The road to Ravenshollow was mud and bone.
That's what the locals called it.
To most, it was just a steep, narrow trail carved into the side of the hill, slick with rainwater and lined with dying trees. But the villagers whispered that the roots beneath were tangled with the remains of those who had tried to climb the hill and never returned.
Elena stepped carefully, her lantern swaying in the storm. Her boots sank ankle-deep into muck. Behind her, far below, the village slept in darkness. The only lights were from scattered windows, already shuttered against her presence. No one wanted to see her climb this path. No one wanted to watch.
She remembered their faces at the inn—eyes wide, lips trembling, as if even speaking of the church risked summoning it.
"You'll hear the bells," one old woman croaked, clutching her rosary so tightly her fingers bled."Don't answer them," another warned. "Don't look at the choir. If they know your face, they'll keep it."
And then, the most chilling of all:"Some who went up there came back… but their voices weren't their own. They sang in their sleep, mouths bleeding. Until they tore their throats open."
Elena had smiled politely and pretended to listen, but her heart had been racing. She had been searching for this place her whole life—ever since she found the manuscript in her grandfather's attic, pages scrawled with frantic notes about the Worm of the Bell.
Tonight, she would see if the legends were real.
The storm struck harder as she reached the summit. Lightning cracked across the sky, and there it was—
The church.
It loomed like a broken tooth against the horizon. Its spire was jagged, bent, as though lightning had struck it hundreds of times but never destroyed it. Stained glass windows stared like shattered eyes, their saints long blackened by soot. The great doors sagged forward, swollen with rain, yet still impossibly tall.
And the smell—
Sweet. Thick. Rotten. Like meat left in the sun until it became part of the earth.
Elena pressed her palm to the wood. It was warm. Too warm.
The doors opened without sound.
Inside was blackness so heavy it pressed against her chest. Her lantern's glow barely cut the dark, revealing rows of wooden pews. At first she thought they were empty.
Then the lantern shook, and she saw them.
Bodies.
Dozens.
They sat slumped in the pews, heads bowed, hands clasped tight to their chests as if in eternal prayer. Their skin was gray, stretched too thin, and their lips were torn into wide, ragged smiles. Cobwebs draped their faces like funeral veils.
Elena's breath caught.
Her instincts screamed to turn back, but her legs carried her forward. The air grew thicker, like wading through blood.
Then—
BOOM.
The bells.
They rang from above. Not metal, not iron. The sound was wet, each toll like a cleaver sinking into bone.
Elena staggered, clutching her skull. Each strike rattled her teeth, hammered into her chest, shook the marrow in her bones.
And then—
The corpses moved.
Every single head lifted at once.
Empty sockets stared at her, dripping black ichor down their faces. Their mouths gaped wider, skin splitting, teeth cracking.
And they sang.
The sound was worse than any scream. It was high and low at once, shrill and guttural, like lungs filled with knives. It filled the church, a hymn of agony. Blood poured from their mouths, splattering onto the floorboards, filling the aisle with a red river.
Elena's lantern flickered wildly.
One corpse at the front stood, its neck snapping sideways with a sickening crack. It stumbled forward, hands clasped as if still in prayer. Its jaw unhinged, stretching impossibly wide.
The hymn grew louder.
Elena staggered back, lantern shaking in her hand.
The doors slammed shut.
There was no way back.
Only forward.
Toward the altar.