper with every step. When it reached his abdomen, he gasped at the frigid embrace.

He gulped in mouthfuls, fulfilling his thirst. He swam onward, each stroke growing heavier as the weight of his soaked robes dragged him down. His muscles burned with exhaustion, and at last, he surrendered to the pull of the water. As he went under, Peter let go, his thoughts quieting and he welcomed whatever would come next.

*

Peter’s eyes fluttered open. A violent cough shook his body, forcing water from his lungs in ragged bursts before he retched onto the sand. He collapsed back, enjoying the wonder of air filling his chest. 

A vibration buzzed through his limbs, a foreign energy pulsing in his veins. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alive, as though the air itself carried a spark of divinity.

Joy surged within him. He filled with an all-consuming warmth he’d never felt before. In the depths of his soul, he knew this heat came from the light of divinity, revealing an unshakeable truth: God was real and had chosen Peter to end his only son’s torment. He rejoiced, his heart swelling with purpose. The Holy Spirit’s love coursed through him with electric tingles, affirming his new mission to spread the Lord’s word.

He sat up, a serene smile curving across his face. He stretched, taking inventory of his body, the aches and pains fading, replaced by a new vitality that hummed through his veins like liquid light. Glancing around, he realized he stood on the lake’s far side, beyond the cliffs and the reach of the Parish’s shadow.

He hummed as he waded back into the cool water to rinse off the mud that coated his limbs. He studied a tender spot on his ankle. The dirt washed away, revealing jagged teeth marks etched deep into his wounded flesh and the torn muscle underneath. Blood oozed in thick crimson rivulets.

His gut clenched, as horror sunk in, striking a blow to his new found truth. Was this the Lord’s plan, or the price of a sinner’s defiance?

He stood trembling, mulling over his limited options. The energy in his veins grew, and an unnatural calm settled, numbing his thoughts beyond caring.

A scent caught his nose—sweet, rich, divine, like honey steeped in wine. He froze, the aroma igniting a hunger so primal it twisted his stomach into knots. Foam gathered at the corners of his mouth, thick and bitter as it spilled down his chin.

“Pardon, father,” a soft, youthful voice called from behind him. “Are you in need of assistance?”

Peter’s lips curled upward, the warmth of his faith mingling with the ache of his urge. 

God provides.

Chapter Eight

Jesus pointed to a row of six highly polished iron cranks bolted into the wall opposite the cages. “They reel us in to drain us. You must separate the head to give them peace.”

The creatures’s hollow eyes followed Peter’s every step, their skeletal hands clawing at the air with frantic, desperate motions. Their jaws snapped open and shut like brittle bones cracking under pressure, accompanied by wet squelches as saliva oozed from their mouths.

Peter trembled as he grasped the crank for the cage containing the most decrepit one. The gears clanked with each agonizing turn. The creature’s bony feet scraped against the cold stone floor, its form sliding backward with violent resistance. 

He wanted to look away, but his gaze remained fixed on the thing’s twisted, skeletal form. It fought with every fiber, but the neck restraint bit deeper, relentless.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to turn away. The crank clicked into place with a sharp, final snap.

“Press the button in the center,” Jesus whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Peter hesitated, staring at the small raised circle on the panel engraved with a chalice. His brain screamed to stop, but the twisted cries left him no choice. 

He pushed the spot. A deep, resonant hum pulsed from the back of the cage. Peter’s gaze jerked back to the creature. 

A metal cross raised a few inches out of the rear wall of the creature’s enclosure. The metal around its neck and thick ankle cuffs snapped against the vertical bar with a sickening thud, locking it in place. Then, as if raised by an invisible hand, the bracelet on each wrist slammed against the horizontal T, stretching its arms wide. The creature’s body struggled with an almost grotesque dignity, its limbs forced into a twisted parody of crucifixion.

A low, guttural growl came from the creature, its head jerking toward Peter. Its mouth swung open and shut in an uneven motion, tethered by the lone tendon. Its eyes burned with an insatiable hunger.

Grabbing the blade, he edged toward the now open cell door. 

