By morning Aaron was hollow-eyed and shaking, but Sunday service could not be canceled.
The church filled slowly.
Something felt wrong.
The people sat too still.
Too quiet.
When he stepped to the pulpit, every head turned at once.
Not faces.
Smooth skin where eyes and mouths should be.
Blank, pale masks of flesh.
Aaron staggered.
"No… no, this isn't—"
The Bible lay open on the pulpit now.
He hadn't brought it.
Its pages fluttered eagerly.
Ink crawled across them:
READ.
His mouth moved against his will.
The words he spoke weren't scripture.
They were confessions.
Not his.
The congregation's.
Every lie they hid.
Every sin they buried.
Every prayer they used to excuse cruelty.
As he spoke, black tears leaked from their sealed faces.
The church began breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The pews pulsed like ribs.
The ceiling lowered like lungs.
Aaron tried to stop, but the Bible tightened his voice.
"Faith rots when it is hidden."
Suddenly every faceless head twisted toward him.
Together they whispered:
"Read yourself next."
The doors slammed.
The bell rang.
And the altar began to bleed.