I never believed in monsters. Not really.
But the night I cut my palm open and spilled blood on the wrong altar, I learned how wrong I was.
The ruins behind campus were supposed to be harmless—just an abandoned chapel, the kind you sneak into with friends to drink cheap vodka and take pictures for i********:. I wasn’t supposed to be there alone. But when my roommate bailed on me, I stayed anyway, bottle of wine in hand, phone flashlight trembling in the shadows.
The altar was nothing special—just stone cracked with age. I sat on it, laughing to myself, until the glass bottle slipped and shattered. I reached for it without thinking, and a shard sliced deep across my palm.
“f**k. .” I hissed, holding it tight, warm blood slipping through my fingers. It dripped on the altar, soaking into