Magnets? Peter pondered the genius of the contraption despite his horror. 

He hesitated as his sight caught on a rusted panel below the right lower side of the cross. He realized this must create a passageway to the other room.

He stepped closer, the stench of death and decay turning his stomach. He gazed into the creature’s eyes, devoid of humanity and filled with an intense need. Its few yellowed and broken teeth swung back and forth on its hanging jaw. 

A crack shattered the stillness. The creature’s wrist twisted, its brittle bones snapping like dried twigs. Peter flinched as the creature’s severed hand tumbled to the ground, trailing dark, viscous blood. The arm wrenched free from its restraint, clawing toward him. Peter jumped back.

Get this over with! his instinct screamed through the surrounding cacophony.

He edged closer, the blade quivering in his palms. The creature’s head swiveled toward him, jawing at the air.

“Father,” Jesus murmured behind him. “Forgive Apostle Peter this sin.”

Clenching his jaw, Peter pressed the sharp edge to the neck cuff. The creature’s fetid breath washed over him. The coldness of the steel against his hand was a comfort, grounding him in this moment.

Peter drew a shuddering inhale and swung. 

The blade sunk into rotting flesh with a sickening squelch. It caught on bone, grinding as he forced it through. Peter drove it forward, cleaving the neck with a wet, final snap. The head toppled to the floor. 

The creature’s body, still locked to the cross, twitched once before it fell still, its lifeless form hanging there like a grotesque puppet. Dark red streaks ran down the wall as blood pooled beneath it.

“Goodbye, my old friend,” Jesus whispered.

The sword slipped from Peter’s shaking hands, its clang drowned by the retch that tore from his throat. He stumbled back as bile erupted, mingling with the dark liquid spreading across the floor. He heaved again. 

Rotted, blackened fingers latched onto his tunic, yanking him toward the gaping maw of the nearest monster. He’d ventured too close, and now the putrid stench of its breath flooded his senses. He dug his heels against the slick stone, but his boots skidded uselessly, dragging him closer to the creature’s snapping jaws. The rancid stench of decayed flesh and bile choked him, burning the back of his raw throat.

With a desperate yank, he pulled his arm from his sleeve, the fabric bunching as the creature’s jagged teeth sank into the empty material. The monster thrashed, the cloth tearing as Peter stumbled backward. The tunic slipped from its grasp.

Peter staggered from the cell, gasping. He collapsed against the far wall, the cold rock biting into his back.

Peter shut his thoughts against the storm of terror threatening to consume him. He needed no internal judgement for the task at hand. 

This time, instead of leaving any free, he wrestled the two thrashing figures and James onto their metal crosses. Only Christian and Jesus remained untethered, their shadowed forms watching him from the dim recesses of the room.

The first two fell swiftly beneath his blade, their snarls silenced by the wet crunch of severed flesh. Then came the boy. Peter froze. 

This wasn’t the lad’s fault. He stared at James, his hollow eyes unseeing yet fixed on Peter. The blade quivered in Peter’s grasp under the unbearable burden of what he was about to do. 

What if I miss?

“Allow me,” Christian rasped from the gloom of his cage. “Swear to me, you’ll free me after. Take me away … where we can find a cure.”

“There is no cure,” echoed from the far end, as if the walls themselves whispered the truth.

Peter swallowed hard, pushing down the words that he feared were the truth. He turned to Christian. “How can you swing the blade?”

“The sacrifice room,” Christian murmured, nodding toward the panel at the back of the cage. “That’s where we release the creatures for feeding two days before bloodletting. Give me the sword and open the rear.”

Sacrifice room. Peter pictured the ropes dangling from the ceiling and the two rust-streaked platforms raised in the corners.

He gave a reluctant nod and passed the weapon to Christian. He released James from the cross and left through the heavy exterior door. 

Every instinct told him to run, to head out of the gloomy catacombs and this madness. The exit pulled him, but he stepped by to finish his task.

Peter hurried into the next chamber. He scaled the nearest platform, the rusted steps groaning beneath his weight, and hauled the stairs up behind him, forming a fragile barricade out of reach from those below. 

