1084: Story 1084: The Hollow Sermon 1084: Story 1084: The Hollow Sermon The town of Carrion’s Hollow had long forgotten the na of its church.
They only called it the Place of Echoes—a derelict cathedral that lood over the rotting fields like a mourning sentinel.
No one dared enter its grounds after sunset, not since the sermons turned hollow.
It began during the last winter before the Fall.
Father Alban Crowe had been a beloved figure, his voice warm enough to thaw even the most jaded hearts.
But one day, he stood at the pulpit and spoke words no one could comprehend—phrases that tasted like ash and made the congregation’s blood run cold.
So said his shadow moved on its own, gesturing wildly as he stood frozen.
Others claid they saw thin, jagged figures slithering behind the stained-glass windows, pressing their faces against the colored light.
Then, the deaths began.
One by one, the parishioners vanished, leaving behind only blackened teeth or hair braided into strange runes.
Whispers spread of a sermon heard not by ears, but by the marrow of the bones—a sermon for the dead, not the living.
Abandoning hope, the townsfolk sealed the cathedral with iron chains and silver nails.
Still, at night, if the wind was cruel enough, the Hollow Sermon would drift across the fields, a droning chant that made even the wolves wail in terror.
Years later, drawn by greed and madness, a group of scavengers from the ruined cities arrived.
Among them was Jonah Redd, a man too desperate to care for the warnings etched on the town’s crumbling gate: “DO NOT LISTEN.”
They broke the cathedral’s seals.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with the scent of decaying incense.
The pews were splintered, the altar cracked and weeping black sap.
Yet, the pulpit remained untouched, a blackened book resting atop it, bound in brittle parchnt.
Jonah approached, his lantern casting twisted shadows against the high arches.
The first word he heard was not spoken by any mouth.
It slithered into his ears like smoke.
The Hollow Sermon had waited, patient, hungry.
The others scread and clutched their heads, their eyes rolling white.
Jonah watched as their mouths opened wide, black ichor spilling forth in rivulets as they mouthed prayers to sothing vast and sightless.
The walls of the cathedral pulsed, alive with a heartbeat that wasn’t Jonah’s own.
From behind the altar, the figure of Father Crowe erged—only now, he was but a brittle husk of bone and vestnt, his face a hollow mask.
He opened his mouth, and the true sermon began.
It spoke of a coming night where even the stars would be devoured.
It promised release from flesh, but at the cost of the soul’s annihilation.
Jonah tried to run, but the words had already rooted themselves deep within him.
The last thing he felt was a terrible stillness as his body beca nothing more than an empty vessel, another voice in the eternal choir.
Today, Carrion’s Hollow is empty—but if you walk too close to the ruins, you’ll hear the sermon carried on the breeze: hollow, endless, and waiting for new ears to infect.
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