The package arrived without a return address, wrapped in thick brown paper tied with black twine. It waited on Father Aaron's desk when he entered the rectory that morning, resting between his coffee cup and his open sermon notes like it had always been there.
Aaron frowned.
He was certain it hadn't been there the night before.
The paper felt cold when he touched it, unnaturally cold, like stone kept underground. Inside was a Bible—but not one he recognized. The leather cover was pale gray, almost the color of old skin. No title. No publisher. No cross.
Only a symbol burned into the front:
An eye inside a crown of thorns.
Aaron's fingers hesitated before opening it.
The first page was blank.
The second page was blank.
He flipped again.
Still blank.
"Defective printing," he muttered, though the air around the book felt heavier, as if the room leaned closer.
He closed it.
Behind him, the chapel door creaked.
He turned.
Nothing.
When he looked back at the book, ink had begun forming on the first page.
Slowly.
Like blood seeping through skin.
It spelled his name.
AARON MATTHEWS.
His breath caught.
Then another line appeared beneath it.
YOU OPENED ME.
NOW I OPEN YOU.
The chapel bell rang once.
And somewhere in the rectory walls, something began turning pages.