Clara ran to the doors. They wouldn't budge. The iron handles felt warm, almost feverish.
Her flashlight sliced through the dark sanctuary. Pew cushions rotted. Hymn books lay torn apart. Candles stood melted into strange shapes like frozen screams.
Then she heard it.
Not footsteps.
Not wind.
Whispers.
Hundreds of them.
Soft, layered, desperate.
She followed the sound down a side corridor. The walls looked swollen, bulging outward as if something inside pressed to escape.
She placed her palm against the plaster.
It twitched.
She jumped back.
Then the whispers formed words:
"Father… forgive us… we are still here…"
Faces began pushing from the walls. Not fully human—half-formed mouths, sealed eyes, skin stretching beneath stone like trapped bodies inside concrete coffins.
Clara's knees gave way.
Her phone vibrated.
A new text appeared though there was no signal:
THE CHURCH COLLECTS FAITH.
AND NEVER LETS IT GO.
Suddenly the building inhaled deeply.
Candles relit themselves.
Flames stretched tall.
And something inside the walls began praying louder.