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.

Chloe Gomez's POV:

The moment I hit the ground, the breath was knocked out of me, replaced by a blinding flash of pain.

Something in my pocket hit the floor with a loud clack, making a crisp cracking sound before snapping in two. My vision spun, darkness swirling around me as I lay there, completely dazed for a moment.

A skeletal, bony hand clamped down on the back of my head with astonishing, terrifying strength. It twisted violently, as if trying to rip my head straight off my neck.

"Ahhh!" A scream tore from my throat, raw and desperate.

I clawed wildly at my own head, desperately trying to protect myself, but the hand was relentless, twisting and pulling at my skull.

As the monster wrenched my head, it let out an eerie, broken moan. The pain was excruciating, searing through my skull like fire.

In that moment of absolute, blinding terror, I blurted out a cry: "Mom!"

Suddenly, the pressure vanished.

The hands let go. The moaning stopped.

I lay there, gasping for air, my head throbbing in agony, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

The thing—whatever it was—seemed to recoil, scurrying back into the shadows with a frantic rustling sound.

I didn't understand.

Why did it stop? Why did it run away? My brain was still swimming in shock and pain, struggling to process what had just happened.

My eyes fell on the broken pieces scattered across the floor. It was my mother's old pocket watch, the one she always kept pinned to her apron. It was a gift from my father, a rare luxury for us.

The glass face was shattered, but the locket inside had popped open, completely intact. Inside was a tiny, faded photograph.

I carefully picked up the pieces. It was a picture of me and my mom, taken years ago. We were smiling, our faces pressed close together.

I stared blankly at the photo. I looked at my eyes in the picture, then at my mother's eyes, and then back into the darkness where the monster had retreated.

An idea sprouted, blooming rapidly in my mind.

It was afraid of our eyes. My mother's eyes. My eyes.

The true meaning of the taboo—the forbidden gaze—suddenly became terrifyingly clear.

It wasn't to protect us. It was to protect the "Prophet."

Or perhaps, to protect them from us.

The "Prophet" was terrified of being looked at!

Despite my exhaustion, despite the sweat soaking my clothes, a cold thrill ran down my spine. I knew its weakness.

The photo was old, taken on the day of the town's spring festival. It was a rare, happy time for us. My mother, usually so stoic and distant, was smiling that day, her arms wrapped tightly around me.

She had changed so much after my dad died. After his death, the town—led by the powerful Anthony Horn—had ostracized her, whispering that she was "morally corrupt" because she rejected wealthy suitors.

They called her shameless, but I knew she was strong. she stuck to her principles, even if it meant plunging us deeper into poverty.

I used to think she didn't love me, that she just wanted to marry me off the second I was old enough.

Yet, when I was in mortal danger, her name was the one on my lips. My mother. Always my mother.

A faint whisper, barely audible, tickled my ear.

"Chloe... Chloe..."

Someone was calling my name.

Was I hearing things? I strained my ears, craning my neck into the darkness, but the sound faded, swallowed once again by the suffocating silence.

Chloe Gomez's POV:

I tiptoed toward the front doors, my heart still hammering aggressively against my ribs.

I peered through the narrow crack in the heavy wood.

The dirt road outside was completely deserted, bathed in pale, freezing moonlight. Not a soul in sight.

My fingers brushed against a small alcove built into the inside of the doorframe. There was something hidden there: a handful of incense granules and a cheap lighter.

An idea—a desperate, insanely risky plan—flashed through my mind.

Burn the incense.

The Prophet couldn't stand being looked at.

If I knew exactly where it was hiding, I could use my gaze—or my mother's photograph—to scare it back. Then I could escape.

I crept carefully toward the nearby censer.

My heart was in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I lit the incense and deliberately knocked the burning embers onto the floor, letting them scatter.

The once dark and dreary stone floor was instantly dotted with tiny, glowing specks of fire. It was an eerie, terrifyingly beautiful sight.

As the embers settled, I saw them. Faint, dark patches where the incense had been violently and instantly snuffed out. They formed a jagged, fan-shaped trail of darkness radiating from behind a large bookshelf.

It was right there. Behind the shelf. I found it.

Suddenly, the bookshelf began to shake violently.

Old, moldy books and yellowed papers rained down, scattering all around me. The creature was agitated. Highly agitated.

I looked closely at the fallen papers and realized they were old photographs—some black and white, some heavily faded.

They showed scenes of normal town life, blurry faces, generations of townsfolk.

But something was horribly wrong. The eyes of some of the people in the photos had been violently scribbled out with black ink.

And then I saw it. A more recent photo.

My mother. Younger, but unmistakably her.

She was holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.

My blood ran ice cold. The baby's eyes had been crudely, viciously blacked out with ink.

It was me.

That baby was me.