Jericho could practically hear it. The bursts of ear splitting music from the pipe organ, rising in swells over the congregation. The voices of the choir, harmonizing in a hymn.

It was beautiful. It was a lie.

The church was decrepit. Glass that lay shattered, crunched underfoot, making way to the busted pews and the stagnant scent of mold. The only congregation that visited this once holy place were the rats that made their home within the walls. Occasionally, the bells would toll, a haunting song ringing through the air. The result of squirrels playing tag around the fraying rope of the church bells.

Until today.

Jericho wrapped his fists tight around the fraying rope of the church bells, heaving with all his might, he made their melody ring through the air. The church was in the middle of nowhere, lost to time, and nobody was around to hear them ring out any longer. Nobody but his guest, who lay moaning on the floor, writhing. Jericho grinned, pumping the bells one more time before he leapt off his perch, boots striking the creaky wood floor with his impact.

"Church is in session!" He called out to his assembly of one, voice loud and clear. The man on the floor only moaned in response, tossing his head from side to side. His hands were outstretched, nails driven through his palms into the wood planks below him. The wounds were fresh, raw and leaking. Jericho's toe bumped against his hammer, knocking the tool into the victim, who thrashed his legs in response.

"Really? You're not acting very holy," he huffed, before kneeling down. He picked up a large steel nail—more of a wedge of metal than anything—and pinned his victims legs together, before driving the nail through both his ankles in one swift movement. The scream the bound man let out was deafening.

Jericho stood back, surveyed his work. The man's blue eyes were bloodshot, swollen, his golden curls damp against his forehead.

The most angelic man Jericho could find.

"Now, I've heard a lot in my days, about the sinners and the saints. And the one thing that always sticks out to me is this: the Lord Almighty hates sin, but supposedly loves the sinner. They say that through the blood of Christ, all sins can be sponged away." Jericho jammed the steel toe of his boot down against the very edge of the plank he'd nailed the man's ankles to, watching the way the boards beneath him lifted into the air, dragging the victim up with them. Just like he'd rigged them to.

The man looked like an angel, suspended like that, crying out as the weight of his body strained against the nails pinning him in place.

"So tell me," Jericho said, leaning forward with a hand on his hip, his head tilted as he surveyed his victim, watching the blood trickle from his wounds. A tiny grin played on his lips as he spoke his next words: "Are my sins forgiven?"

With a small amused shake of his head, he pulled back his boot. The man went crashing to the ground, wood splintering and he could only let out a pathetic moan, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Crouching down, Jericho used his thumb to swipe at the blood, before sticking out his tongue and dragging that same thumb down it. Observing the way the man watched him weakly, something flickering in his pale eyes at the action.

"I'm so sorry you're gonna go to waste," Jericho said at last, and his tone did sound genuinely apologetic. "But I'm on a tight schedule. I don't have the time."

The time for what, he did not elaborate. Instead, he grabbed his hammer, using the clawed end to grip the nails impounded through the man's flesh, wrenching them out not at all gently, one by one. Once done with that brutally grueling task, Jericho dragged an arm across his forehead.

"Jesus. Still cheaper than seeing a shrink."

He looped his arms underneath the man and began to drag him, one step at a time out the back door of the church. A grave was already waiting there, dirt freshly churned, not quite six feet, but nobody came out here anyway. Jericho dragged till the man was at the edge of the hole, pausing to catch his breath, before digging his boot into the man and practically kicking him into the grave he'd dug. He tossed the bloodied nails on top of him.

"Like I said," Jericho added, scooping up a shovelful of dirt and throwing it into the grave. "Really sorry about this. It was just kind of a thing I woke up needing. You know the feeling, I'm sure."

He continued until the grave was full, until he'd patted down the top of the mound with the back of his shovel to pack it. "I need to make a mental note to never do that again," he muttered as he made his way towards the tree line, walking through it like he was familiar with the pathing through the underbrush.

"That shit's gonna give me blisters."

The sudden sound of glass crunching underfoot made the hairs on Jericho’s neck rise. He had turned around almost immediately, scanning the church briefly, before deducing that the rats within the walls were simply causing a ruckus at this time of day.

But what kind of rat sounded that large? Plus, Jericho could’ve sworn he had seen a glimpse of dark shape. The way the shadows moved on the broken glass, the way they'd jumped. A shape that had vanished the moment Jericho had blinked. Something eerily humanoid.

With a soft sigh and a pinch to the bridge to his nose, Jericho slowly turned his attention back to the trail, picking his way through the leaf litter and brambles that reached for his ankles. Maybe what he really needed was a drink.

It hadn't taken Jericho long to make a decision. He could always tell when someone was from out of town. Just passing through, or on their way, whether that was to bigger and better places or not. Important thing was that he knew who the locals were.

The lady he was currently eyeing was no local.

She had auburn hair that hung in braids down her back. A cropped top with some bands logo printed on it, not to mention shorts that hugged her curves. But he knew better than to be too forward. Knew better than to make his interest apparent.

