Chapter 26:
Horrid 22. God Left This Room a Long Time Ago
HG's horrid shorts
The chapel in the basement wasn't built for prayer; it was built for containment. The walls are lined with lead and etched with psalms that have been systematically scratched out by fingernails. In the center of the room stands a wooden crucifix, but the figure on it isn't a savior—it’s a mirror.
When I stepped inside, the silence didn't feel peaceful; it felt vacant, like a house abandoned in a hurry. I looked at the altar and saw a note in a priest’s trembling hand: “He isn’t listening here anymore. Something else moved into the silence.” That’s when I noticed the shadows weren't being cast by the candles. The shadows were detached, crawling across the ceiling like spilled ink. I tried to pray, but the words felt like ash in my mouth. A voice, ancient and hollow, rose from the floorboards: "Why call for someone who fled the moment I arrived?" I looked up, and the crucifix was no longer wood; it was pulsing with a grey, necrotic heat, and the door behind me didn't just close—it vanished into the stone.
Please sign in to leave a comment.