Tagged: Trembling With Fear

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?”

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.”