Tenney could identify the chants as he remembers the Sunday choir at their church when he was young. His father and mother were ardently pious and never missed church. And when he wound up with his grandparents in his village the old church ever had the opulence of the town church. There was no choir; only the cacophony of housewives.
They are inside a house of worship. Locked under a church.
He shivered.
Sometime later, exhausted from the whole ordeal, both boys lay still. Their minds numb, limbs aching, throat sore, and eyes burning they slipped into an insane eyes wide open slumber. The throbbing of the chants subsided and there lingered silence. Hallowed silence. Silence that can be heard. Silence that could be cut. Tenney lay with the rotting body at his feet and Henry lay in anoth