He placed his lantern on the rail, its flickering casting long shadows that danced like specters across the walls. He gripped the worn rope corresponding to the cages he wanted and pulled, sending a metallic screech through the chamber.

As the panels slid up, James lunged from the opening, a feral growl tearing from his throat as he scrambled toward the platform. Peter’s heart thundered as the boy’s clawed fingers stretched upward, just shy of the platform’s bottom. 

Christian stepped into the dim chamber. He strode forward, sharp edge out. James took no notice. 

As the priest advanced, his nostrils flared, and his face twisted into a grotesque mask. His gaze snapped to Peter, his pupils dilating like a predator honing in on prey. Stepping closer, he bared his teeth.

“Christian, control yourself!”

Christian paused, his body trembling as he shook his head, the feral haze lifting just enough for recognition to flicker in his eyes. He raised the weapon high, his knuckles white around the hilt. With a savage cry, he swung. The blade sliced clean through James’s neck, the boy’s head tumbling to the ground with a thud as his body crumpled in a heap, dark liquid seeping from the headless neck.

Christian staggered back. He clutched the blood-slick sword. His eyes, wild and tortured, locked onto Peter’s. A grim determination solidified in his hollow gaze.

“God forgive me,” Christian whispered, his voice laced with despair. 

He gripped the weapon in both hands and plunged the blade deep into his throat, then pulled it out again. A gurgle escaped as he collapsed. The weapon clattered to the floor, its hilt slick. A crimson arc sprayed across the wall, glistening in the dim light like a grotesque mural. 

Unsteady, Peter climbed down from his position, each step faltering beneath the strain of his horror. He approached Christian’s crumpled form. He bent down, unsure whether to offer last rites or a prayer. 

The priest’s hand lashed out, clamping around Peter’s ankle with an iron grip. Jagged fingernails dug into his skin, searing pain shooting up his leg. Peter yanked back, but the unrelenting grip tightened, dragging Christian’s snapping jaws closer, his teeth gnashing with feral desperation.

Peter’s eyes darted to the weapon lying just out of reach. Ignoring the fiery agony in his ankle, he threw himself forward, his palms clawing at the blade. Pain ripped through his hand as the sharp edge tore into his skin, warm blood slicking his grip as he tightened his hold.

With a grunt, he kicked backward, his heel colliding with Christian’s eye socket. A gruesome crunch erupted as the bone collapsed, but the grip on his leg didn’t falter. Peter slid his hand down to the hilt, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. With a hoarse, desperate cry, he swung in a wide arc, cleaving through the priest’s arm in a burst of arterial spray.

Christian slithered across the blood-slick floor towards him, his severed arm trailing a dark smear behind him. His movements had slowed, but his ravenous eyes, burning with an unnatural hunger, locked onto Peter. 

Peter scrambled backward, fumbling for the hilt. With a roar, he brought the blade down in a brutal arc. Christian’s head toppled from his shoulders, rolling to a stop as a thick pool of crimson spread beneath his twitching body.

Peter collapsed to his knees, his body shaking as tears streamed down his face. Sobs racked his chest, each one torn from the depths of his despair. 

If God existed, how could He allow this? The thought echoed, hollow and accusatory, in the suffocating silence.

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled beneath him. He leaned on the sword, its tip grinding into the ground. Blood dripped from his torn skin as he hobbled back toward the platform. His limbs felt leaden, each step a battle against gravity. He climbed the stairs, leaving them open behind him with the monsters destroyed.

He gripped the rope for the farthest panel and tugged, clearing the way for Jesus.

“This cannot be the way.” Jesus’s voice wafted from the other side, carrying the burden of centuries of torment. “It must be the cross.”

“No, I’m getting you away from this cursed place.”

A sudden bang shattered the stillness, reverberating far down the corridor. Peter’s heart jumped.

Jesus stepped into the entry, his gaze piercing. “There’s no time. The opening of the panels triggered the alarm. The Sacred Rite are coming. Free me from this nightmare.”

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?”