The sun set behind the domes of the Vatican, casting long, cold shadows over the ancient city. Inside the sacred halls, where the echoes of centuries of prayers still clung to the walls, a chill had begun to creep in.
It wasn't the chill of winter, but something darker, more insidious. It spread through the corridors, slithering beneath the doors of the grand chambers, slipping through the cracks in the stained glass windows, and seeping into the very bones of those who dwelled within.
Brother Matteo had served the Church all his life. From the moment he'd joined the seminary, he had sworn his loyalty to God, to the Pope, to the sacred duties of his order. But something had begun to change in the Vatican.
It started as a faint unease, a sense that something wasn't quite right, that the holiness he had devoted himself to had become tainted. It was like a soft pressure at the back of his mind, growing each day. Matteo tried to ignore it, to convince himself that it was just the weight of his work. But the feeling wouldn't go away.
He first noticed them on a quiet evening, just as the last of the visitors left and the doors were shut tight for the night. They had appeared in the hallway, standing in front of one of the many chapels that lined the Vatican.
There were three of them, dressed in the same dark habits as the nuns, but their presence was wrong. They didn't move like nuns did. They didn't walk with the same grace. These women—if they could even be called that—moved like something else, something ancient and cruel, their steps unnatural and stiff, yet their eyes… their eyes held something Matteo had never seen before. It was as if they were looking straight through him, through everything he was and ever would be.
The first time he saw them, he thought it was a trick of the light, the fatigue, or maybe his mind playing games on him. But they were always there, never far from him, always watching from the corners of his vision.
Their cold, unsettling eyes followed him everywhere—down the long corridors, into the chapel, even to the private rooms where the priests prayed. The more he tried to ignore them, the more their presence consumed him.
Matteo knew something had gone wrong. The Vatican was changing, in ways both small and large. The people he had once known as brothers seemed different, distant. It was like their souls had been drained, leaving hollow husks of men who walked the halls like automata.
Even the Pope, once a beacon of faith and authority, seemed… absent. It wasn't the kind of absence that could be explained by age or illness, but something far worse.
Matteo had seen him in his study once, staring blankly at a wall, his eyes vacant, his mouth twitching in strange, jerky movements. The old man hadn't even noticed Matteo's presence. He hadn't spoken to him. Matteo left quickly, unsettled by the sight.
It wasn't until the night he heard the chanting that Matteo understood the truth.
It was late, much later than he was accustomed to working, but he had been preparing the sacred books for the morning mass. The church was eerily quiet, save for the distant murmur of the wind outside.
Matteo was alone, but then, from somewhere deep within the heart of the Vatican, he heard it. It started low, faint at first, like a distant murmur. The sound was… off, not quite human, but not entirely unholy either. It sounded like chanting, but the rhythm was wrong. The words were garbled, distorted, foreign in a way that sent shivers down his spine.
He froze, hands trembling on the ancient parchment before him. The chanting grew louder, more urgent, and he could feel it in his chest, a tightening, a suffocating pressure that felt almost physical.
He knew where it was coming from, though he could not understand how. It came from beneath the Vatican, from the crypts. Matteo had heard stories of the catacombs—where relics of saints lay buried, where the bones of martyrs were kept—but no one spoke of what else might be hidden there.
No one except those strange women who had been following him, always just out of reach.
He had to know. His heart pounded as he stood up, his legs shaky beneath him. The chanting continued, each word seeping deeper into his mind, eroding his thoughts, clouding his judgment. He had to go down there.
The doors to the crypt were locked, but Matteo had access. He was a trusted member of the clergy, after all. It wasn't hard for him to slip the key from its hidden place and open the heavy door. The air was thick with dust, stale and suffocating, as he descended the narrow staircase that led down into the dark.
At the bottom, the chanting reached a fever pitch. Matteo's chest tightened as he stepped forward, the cold stone underfoot sending a shiver up his spine. The crypts were vast, stretching deep into the earth, filled with the remains of the faithful.
It was supposed to be a place of reverence, a place where the holy rested in peace. But something had changed. The walls, once adorned with crosses and prayers, now appeared scarred, as if something had clawed at them.
The flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows on the walls, and the silence between the chants seemed almost unbearable.
Matteo moved deeper into the crypts, guided by the sound, until he saw them.
The women were gathered in a circle, their backs to him. They stood in perfect formation, their heads bowed, their hands outstretched toward the center of the circle. But there was nothing in the center. There was only darkness. Matteo's breath caught in his throat as he stepped closer, drawn by a force he could not explain.
They didn't look like nuns anymore. Their habits had torn in places, revealing twisted, dark flesh beneath. Their faces were pale, almost translucent, their eyes black as coal, void of light, of life. The chanting… it wasn't a prayer. It was something else. Something far darker, ancient, and evil. The words twisted in the air like serpents, coiling around Matteo's mind, squeezing tighter with each passing second.
One of them turned slowly, her face impossibly twisted, her lips curling into a grotesque smile. "Matteo," she said, her voice devoid of human warmth. "You've come to join us."
The words were not spoken aloud. They were in his mind, pressing in on him, breaking through the thin veil of his sanity. He staggered backward, but it was already too late. The crypt seemed to close in around him. The chanting grew louder, the air colder, thicker, until it felt like he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move.
Then they reached for him.
Hands like claws gripped his arms, dragging him toward the circle. He struggled, but his strength faltered, his limbs weakening under their touch. Their eyes bored into his soul, their cold hands sinking into his flesh, draining him of everything he had.
With a final, desperate scream, Matteo tried to escape, but it was useless. His body fell limp as the last remnants of his life were sucked into the dark, and the chanting stopped. The women stood in silence for a moment, their faces unchanged, as if nothing had happened at all.
Above, in the Vatican, the bells rang, signaling the start of a new day. But the darkness had already begun to claim its prize. The Vatican was no longer a place of faith. It was a place of rot, of decay. And Matteo was just one of many.
They had all been chosen.