MC and Jake had finally read Grandpa William's diary entry about his experience at the church. There was a silence between them, thick with conflicting emotions. They did not know if they should feel relieved that he had won the heart of the woman he loved, or appalled by what he had done to Edward.
But whatever emotions they had about Grandpa William himself, they had their question answered.
Something was wrong with the church.
It was no longer mere intuition. The eerie way in which Grandpa William had spoken to John, the way they had spoken in huddles like conspirators, made no mistake. They were both clergy, but they had been more than spiritual men. They had been members of something profound, something nefarious—a cult about which Grandpa William had ever only mentioned fleeting hints.
And now, here they were, standing in front of the very building where corruption had found shelter.
MC breathed a hard breath, his air misting into the cold. "Guess this is the first place we should investigate," he growled, his head craned back to see the imposing building before them. The church that had been so familiar and reassuring now towered over them like an abandoned monolith of something sinister.
The building was always old, its gothic shape weathered by the years, but now it was different. The tall, vaulted windows that had cast warm light over the pews now seemed more like empty sockets gazing back at them. The steeple reached up into the gray sky, its shadow falling long and slender across the snow.
MC buckled the strap of his backpack, feeling the weight. He closed the book and shoved it in, taking his time. He had packed a new set of clothes, but he was still wearing the same jacket. Not because he enjoyed it, but because it was the only one he had. He hadn't exactly been ready for any of this. He hadn't been ready to be thrown down a flight of stairs.
A pounding pain throbbed at the memory, and his fingers instinctively touched the stitches on his temple. He winced. His mom was going to freak when she saw them. He could already picture the look of horror in her eyes, the tornado of questions he would not be able to answer correctly.
That is… if he ever went back to her.
His eyes flickered back to the church, and for the first time, he was unsure of what to do. Was there really something sinister here? Something lurking beneath the decades of sermons, prayers, and hollow confessions?
The idea was terrifying.
This was the same church he went to every Sunday with his mom. The same church where Jake's family had prayed in the front pew, where they had sung hymns, where they had knelt in prayer.
And yet…
Jake had gone quiet beside him.
He sat on the sidewalk, legs stretched out in front of him, boots planted firmly in the fresh snow. His fists were bunched up, resting on his knees, but his eyes were fixed on the ground. The snow in front of him was unbroken, perfect—untouched by whatever malevolence had permeated the bones of the church.
And yet, the thought of it being tainted made him sick.
The church was supposed to be holy ground. A sanctuary. A place of peace.
But his grandfather had been a part of something that wasn't.
Jake swallowed hard, his mouth parched. He had already accepted the reality that Grandpa William was not the man he thought he was. But to know it and to feel it were two very different things. And the worst part? He had never even seen it coming.
He had loved his grandfather. Trusted him.
How could he have been so blind?
MC broke the silence first.
"You okay, Jake?" His tone was measured, controlled—expressly restrained. "I understand it's difficult, but you can't fault yourself, alright? You just didn't know.".
Jake let out a short, unfunny laugh. "You can't possibly understand how hard it is, MC." His voice was even, but underneath it was something sharp, as though he was holding himself back. "He was my grandfather. My family. And yet, he was all doing this behind our backs in secret."
He finally lifted his head, and his face was stern.
"The fact that we're most likely gonna die because of him? That's the toughest part." His eyes fell again, looking unseeing at the snow. "I don't think I can continue reading those diary entries."
MC watched him for a moment before agreeing. He understood.
Jake was drowning in the weight of it all, but MC hadn't permitted himself to feel anything—not exactly. He'd been so focused on coming up with a way to back out of the arrangement, on staying one step ahead, that he hadn't allowed himself to come to terms with the fact. Maybe that's why he seemed so together right now. Because if he let himself feel it all, he mightn't be able to get over it.
He exhaled slowly and looked at Jake, then the church.
"Don't get mushy on me now," he growled. "We can curse your grandfather all we want to—after we cut whatever deal he made."
Something in what he said penetrated Jake's uncertainty.
He took a deep breath, then, as if shaking off the weight bearing him down, slapped his own cheeks lightly. When he gazed up again, there was something harder in his eyes. A spark of determination.
"You're right." He rose, his boots crunching in the snow. "We do what we have to do."
MC nodded minutely.
Decision made.
Together, they stood facing the church, their breathing steaming off into frosty puffs as they started walking towards it.
