Echoes of the Past

The heavy scent of burning wax and aged paper filled the air inside St. Mary's Parish. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across the walls, dancing over the faded frescoes of saints who no longer seemed benevolent, but judgmental.

Detective Samuel Vance stood in the center of the sanctuary, hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the ancient tome Father Dominic had shown him earlier. The worn pages lay open on the altar, revealing arcane symbols and Latin inscriptions that mirrored the markings found at the crime scenes.

But it wasn't the scripture that held his attention. It was the mark. The same damn symbol he had seen carved into the bodies, on the walls, and now in his mind. A circle, a vertical line, and three smaller crosses beneath it.

Vance's voice was low and strained. "You knew."

Father Dominic leaned against the altar, his face lined with guilt. "I suspected."

Vance's jaw clenched. "Bullshit. You've seen this before. I've seen this before." He jabbed a finger at the book. "Ten years ago. The girl behind St. Michael's."

Dominic inhaled sharply, eyes flickering with something Vance didn't like—something that looked too much like fear. "That case... I remember."

Vance's mind replayed the details like a film reel. Maryanne Fletcher. Sixteen years old. Found dead in an alley behind St. Michael's Church. The same symbol carved into her chest, her hands bound in rosary beads soaked in her own blood. They never caught the killer. The case had haunted him for years.

Vance swallowed, his throat dry. "Tell me, Father... was she the first?"

Dominic didn't answer right away. He ran a hand over his face, weariness sinking into his bones. "She wasn't the first, Samuel. Not by a long shot."

Vance felt a heavy weight press down on him. "Then why didn't you say anything? Why didn't the Church—"

"Because we were afraid." Dominic cut him off, his voice trembling. "Afraid of what it would mean if we admitted what we knew. The Choir of Sins isn't just a cult, Samuel. They're something older. Much older. And they've been here long before either of us."

Vance took a shaky breath. "How long?"

Dominic stared at the altar, his eyes distant. "Since the first cathedral was built in this city. Since the settlers arrived and brought their faith with them. The Choir has always been here—hidden, waiting."

Vance gritted his teeth. "And what the hell do they want?"

Dominic exhaled, shaking his head. "They seek absolution. They believe the world is a corrupted place, that sin must be purged before heaven can be made anew."

Vance slammed his fist on the altar, causing the candles to flicker violently. "And killing people is their way of cleansing the world?"

Dominic looked up at him, sadness etched into every line of his face. "They believe each death is a step toward their final goal—the Seventh Trumpet."

Vance scoffed bitterly. "And what happens when they reach it?"

Dominic's voice dropped to a whisper. "The Choir believes they will open the gates of heaven… or something worse."

Vance dragged a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ."

Dominic fixed him with a haunted gaze. "I wouldn't count on Him stopping it."

A tense silence settled between them. The weight of the revelations hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating.

Then, a sound echoed through the empty church.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Vance spun around, gun drawn, eyes scanning the darkened pews. The rhythmic tapping came from the far end of the nave. Shadows shifted in the flickering candlelight, and for a brief moment, Vance thought he saw movement—a tall, hooded figure gliding silently between the rows of pews.

Cat's voice cut through the tension. "Vance."

He turned to see her standing near the entrance, Elena huddled behind her. Elena was staring at the far end of the church, her wide, terrified eyes locked on the shadows.

Vance moved toward them, keeping his gun raised. "What is it?"

Elena's voice was a whisper, trembling with fear. "He's here."

Vance looked at Cat, his gut twisting. "Get her out of here. Now."

Cat didn't hesitate, grabbing Elena's arm and leading her out through the side entrance.

Vance took a cautious step forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. "If you're here to confess," he called out, "you're a little late."

The whisper came again, curling through the air like a serpent.

"The past cannot be undone, Detective."

Vance's blood ran cold.

The shadow moved closer, stepping into the candlelight for just a fraction of a second, and Vance caught a glimpse of it—the hollow face, smooth and featureless. A human form without a soul.

A Hollow Man.

Vance squeezed the trigger, the gunshot echoing through the cathedral, but when he looked again—

Nothing.

Just the flickering of the candles and the empty pews stretching into the darkness.

Dominic approached cautiously, eyes scanning the church with deep unease. "They're watching, Samuel. They always are."

Vance lowered his gun, jaw tight. "Then we make them regret it."

Dominic hesitated before pulling something from inside his robe—a small, ornate crucifix, ancient and worn. "Take this. You'll need it."

Vance eyed the relic suspiciously. "I don't do faith, Father."

Dominic pressed it into his palm. "It's not about faith, Detective. It's about power."

Vance pocketed the crucifix, eyes dark with resolve. "Then let's end this."

As he strode toward the exit, the whisper followed him—soft, mocking, and full of promise.

"The past never stays buried, Samuel."

Vance didn't look back.