Story 1102: Shadows in the Chapel

The chapel stood silent beneath a sky that bled grey into the earth. Forgotten by its flock and swallowed by ivy, the Chapel of Saint Thorne loomed at the forest’s edge like a wound that would not close. Its spire, cracked and crooked, pierced the clouds like a thorn, and its bell had not tolled in decades.

Evelyn Blackmoor approached cautiously, the silver locket from the banshee still cold against her chest. Something about the chapel tugged at it—like the chain around her neck grew heavier with each step.

She had come after hearing of the lights: ghostly flames flickering in the windows, and a shadow said to pace inside even when the doors were sealed shut. More chilling still were the rumors of chanting—guttural, rhythmic, and never human.

She pushed open the chapel doors. They creaked open with a groan like a dying breath.