Chloe Gomez's POV:

Staring at the bill in his hand, my stomach churned—not out of fear, but from a deep, gnawing hunger.

"Really?" I asked. "You'll really give it to me?"

"Every last cent," he promised.

Without hesitation, I blurted out everything I had seen: the dark, shifting silhouette beneath the veil, the sickeningly sweet smell, the way the incense had violently snuffed out. I painted a vivid picture of a living terror trapped inside that shrine.

But the boys weren't satisfied. "That's not enough. Anyone could make that up. We need proof. Hard proof."

"What kind of proof?" I asked.

He pointed toward the shrine, its heavy wooden doors shut tight against the gathering twilight. "Get the Prophet's veil. Bring it here, and the money is yours."

My mind raced. The Prophet's statue was tall, but not impossible to scale. I could reach it.

I imagined that money. It was enough to buy groceries, maybe even a new dress for my mom. Enough to make her smile, to show her I wasn't just a burden, that I could actually help.

If I did this, maybe she wouldn't be in such a rush to marry me off.

"I'll do it!" I declared, my voice shaking with a mix of dread and desperate hope. "I'll do it tonight!"

I waited until the whole town was asleep, the moon hanging high in the night sky.

The shrine cut a sinister silhouette in the pale moonlight. My fingers fumbled clumsily with the rusted padlock, but a piece of wire surprisingly did the trick.

A sharp click echoed into the dead of night.

I pushed the heavy wooden door open, breaking the silence with a low creak. A single beam of moonlight pierced the gloom, illuminating the path to the Prophet's pedestal.

I wedged a rock against the door, leaving it cracked open just enough so the wind wouldn't blow it shut.

The air inside was freezing, stagnant, and reeked of rot.

A deathly silence enveloped me, broken only by the frantic thudding of my own heartbeat.

I could feel the Prophet's presence—a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on me. But the thought of the money pushed my fear aside.

I climbed onto the altar, then hoisted myself onto the pedestal, my eyes locked on the spot where the Prophet's statue was supposed to be.

But there was nothing there!

The Prophet was gone.

My mind went completely blank as a sudden, paralyzing wave of terror crashed over me.

I stared blankly at the empty space, my hands gripping the edge of the pedestal so hard my knuckles turned white. Where did it go?

Chloe Gomez's POV:

Beads of nervous sweat seeped from my palms.

The pedestal was still there, and embedded right in the center was a jagged iron spike pointing straight up.

Scattered around the base of the spike were rusted iron nails.

I reached out and touched the spike, instantly yanking my hand back.

It was warm—almost hot—and sticky. It wasn't old tree sap; it was something wet, viscous.

With a sickening jolt, I realized it was blood.

My childish brain scrambled for an explanation. Maybe they put the statue away? Took it to be cleaned?

But right before I entered the shrine, the statue's silhouette had been clearly visible for a split second. It was right there. I was absolutely sure of it.

How could it just vanish?

I looked around. The old, dilapidated shrine groaned around me, its wooden beams creaking under the weight of time. Cobwebs hung from the high ceiling like tattered burial shrouds.

It was just a crumbling old building, nothing more.

A cold chill slithered down my spine.

And then, I saw it. A side door, usually kept tightly shut, was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of total darkness behind it. My eyes were drawn to it against my will, sensing the secrets hiding in that pitch-black void.

As I stared, a round, vaguely human-head-shaped silhouette slowly peeked out from behind the crack of the door, then quickly darted back into the shadows.

I gasped, a lump forming in my throat.

I jerked backward, stumbling off the pedestal and crashing hard onto the dust-covered floor. A sharp pain shot up my tailbone.

I lay there frozen, completely paralyzed with fear.

Then, an elongated shadow flitted across the gap in the side door and vanished.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a rock being kicked away. A second later, the sliver of moonlight filtering through the front door disappeared.

The shrine was plunged into an abyssal, pitch-black darkness. It felt like a massive, invisible weight was crushing me.

