The Confessional
The church was silent, save for the occasional creak of ancient wooden pews and the faint echo of footsteps on the cold stone floor. Young Elian crouched beneath the altar, his heart hammering against his chest. He was no more than twelve years old, but his senses were sharper than ever tonight, a premonition in the air. His wide eyes, dark with confusion and fear, followed the figures as they gathered in the shadows, their voices barely audible. It was a ritual he had never seen before—at least not like that
.
The dim candlelight flickered in the corners, casting strange, elongated shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The air was thick, almost suffocating, with an unnatural heat that made Elian sweat. He pulled his knees closer to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible, hiding behind the old stone column, feeling the coldness of it seep into his bones.
He could hear the murmur of voices—low and hurried, like whispers meant to remain hidden. The strange words were not from any prayer he recognized. And yet, they carried power, a weight that sent shivers down his spine. Elian knew, even at that young age, that something was wrong. This wasn’t just an ordinary ceremony. The flickering candlelight danced across the faces of the men gathered at the altar—faces he knew—faces that should not have been involved in anything secretive or sinister. They were respected members of the community. The mayor, the sheriff, even the town doctor—figures of authority who had always been seen as pillars of goodness in San Fernando.
But now, as they stood in a tight circle, their eyes focused on the object in the center—something Elian couldn’t make out from his hiding spot—he felt the first stirrings of dread. It wasn’t just the secrecy of it all; it was the heavy, palpable sense of wrongdoing. Elian’s instincts screamed at him to leave, to run away from this moment and never look back, but his feet were frozen in place. He had to know what was happening.
The words reached a crescendo, rising in intensity, and Elian could feel the energy in the air shift. It was as if the room itself was alive, pressing in on him, and then there was a scream. A woman’s scream. Not a scream of pain, but one of pure terror, of someone who had come face to face with something unspeakable. Elian’s heart skipped a beat.
He barely had time to react as the altar was suddenly bathed in a bright, unnatural light, blinding him for a split second. Then, chaos. The men scattered, their faces twisted with panic. The woman—Elian, barely caught a glimpse of her, but he knew it was Clara. He dropped to her knees, her hands pressed against her ears as if trying to shut out something no one else could hear. The ground beneath Elian’s feet trembled, the stone beneath him vibrating with a force he couldn’t comprehend.
Everything seemed to unravel at once.
The ritual was over.
But Elian knew this was just the beginning.
