Father Armand had heard the whispers long before he found the key. They rose from beneath the cathedral floor, curling into his dreams. When the sexton’s ring yielded an iron key too ancient for any lock aboveground, Armand knew it was meant for him.

He lit a taper and descended into the catacombs. Rows of skulls greeted him like parishioners. He whispered prayers, though the echoes came back wrong. Syllables bent into syllables he did not know.

The deeper he walked, the more the air pressed upon him. The corridors narrowed, yet his compulsion widened. Candles flickered, shadows slithered across stacked femurs, and the smell of damp earth gave way to something coppery and raw.

At the seventh turning, the bones gave way to carvings. Serpentine reliefs etched into stone, depicting saints with faces erased, their eyes replaced with hollow pits. The further he went, the less he felt the ground beneath his feet, as though the earth itself recoiled.

Finally, he came to a chamber where the air was utterly still. A black altar stood in the center, fashioned not from stone but from a single colossal vertebra. Upon it lay a book, bound not in leather but in something that seemed to twitch as if remembering blood.

He reached out, and the whispers ceased. For the first time, silence reigned. The catacombs waited, breathless.

Then the book opened of its own accord.

The last thing Father Armand saw before the taper extinguished was the scripture writing itself. Line after line of text forming in a language older than prayer, yet still spelling his name.

The last sound he knew was a voice: low, baritone, and steeped in malice. A chill swept across the nape of his neck, breath cold as the grave.

“Welcome, Father,” it intoned. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

The End