That would only give onlookers ammunition.

Potential witnesses.

So he sat at the bar, sipped at his drink and watched her. Winked when she looked his way, feeling the surge of triumph when he saw her blush. He noticed the way she bit her lip, looking him up and down, studying the way his shirt hung open just right, the top button undone. Without wasting further time—for either of them—he picked up his glass and slammed it down, before sliding off the bar stool and making his way towards the door, not so subtly slipping a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket as he passed by.

He leaned against the wall outside, lit the little stick of death and inhaled deeply. He held his breath a moment longer than strictly necessary, before blowing his first puff of smoke into the sky. This was the moment of truth. To see if the bait he'd tossed out was enough to catch a fish. What was one night of harmless fun with a man she would never see again? After all, she was only passing through.

The bait always landed a catch.

It didn't last long enough. Jericho lay in bed beside her, trying not to let out a frustrated huff. She was happy enough, kissing the exposed skin of his throat as she lounged next to him, or rather, on his shoulder. He had offered her a smile before quickly laying himself flat again.

God, what was wrong with him? He felt so out of sorts lately.

Running a hand over his face, he pushed out of bed with a groan and pulled his boxers back on. He didn't bother putting anything else on. She just lay there watching him, the blanket barely covering her chest.

"Where did you say you were going, again?" Jericho had questioned, not quite out of curiosity, more so with the desperate need to fill the silence.

"Tallahassee," she said with a soft laugh. It was a nice laugh.

"Where the fuck is Tallahassee?"

She laughed again, not unkindly. "Florida. I'm looking for an apartment."

Fuck. Maybe he should let her be one of the lucky ones. He'd already killed someone else today, and... and there she was, trying to grab his notebook, about to snoop through the pages.

Clapping his hands together abruptly, altogether too loudly, he spoke. "Hungry? We could grab something from the kitchen." She had agreed, not even bothering to dress before standing on her toes to give him a shy little kiss, following him to the kitchen. He was thinking fast, eyes surveying what he had out, what was available to him. She had been leaned over the fridge, clearing trying to look for something to drink.

She hadn't seen the rolling pin coming until it collided sharply with the back of her skull.

With far less effort than his previous victim, Jericho was able to drag the woman towards the basement door. The one he always kept triple latched. He didn't like to keep evidence on his property, but sometimes it was necessary. It was easy enough to lift her body into the large freezer that hummed downstairs. She was even undressed, which meant she was perfect and ready. Jericho had only hesitated momentarily at the open freezer, before reaching down, tucking a braid behind her ear... almost tenderly.

He slammed the freezer shut.

Moving back onto the main floor, Jericho finally exhaled slowly. He had to put his kitchen to proper rights. Again. Luckily he hadn't really made a mess. Deciding a meal was more effort than it was worth, he concluded he wasn't actually hungry. It would be more clean up after all... and he'd already done his fair share for the week.

The golden haired ram ran a hand through his wool-like hair, prepared to call it an early night and head to bed— But not before he gave one last glance outside. His eyes squinted as he surveyed the backyard and then the tree line beyond it. Nothing was there.

Something is wrong.

It was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind as he laid in bed, as his fingers toyed with the rosary around his neck. He had never felt so off. The hair standing up at the back of his neck. Like he was being watched right that moment.

Maybe it was the weight of his sins catching up to him.

Maybe he hadn't been forgiven.

Jericho was on the verge of madness.

It had been thirteen days since he had begun to feel this itch on the back of his neck. Not the type of itch one could get from a mosquito bite, rather, it was the type that indicated someone was watching. But who and where were still the mystery that he simply couldn't crack.

It had all started simple enough. The nagging feeling of being watched while he was out at the bar or running errands. The echo of footsteps that weren't his own, or rather, stopping right after he'd stopped. But most importantly—alongside the most bothersome—was the feeling of being watched while he roamed his house.

Surprisingly, he wasn't actually threatened by this shy presence. Whoever it was had seen Jericho at that dilapidated church, had seen the way he'd dealt with his offering. Yet the sirens hadn't come about his neighborhood. No ominous calls, no worrisome notes, absolutely nothing.

So no. Jericho wasn't afraid. He was simply... peeved.

Which is what led him to his very bright idea. If they won't show themselves, he'll make it known that he knew they existed. A few moments later, he was in his bedroom window. He'd torn a page out of one of his notebooks and scrawled on it.

With obnoxiously large letters he'd written out 'I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING ME'. He taped it to the glass without further thought, and settled back on his bed, contemplating how stupid this looked. But how else was he supposed to get a reply, or at the very least, acknowledgement other than a heavy gaze? If he went into the woods searching, they would likely scurry away. Yeah, the paper and tape would have to do.

"Please, just show yourself. Send a note or something. Anything other than this radio silence." The golden ram muttered, staring up at his ceiling. It was to the point where he wouldn't even mind if they all but broke into his house. But then again, a note would suffice. Baby steps and all.

.