Answers they would find inside.
And whatever had gone into that diary by Grandpa William.
They needed to find it.
At all costs.
As they passed through the great wooden doors of the church, a wave of heat engulfed them. It was not the comforting type that comes from a roaring fire on a bitter winter night, but something different—thick, stifling. The rows of candles scattered throughout the great room blazed like watchful eyes, casting long, creeping shadows upon the stone walls. The scent of burning wax and wood hung in the air, mixed with the faint, lingering smell of incense. The atmosphere was meant to be sacred, inviting. But there was something about it that wasn't quite right.
The huge room was almost empty, the pews unbroken in terrible silence. Only a handful of solitary figures were left in front of the altar, the priestly robes bunched around them, their heads bent as if in supplication. But their stillness was unnatural. Too rigid. Too rehearsed. MC's stomach twisted. His gut was screaming that they were not alone like they should have been.
No time to waste, he grabbed Jake by the arm and dragged him behind a large marble pillar, shoving them both into the shadows.
"What the—" Jake growled, but MC silenced him with a warning glance.
"Something's not right," MC whispered. "Shh, be quiet."
Jake was staring in the direction MC was staring, toward the altar, his expression transforming from irritation to suspicion. He gritted his teeth as he glared at the priests.
"How many of them do you actually think are priests?" Jake snarled, his voice laced with something just shy of anger. "Do you think there are any among them who are believers?"
MC did not react immediately. His sharp eyes scanned the structures, drinking in the large stone columns, the intricate saints' ornamentation looking down from on high, the fancy stained-glass windows throwing mellow, tinted light on the floors. It was an awe-inspiring building, but all he saw were too many hiding spots. Too many places to be apprehended.
"I don't know," MC finally answered, his voice cold. "And for real? I don't care. That's not why we're here." He glared over his shoulder at Jake, his eyes clashing with Jake's in the sort of intense stare that forbade disagreement. "We have to find something—something—that'll enable us to shut down the deal. And I think we should split up."
Jake's head snapped towards him, eyes shooting with incredulity. "Are you kidding me? Do you even see movies? Splitting up is the best way to get killed! You ever wonder why people get killed when they're alone? Because they're alone, MC! And if this town actually does have a cult infestation, I'd rather not find out the hard way.".
MC released a harsh breath, his temper fraying. "You don't have a choice, Jake. Either we take a shot and die, or you die at midnight tomorrow."
Jake gazed at him, searching for some hint of the kid he'd known. But MC wasn't the same anymore. The years had worn something soft in him down to jagged edges.
"What's the matter with you?" Jake's voice was strangled, contained. "Don't you realize what's happening here? I get that five years of all this stuff messed with your head, but it doesn't mean you have to be a dick."
"I don't know," MC said, his voice a monotone, as if he'd already vacated. "I just want this over with. I'd like to finish this crap, go back to White Rock, and not recall any of this happened. Then I'll fix what's left of my life. I don't have time for your disappointments, your worries—hell, I don't have time for your feelings, period." He turned on his heel. "So let's just split up, search for something that seems evil, and be done with it." A moment. "Get therapy afterwards."
And with that, MC turned and walked away, his boots clicking softly on the stone floor against the cold, leaving Jake where he stood, fists contracted at his sides.
Jake wanted to call him out, to punch him, to get him to feel something—but he knew better. Their lives were at stake. His family's life was at stake. He could kick MC's ass when this was over.
For now, he swallowed his anger and did what had to be done.
As MC moved deeper into the church, further from the candlelit altar, further from the priests whose murmured prayers were like background music to something far more sinister. The deeper he went, the colder it became, as if the warmth of the candles could not reach these corridors. He dodged the occasional onlooker, hiding in the shadows when necessary, but his mind was elsewhere.
It had been years since he'd last walked through a building like this—hell, years since he'd even walked through the doors of a church. Sunday mornings were spent sleeping in on a half-broken couch, too exhausted to care about sermons or salvation.
But now, walking down these halls again, he couldn't help but wonder if God would forgive him. If he even deserved it.
And honestly? He wasn't sure he cared.
Jake, though, was struggling. He knew this church too well already—maybe better than he wanted to. When he was a kid, he'd play through these halls with his siblings, their laughter echoing off the stone walls as they played hide-and-seek among the pews. He had come to associate remembering the reek of smoke and old vellum, the creak the wooden boards emitted in locations, the sequence the colored glass cast in death, shifting shades as the sun's rays lit it just so.
