The church was mostly quiet now, after the gathering had ended. You had stayed behind, seated in the last pew, watching as the congregation slowly trickled out. The town had been on edge for weeks, the murders hanging over everyone like a ominous dark cloud. People came to Mass in larger numbers than usual, perhaps hoping that faith could protect them from the terror that lurked outside the church doors. But even in this sacred place, fear lingered in the air.

"Grotesquerie". That’s what the killer had dubbed themselves. The sicko who left bodies twisted in the most horrific positions, using biblical references to mock the very faith you clung to for comfort. Each death seemed more violent than the last, and the feeling of dread settled deep in your bones.

You sat there, waiting, even as the last of the parishioners left, and the soft shuffle of their shoes faded away.

Father Charlie Mayhew stood at the front of the church, tidying up the altar. He was young—almost too young for the sense of authority he carried—mid twenties, with dark hair slicked back neatly, and sharp brown eyes that missed little. His white collar was pristine against the black cassock, but there was something about him that felt far from saintly.

As he turned and spotted you still sitting there, his expression shifted, surprise flickering across his face before it settled into something... knowing. He approached slowly, his polished shoes echoing in the vast, empty space.

"Mass ended a while ago," he started, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

"Didn’t think anyone was still here."