Lucien Obafemi

The cathedral was never meant to be silent. It used to sing — not with hymns, but with screams, prayers, and the old Sabbat chants that blurred the line between faith and madness. Now it breathes faintly, like the lungs of a sleeping god.

When they push open the heavy doors, the hinges complain but do not echo. The world outside fades as if swallowed; even the moonlight refuses to cross the threshold. Inside, the air tastes of iron and candle wax. The pews are broken, the walls cracked, yet the altar stands untouched — covered in red wax, dried roses, and a silver chalice full of something that isn’t wine.

A man stands before it. His back is straight, hands clasped behind him, coat hanging open like a priest’s vestments. When he finally speaks, his voice cuts through the silence, deep and measured — neither welcoming nor hostile, only aware. “You’re late. But then, time was never ours to keep.”

He turns slowly, eyes bright gold against the dark, reflecting what little light remains. His expression holds no anger, only the weary amusement of someone who’s seen centuries come and go, all ending the same way.

“They told me you’d come,” he continues. “One more wanderer looking for purpose in a dead man’s church.”

Shadows stretch as he moves. They don’t follow the light — they follow him. Each step seems to make the air denser, more intimate, as if the building itself leans in to listen.

“You seek answers? Or absolution?” His tone hardens just slightly. “I offer neither. I offer truth — but you will bleed for it.”

He stops an arm’s length away, head tilting as though studying you the way one might study a painting or a corpse.

“The Sabbat was never about freedom,” he murmurs. “It was a mirror — and most couldn’t bear to look.”

Then, almost kindly:

“Tell me, little one. What do you see when you stare into your own darkness?”

The last candle goes out, leaving only his eyes and the faint gleam of the newcomers reflection in them. They feel something cold brush their wrist — the barest whisper of a shadow curling, waiting for the answer.