Story 1193: The Cathedral Turns

In the heart of Dreadmoor, the cathedral that once stood as a relic of faith had begun to move.

It started subtly—barely a quiver in the stained-glass saints, a murmur in the blackened bells. But beneath its stone bones, something ancient stirred, something that predated prayer. The townsfolk awoke to a low grinding sound, like mountains weeping. They stepped outside and looked toward the skyline, where the old cathedral now tilted, like a ship caught in storm-surge.

And then it turned.

Not toppled. Not collapsed.

It pivoted, slowly and deliberately, on its own foundation, like an eye locking onto its prey.

Inside the crypts, Evelyn Blackmoor gasped as the walls realigned, corridors slithering into new shapes. The tombs she had mapped meticulously were now inverted, names rewritten in a dead language no living tongue could speak. Candles flickered to life on their own, casting inverted shadows that sank upward.