As the investigation deepens, Vance revisits the crime scene alone at night. What he discovers inside the church shakes his understanding of the case—and of reality itself.
The rain had slowed to a fine mist, hanging low over the empty streets of the French Quarter. The neon lights of bourbon-soaked bars flickered in the distance, but here, outside St. Augustine Church, there was only darkness.
Detective Samuel Vance stood at the steps, gazing up at the towering stone facade. The gargoyles perched along the roofline seemed to watch him with hollow eyes, their rain-slicked faces twisted into grins too wide, too knowing.
He should have gone home. He should have poured himself a drink, slept, and tried to forget the warning from the anonymous caller earlier that night. But instead, he was here—back at the scene of the crime, because something about it wouldn't let him go.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors, the creak echoing through the cavernous nave.
Inside, the church felt colder than it should have. The air was thick with the scent of old incense and something darker underneath—blood, dried and soaked into the wooden pews. The forensics team had cleared out hours ago, but the sense of something lingering remained.
Vance's footsteps echoed as he moved deeper into the nave. The dim glow of votive candles flickered along the walls, casting long, dancing shadows of the saints carved into stone. His eyes swept across the bloodstains still marking the floor in front of the altar, where Father Nolan's body had been found earlier.
He ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling slowly. The crime scene photographs hadn't done justice to the raw brutality of it. The Latin inscriptions branded into the victim's flesh—Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi. The heart missing. The eyes gone.
Something wasn't right.
He took a cautious step forward, the wood groaning beneath his weight. Then he heard it.
A faint rustling.
Vance froze, instinctively resting his hand on the grip of his gun. His heart pounded, sending a slow thrum through his ears.
The noise came again. A whisper of movement from the far side of the church, near the confessionals.
Vance swallowed and moved slowly, silently, down the center aisle, his eyes scanning the shadows between the pews. The flickering candlelight played tricks on his vision, distorting the carved faces of saints and angels into something more sinister.
A flash of movement—too quick to be imagined.
"Who's there?" Vance's voice was steady, but inside, tension coiled tight.
No response. Only the heavy, oppressive silence.
He reached the confessional booths, his fingers tightening around the handle of his pistol. With his free hand, he yanked open the heavy velvet curtain.
Nothing.
A single Bible sat on the wooden seat, open to the Gospel of Matthew. "For many are called, but few are chosen." The page was stained with something dark. Vance's stomach twisted. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the brittle parchment—
A sudden crash.
He spun, gun raised, aiming toward the altar. One of the votive candle racks had toppled, wax spilling onto the marble floor, flames flickering wildly.
He took a shaky breath and lowered his weapon. "Jesus..."
Then he saw it.
A new smear of blood across the seat of the pew closest to the altar. Fresh. Still wet. And above it, scrawled onto the wood in the same burnt, seared lettering as the victim's flesh, was a single Latin phrase:
"Sanguis meus in sacrificium."
My blood, in sacrifice.
Vance felt a chill crawl up his spine.
He took a step back, his instincts screaming at him to get out, but his pride kept him rooted. He needed to understand this. Needed to figure out what the hell was happening inside this church.
The distant chime of the church bell above sent a shudder through the empty hall, and then—
A low whisper.
Not from behind him. Not from the pews. From above.
Vance slowly tilted his head back, his breath catching in his throat.
There, high above in the loft where the choir once sang, a figure stood, half-shrouded in the darkness. It was cloaked in long, flowing robes, black as midnight, its head bowed, hands clasped in silent, reverent prayer.
Vance's fingers flexed on the grip of his gun, but before he could take aim, the figure raised its head.
It had no face.
Where features should have been, there was only smooth, pale flesh stretched over bone. Two deep, black hollows where eyes should be. And though it had no mouth, Vance could hear its voice—low, melodic, like a hundred voices whispering at once.
"The first trumpet has sounded."
Vance's pulse skyrocketed. He took a step back, the figure unmoving, watching him without eyes. He fought the instinct to run, to scream. Instead, he slowly raised his weapon.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
The figure tilted its head, the whispering chorus growing louder.
"We are the Choir."
Vance fired.
The bullet struck the figure square in the chest—only for it to burst apart in a flurry of black feathers, dissipating into the darkness above. The whispers remained, echoing through the church like a hymn carried on the wind.
Vance stood frozen, gun still raised, his breathing ragged. He took a shaky step back, eyes darting around the empty nave, searching for movement.
Nothing. Just the eerie silence of the abandoned church.
He swallowed hard and holstered his weapon, backing away toward the doors. His instincts screamed at him to leave, to run, but he forced himself to take measured steps.
As he reached the exit, he turned one last time. The pews were empty. The altar was still stained with blood. But he could feel it—something watching, waiting.
He stepped outside, slamming the heavy doors shut behind him. The cool night air hit his face like a slap, but the tension in his chest refused to dissipate.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he didn't want to call.
Father Dominic Lorne.
If anyone knew what the hell was going on inside St. Augustine Church, it was him.
Vance lit a cigarette with shaking hands, staring up at the towering spires above. Somewhere deep within those walls, something ancient and hungry had awakened.
And it wasn't done yet.