1102: Story 1102: Shadows in the Chapel 1102: 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 lood 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.
Sothing about the chapel tugged at it—like the chain around her neck grew heavier with each step.
She had co after hearing of the lights: ghostly flas 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.
Inside, the air was colder.
The pews were shattered, covered in ash and old blood.
The altar was stripped bare, replaced by a circle of black candles still burning though no one had lit them.
And behind it, scorched into the crumbling stone wall, was the symbol from her locket—the hollow eye.
“Who’s here?” Evelyn called, her voice steady but tense.
No answer.
She stepped forward.
Shadows shifted.
At first, she thought it was her imagination—but they moved again.
Not fleeing the lantern light, but leaning toward it.
A sudden rustling, then a figure darted between pillars at the side of the chapel.
Evelyn turned sharply, lantern raised.
A faint hiss echoed from behind her, then another.
The shadows whispered.
“Evelyn…”
She froze.
It wasn’t her na on the wind—it was inside her mind, wrapped in the voices of those she’d lost.
Her mother.
Her brother.
The partner she’d buried in a case gone cold.
Their voices overlapped, drowning reason.
“No,” she muttered, gripping the locket tightly.
The shadows bled from the walls like ink, forming into a tall figure with a cowl of tattered black cloth and arms too long to be human.
Its face was only a gaping void, where the hollow eye should be.
“You were called,” it rasped.
“By the song.
You wear the mark.”
“What are you?” Evelyn asked, heart hamring.
“I am Sister Elsinore’s regret.
The chapel rembers what was buried beneath it.
You woke her.”
With a screech like tearing fabric, the figure lunged.
Evelyn flung the lantern, its blue fla erupting into ghostly fire.
The entity recoiled, shrieking, and dissolved into smoke.
The flas sputtered out.
The chapel was empty once more.
Evelyn backed toward the exit, the locket pulsing against her chest.
As she stepped out into the cold light of morning, the chapel doors slamd shut behind her on their own.
On the wood, scratched deep into the surface, a single word had appeared:
“REMBER.”
And far above, from the broken spire, the bell rang once.
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