The priests had treated him kindly. Their voices had been soft, their smiles warm. They had told him of saints and wonders, of believing and giving. The church had been a sanctuary then. Holy.
But it was not like that now.
As he moved through the familiar terrain, his chest tightened. Was there indeed something sinister hidden here? Or had it ever been here and vanished, leaving behind a shell? The thought brought him to a stop, his footsteps dragging.
What if they were wrong?
What if MC was wrong?
For the first time, doubt crept in. What if there was nothing to be discovered? No dark secrets. No hidden truths. What if they were wandering around chasing specters while the real danger was somewhere else?
The idea gave him the chills.
But then he remembered MC—how certain he had been earlier today, how resolute. He had discovered that journal, hadn't he? He had been digging for answers long before Jake even knew something was amiss. That meant something.
Perhaps, perhaps, MC might be onto something.
They just needed to look quickly enough.
Jake let out a hard breath, shaking off his anxiety. He needed to go.
He took a step closer—then a hand wrapped around his wrist.
Cold fingers, hard grip.
His breath halted. His heart stuttered.
He turned around, his racing heart pounding in his ears, his eyes staring wide with shock.
…
MC moved quietly down the dark, creaking passages of the church, his steps devoured by the old wooden floors. The odor of old paper, dripped wax, and something metallic filled the air. The deeper he went, the more oppressive the thick silence felt. This part of the church was not as intimidating as the nave or the sanctuary—it was simple, unassuming. A room made for use rather than for awe.
When he reached the back of the church, he found just what he had been expecting: nothing.
The room was strangely ordinary. A tiny kitchen with ancient appliances, a few bathrooms, two small storage rooms full of dusty hymn books and spare robes, and several vacant rooms that could have been bedrooms or offices at one time. No hidden doorways, no eerie graffiti scrawled on the walls, no ominous symbols hinting at sinister secrets.
And yet, a strange feeling of unease curled around his ribs.
Something was off.
His gaze was drawn to a small alcove in the corner, which glowed from the flickering flame of one candle. Within it, a stone angel guarded. Its once pristine features had been smoothed out by the passing of time, its wings etched with delicate, serrated cracks that seemed to portray it as having suffered for centuries of sorrow. The craftsmanship, though exquisite, was almost uncanny in its realism. But that wasn't what caught MC's attention.
At the angel's feet was a small black wooden box.
It was strange—not just because it seemed so deliberately placed, but because of the symbols that covered its face. Twisted, interlocking designs that MC had no idea what they were, etched so finely that they looked almost burned into the wood. The patterns weren't any religious iconography he'd ever encountered. They weren't crosses, not prayers or scripture.
A shiver ran up his spine.
For a moment, his stomach screamed at him to step back. But curiosity was a hardy thing, always more insistent than caution. He hesitated for only a moment before he edged forward and reached out to grab the box.
It wasn't particularly heavy, but the contents inside shifted slightly as he picked it up, making sure something was inside. He placed it on a nearby table, fingers running over the carvings before finally, carefully, prying the lid open.
His breath caught.
Inside, set against a pile of deep crimson velvet, lay a collection of objects that looked both sacred and wicked. A tarnished silver crucifix, worn at the edges with age. A vial of fluid that shone in the light of the candle—holy water, perhaps, but there was something in its appearance thicker than it should be. And then, most horrifying of all: a silver dagger.
Its blade gleamed coldly, improbably clean given its visible age. Symbols, different from the ones carved on the box but no less intricate, ran along its length, carved so finely that they appeared to shift when he looked at them head-on.
MC wasn't actually religious, but even he recognized these weren't standard relics.
"What the fuck is this?" he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in displeasure.
Instinct intervened. He grabbed his phone and snapped a quick photo, being careful to capture the marks on the blade and symbols. He had to present it to Jake—maybe he had found something too.
He was about to close the box when a soft but firm hand settled on his shoulder.
MC tensed.
His heart pounded against his chest, and for a moment, his mind reeled. Had he been caught? Another priest? Someone else? Cautiously, slowly, he shifted his head—only to be met with Father Gabriel's calm but unyielding stare.
