Humbert felt the cold of the orphanage's metal door seeping into his fingertips as he pushed it open slowly. The rusty creak that accompanied it reached his ears, and a pile of old, yellowing papers lay scattered at the entrance—untouched, as if they'd fallen there ages ago and no one had dared to move them since.
The children were playing, but they paused when they heard the door open, turning their attention toward the new arrivals. One child in particular locked eyes with Artaud and smiled, waving at him. What startled Artaud was not the gesture itself, but the peculiar way the boy waved—not with his whole hand, but by curling his little finger alone. He wondered if it was some kind of local greeting among the orphans. He didn't return the gesture. Something about it unsettled him.
At the threshold of the orphanage stood a priest in black robes, a stark white collar wrapped tightly around his neck.
He led them upstairs, where the child's corpse awaited. As they prepared to move the body, Humbert noticed something dreadful: the boy's legs were grotesquely twisted, broken in ways that made the bones curl around each other unnaturally. He didn't ask the priest any questions—this wasn't his concern. It never was. The cause of death was not his responsibility. His duty was to the hollow vessels left behind.
The burial took place a few miles away. Once it was done, they returned to the orphanage to spend the night, planning to leave early the next morning.
But as they were preparing for bed, a child's scream pierced the silence, jolting both Humbert and Artaud upright. Without thinking, they ran toward the source of the cry—it came from the lower floor, where the younger boys slept. As they emerged into the corridor, the priest appeared as well, his face pale, startled by the same sound.
They reached the room. A boy was writhing in unbearable pain, screaming, twisting on the bed as the others gathered around him in horror. Some were too young to understand and wept in the corners, while the older children had come rushing from their rooms.
"My God… not again!" the priest muttered in panic, then threw back the blanket.
"What is that?!" Artaud cried, pointing at the boy's feet.
"They're curling in on themselves...!"
The three of them stood over the small body, helpless, stunned by the sheer terror of the sight.
The priest turned to Humbert and said grimly,
"I fear you'll have to stay another day. There will be another burial."
"What are you talking about?!" Humbert snapped, his brow tightening.
"He's going to die. The last one didn't last more than five hours after this began."
"Then call a doctor, quickly!"
"He already came! I'm telling you—he couldn't save the first boy. It's something strange, something beyond us... something incurable."
And so it happened.
Humbert and Artaud stayed to bury another body, laying it beside the first. That evening, they returned again to rest, intending once more to depart the next morning—just as they had planned before fate interfered.
But then—another scream.
And then another.
A third.
A fourth.
A fifth...
Each cry led to the same horrific end. One by one, the children fell into the same fate—death.
And it seemed... it would never stop...