The forest seemed endless. Every tree looked the same. Ahaan had been running for what seemed like hours, but the humming still followed him, gentle and steady, like a heartbeat that he could not escape.
At last, the trees broke apart.
Before him stood a ruined church, half-sunk into the earth. Its spire, so tall, leaned at an angle like a broken tooth. The windows were shattered, and ivy crawled up the cracked stone walls. Above the rotting doors, a weathered sign still dangled from the stone: St. Elora's Orphan Chapel.
Ahaan's stomach clenched. His father had told him of this structure. He moved forward.
The journal grew warm in his hand. New words were written on the page in his father's script:
"This is where I stopped reading The Last Rite. Beware, Ahaan. It will try you."
Inside the Church
The heavy doors groaned as Ahaan pushed them open. The smell hit him first—aged wood, mold, and something metallic, like rust or blood.
It was almost dark inside except for a single ray of moonlight cutting through a broken window. The pews were cracked and overturned, and the altar was cracked down the middle.
Religious artwork from a different time flaked off the walls. Someone, though—his father, maybe—had painted strange symbols over it. Black eyes, bone doors, and spirals that seemed to turn when he gazed too long.
The humming was louder now, vibrating through the floor.
Ahaan treaded carefully, each creak echoing through the silent church.
Upon the altar stood an old wooden box wrapped in chains. The chains bore the same symbols as the journal.
Ahaan reached out for it—
But a soft voice stopped him.
"You shouldn't touch that."
Saira Appears
He turned around.
Saira stood at the back of the church, half in the shade. Her hair was tangled and wet. Cracks still marked her grey flesh. Her shadow stretched across the pews, bending around corners like a living thing.
Ahaan's throat closed. "How did you—"
"You cannot hide from me," she whispered. Her voice trembled like two voices speaking in unison—hers and something darker. "The Watcher can find you anywhere."
Ahaan stepped back towards the altar. "I don't want to fight you, Saira. I just… I need to know the truth."
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. "The truth? Your father promised me safety. He said he'd come back. But when The Watcher began to whisper, I knew… he'd left me to rot."
Her dark eyes gleamed faintly in the darkness. "I waited, Ahaan. For years. I dreamed. I screamed. But only The Watcher answered."
She stopped a few feet short. "And now it sings in my blood. Just like it sings in yours."
The Vision
The diary in Ahaan's hand turned its own pages and opened to a new one. A cold wind swept through the church.
Suddenly, the walls shifted, and Ahaan was somewhere else.
He was in the same church, but it was whole once more—alive and colorful. There was laughter from children as orphans ran between the pews. And there was Saira—alive, human, smiling as she played with them. Her eyes were warm, not black.
Ahaan's father was by the altar, younger, worried. He was speaking to Saira.
Father: "It's just a game, Saira. If you're brave, you can save them all."
Saira: "Will it hurt?"
Father: "…Just a little. But when you wake up, all that's evil will be gone."
The vision blurred. Saira screamed. The world shattered like glass.
Ahaan was back in the ruined church, gasping.
Saira was crying silently now. Black tears spoiled her shattered cheeks. "He lied to me. And now you carry his blood."
The Last Rite
The wooden chest upon the altar began to shake. The chains rattled, then fell off by themselves. The lid creaked open.
Inside was an old, brittle scroll and a tiny silver dagger. The scroll opened itself, words glowing dimly in the dark:
"The Last Rite — To save the vessel or destroy it. Speak the prayer, spill the blood of the chosen, and close the door forever."
Under the words was a drawing of Saira's face… and Ahaan's glowing wrist.
Ahaan's gut dropped. The "blood of the chosen" meant either Saira—or him.
The air behind him stirred. The church walls began to shudder so hard it hurt his ears. Black cracks spread across the ceiling, seeping tar-like liquid.
The Watcher was near.
The Choice
Saira stepped closer, her dry lips trembling. "Do you see now, Ahaan? He trapped us both. The Watcher requires you. But maybe… maybe we don't have to give it what it wants."
Her voice softened, almost like it had been in the vision. "You could end this. Do the Rite on me. Kill the lock. Be the hero your father couldn't be."
The dagger glinted in moonlight.
Ahaan's hand hovered over it. His chest ached. He could still hear her humming from before—the sad tune she hummed to comfort the orphans. She had been a child, like him. She didn't deserve this.
But the church trembled again. A low voice—The Watcher's— crept into his head:
"Take her. Or take yourself. The door must open.
Suddenly, the altar burst apart. A claw ripped through the floorboards, splinters scattering everywhere. The claw was larger now, more tapered, dripping black liquid that steamed where it touched the wood.
Saira screamed and collapsed backward. Her shadow writhed and contorted like snakes.
The paintings in the church began to scream—muffled, hollow cries that sounded like they emanated from inside the walls.
Ahaan grasped the dagger. His heart racing. If he hesitated, The Watcher would win. But his hand shook so violently he could barely support the blade.
Saira's dark eyes locked onto his. For a moment, just a moment, he saw the old Saira—the frightened orphan who'd trusted his father.
"Please, Ahaan," she whispered. "Don't let him decide for us."
The Escape
The claw tore through the room, shattering pews and walls. Dust clouded the air. The ground opened wider, and a second arm began to drag through.
Ahaan made his choice—
Not to kill.
Not yet.
He grabbed the scroll and dagger, leapt from the altar, and sprinted for the broken door. The Watcher's voice thundered through the church, shaking the earth:
"RUN, LITTLE KEY. YOU CAN'T HIDE."
Ahaan dove into the icy night, the forest swallowing him whole. Behind, the church groaned like a dying beast.
Next came Saira's humming, gentle and broken, threading through the trees.
Outside
Ahaan stopped to gasp in the moonlight. The scroll glowed faintly in his hand. The Last Rite was his only chance. But he could not decide—not yet—whether to kill Saira or save her.
He looked back once. The church was still now, but one of the windows upstairs glowed faintly.
In it, Saira's dark eyes watched him.
And just behind her, in the shadows, a single glowing eye shut.