Panic erupted in my chest.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling blindly in the direction I thought the door was.

My hands slapped against solid wood. I shoved against it with everything I had. It wouldn't budge.

My teeth were chattering uncontrollably, but I clamped both hands over my mouth to stifle any sound.

Every single cell in my body was screaming at me to shriek for help, but an icy, primal instinct told me I couldn't. Whatever was in here with me, I didn't want it to find me. Not yet.

I dropped to my knees, crawling on all fours toward the incense altar, my heart hammering like a drum.

I scrambled frantically and wedged myself underneath it.

I was trembling violently, all four of my limbs shaking. I buried my face between my knees, praying to a god I didn't even believe in, begging for dawn to come.

And then, I heard it. A soft, rustling sound. Like something being dragged across the stone floor.

It was getting closer. Slow and steady.

My terrified brain tried to rationalize it. A stray dog? A rat? But the sound was far too heavy for that.

The altar cloth rustled. Two skeletal hands crawled onto the floor.

It was dragging something—a heavy, embroidered robe—across the stone tiles. It was the exact same silk robe that had been draped over the Prophet's statue.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

It wasn't a statue.

It was her. Or rather, whatever remained of her.

A horrifying realization clamped down on my heart.

It's the Prophet! The thing crawling on the floor... is the Prophet!

But... wasn't she dead? Wasn't she a statue?

Chloe Gomez's POV:

My eyes slowly began to adjust to the pitch black. Faint outlines emerged from the gloom.

I could make out the blurry silhouette of the altar above me and the stone tiles beneath my feet.

The rustling stopped. Then came a wet, slurping noise, followed by a low, guttural gulp.

It was close. Way too close.

My body went completely rigid, every muscle locking up in terror.

With mounting horror, I realized the "Prophet" was eating. It was devouring the offerings left earlier that day—the sweet fruits, the soft pastries.

I buried my head deeper into my knees, holding my breath tight in my chest, chanting a silent prayer: Don't see me. Please, don't see me.

After what felt like an eternity, the slurping finally stopped.

The rustling resumed, slowly fading away until it disappeared into the darkness. I let out a long, shaky exhale.

I carefully crawled out from under the altar, my limbs stiff and quivering.

I needed a better hiding spot. A place where it couldn't smell me or hear me.

As my eyes adjusted further, the layout of the room became clearer. In the center stood a massive sacrificial table. Behind it, lining the walls, stood rows of hazy humanoid figures.

A fresh wave of terror hit me. My heart battered against my ribs like a panicked bird trapped in a cage. But then, a sliver of rationality cut through the fear. They weren't people; they were Saint statues.

I remembered now. Before the Prophet took over, this building used to be an old Catholic church.

But then I noticed something far stranger, something that filled me with a profound sense of dread. Every single Saint statue was facing the wall, their backs turned to the center of the room. They had their backs to me, as if out of shame, or fear.

A blood-curdling thought hit me. They were guarding against something.

A sudden surge of desperate courage welled up inside me.

If the "Prophet"—or whatever that thing was—was afraid of the Saints' gaze, then maybe they could protect me too.

I scrambled toward the nearest Saint statue. Its massive bulk offered a silent, stony embrace. I grabbed its thick arm and pressed my body tightly against its back.

The statue was imposing, and for a fleeting second, I felt a false sense of security, like I had a shield against the creeping terror.

Then, a heavy, ragged breath echoed from right behind the statue. Close. Unbearably close. My heart leaped into my throat. The Prophet was back.

I clung to the statue's arm for dear life.

I could hear scraping—the frantic, tearing sound of claws gouging into the back of the stone Saint, as if the creature was trying to rip the rock apart.

My nerves were stretched to the breaking point. My arms burned with exhaustion, and my fingers were going numb. Sweat beaded on my forehead, stinging my eyes, making my palms slick. My strength was failing; I was losing my grip.

I bit back a desperate scream as my hands finally slipped. I plummeted, my body slamming hard against the stone floor with a sickening thud.