The priest was an older man, his thick grey head of hair lending him a wise, grandfatherly look. His face was lined, not with age, but with wear, as though he had lived a lifetime carrying the weight of unspoken issues. And yet, in spite of this, there was something strangely youthful about him—a glint in his eyes, a quiet strength in his posture. If he was surprised to see MC loitering, he didn't let it show.
Rather, he smiled.
"What brings you here now?" Father Gabriel asked, his voice having the gentleness of one who had spent decades soothing troubled minds. "It is past seven. The doors were shut, and we were preparing to go to bed for the night."
MC barely held back a curse. He had been so immersed in his pursuit that he had nearly forgotten the priests.
He thought fast, and he schooled his features into a contrite look. "Sorry, Father. I came to pray," he smoothly lied. "I slipped in before the doors closed. It's just… it's difficult, you see? Grandpa William passed on, and I needed a moment."
He did his best to appear as pitiful as possible, hoping to sell the lie. Lying in church was probably not the best, but he thought God would see the good in it.
Father Gabriel's expression softened. "No need to apologize, my child. The church is always open to those who need comfort." His smile was warm, unwavering. "I, too, was saddened by the death of William. Why don't I take you to the nave?"
MC nodded, but his eyes darted back to the black box. "What about this?" he asked, feigning innocent interest. "What's in it?
Father Gabriel followed his gaze and released a thoughtful hum. "That? I think I do not know. It has always existed. We leave it be, in case the owner ever returns for it."
MC did not think so for a second.
Before he could ask more questions, Father Gabriel motioned toward the hall and invited him to follow. "Come now, your friend is waiting for you at the nave."
MC braced. Friend?
There was no reaction in his expression, but alarms sounded in his head.
"I was alone," he said hesitantly. "I had no idea someone else was going to be here."
Father Gabriel's grin faltered not one bit, though there was an oddly knowing edge to it. "Let us just say. He was also here for the same purpose."
A shudder of discomfort came over MC, but he walked silently after the priest.
When they reached the nave, MC's gaze immediately landed on Jake, who sat rigidly in one of the pews. His shoulders were tense, his fists curled against his lap. He didn't utter a word, didn't move—just sat there staring straight ahead as if in a daze. MC hesitated before slipping into the pew beside him.
Father Gabriel stood for a moment longer, watching them both with restrained intensity before finally speaking.
"You pray here for as long as you like," he said to them. "The door closes on you when you leave."
He turned then and walked off, disappearing into the shadows of the church.
MC released a swift breath and spun to face Jake, not pleased. "What about 'don't get caught'?"
Jake glared at him. "Hey, not my fault. Father Paul picked me up." He crossed his arms, clearly upset. "And besides, I didn't find anything either."
MC breathed out, his irritation vanishing. "Well, at least I did." He pulled out his phone and showed Jake the picture. "Something quite interesting."
Jake frowned as he looked at the photo. "What are those?" His expression darkened. "That doesn't sound like something a church would possess."
MC grinned. "Exactly."
Jake's brows furrowed. "So, we're gonna just overlook that you're still giving me crap for getting caught?"
MC grinned. "Oh, I'm never dropping it.".
…
Jake's muscles went rigid as a hard hand clamped down on his shoulder, the grip tight—almost too tight. A shiver ran its way up the back of his neck as he whipped around once more to confront Father Paul. The priest's white face was flushed with an unnatural pallor under the soft glow of the church's hallway lights, deep lines etched into his features as if some weight too heavy for his waif-like frame. His own eyes, usually a dull brown, had something strange in them tonight—something cold, calculating. And for the barest moment, so short that Jake almost questioned whether he really did see it, there was a flicker of something else. A cold, killing glint.
The atmosphere between them thickened.
"What are you doing here?" Father Paul's voice was low and unfriendly, each word chopped and controlled. "The church is closed."
Jake's stomach churned. There was something in his voice—not just annoyance, but something else. Something hostile. Was he simply angry that someone had snuck in at night? Or was there another motivation?
Jake didn't know, and to be honest, he didn't care.
"I… I prayed here," he stammered out, the first fib on his lips before he had a chance to breathe. This was a church, for goodness' sake—what could he possibly say? He swallowed. "My grandpa passed away. I'm in shock." Father Paul's expression didn't give. If anything, his eyes grew darker. He regarded Jake for a stiff, uncomfortable minute before exhaling loudly through his nostrils.
"And you decided to come at seven?" His voice was laced now, with a kind of irritation. "It's closing time. Couldn't you have waited until tomorrow?"
Jake shrugged, attempting to look casual, even though his heart pounded in his ears. "I just… needed to do it now."
Even while he was saying it, he realized how silly it sounded. And by Father Paul's glaring at him, he knew that the priest wasn't believing him either. The quiet between them thickened, and became heavier than air.
Jake felt as though he'd been caught at a lie when in fact, he hadn't been. At least, technically speaking.
As tension snapped too close to whipping it into its natural state, another voice sliced the heavy atmosphere.
"Jake?"
Jake wheeled around at the familiar voice, relief washing over him as Father Gabriel appeared in view. Unlike Paul, Gabriel's face was warm, his brows furrowed in worry rather than suspicion. His robes were disheveled, as if he'd been getting little sleep, and his normally peaceful face flared with surprise at seeing him.
"What are you doing here?" Gabriel asked, his voice considerably softer than Paul's.
Jake gritted a weak smile, trying to dismiss it as nothing. "I came to pray. I wasn't going to be here long."
Father Paul did not appear to believe him. If anything, his expression turned even harder.
"Then why are you back here all the way?" His tone cut now, authoritative. He folded his arms over his chest. "The nave is quite a long way from here. Were you searching for something else?"
Jake's breath caught in his throat.
He hadn't thought of that. He had strayed, yes, but was it so unusual? His mind was unable to formulate an answer, but the weight of Paul's gaze held him back, rendering him unable to think.
He was trapped.
But before he could say anything, Father Gabriel stepped in, his expression grim as he spoke to Paul.
"Stop, Brother Paul," he ordered firmly. "Leave the boy alone. He's having a hard time." His tone, though gentle, was not to be disagreed with.
Jake looked over at Paul, ready for him to grumble, but the priest only set his lips into a tight line. His jaw snapped tight, and for a moment, something indeterminate flashed across his face before he turned aside.
Gabriel looked at Jake, his face easing. "Go to the nave, my child. Take as long as you need. I see your pain."
Jake nodded quickly, not wanting to stay a second longer. He turned and walked towards the nave, but even as he went, his thoughts raged.
Something was not right with Father Paul.
He had been so other at the funeral—kind, gentle. But tonight? Tonight, it was as if he was a completely different man.
Why the change?
He did not make much progress before Gabriel called him back.
"Oh, and Jake."
Jake slowed down his step, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Don't pay any attention to Father Paul," Gabriel said with a faint, exhausted smile. "He's tired and ill. I hope you can forgive him."
Jake forced out a weak smile back and went about his business.
Yeah, no. He was not having that.
The minute he saw MC, he was dishing all to them.
…
MC absorbed Jake's words, letting them settle like a weight in his chest. He could see where Jake was coming from—Father Paul's behavior had been odd, almost too much, like he was trying too hard to conceal something. And the fact that Father Gabriel had to step in and smooth everything out? That only added to the suspiciousness of the whole thing.
But there was something else that nagged at MC.
Father Paul had known Jake's name—that was no surprise. Jake's family attended church every Sunday, so of course the priest would be familiar with him. But Paul had also looked at MC with something unreadable in his eyes, as though he knew him too. But that was not possible. MC had never seen the man before yesterday.
So why had it felt like Paul knew him?
I think we should follow him," MC said finally, his voice low but certain. "He might know more than he's letting on."
Jake snorted, shifting impatiently. "Well, yeah. I already figured he's in the cult." He let out a swift breath. "Hell, maybe he even knows we're getting close to something."
MC nodded. That was starting to sound less like paranoia and more like a likelihood.
But the truth? He didn't care why Father Paul had done it. If he was involved in something sinister or just playing a part in a larger game, they were running out of time. It was already seven, and if they didn't get moving, they might not get another chance.
"Let's go," MC said, urgency creeping into his voice. "We need to start following him."
Jake stopped, glancing at the other priests who were lingering around. "Yeah, but we can't just leave—we need them to believe we left."
MC smiled. "That's the simple part."
He stood up, stretching as though he was preparing to leave. Then, in a louder, more casual voice, he called out to Jake.
"C'mon," he said. "We ought to get moving."
Jake caught on immediately, nodding as though they were really going to leave.
But they both knew better.
They weren't going anywhere—except after Father Paul.