The Cursed Story

Chloe Gomez's POV:

Beads of nervous sweat seeped from my palms.

The pedestal was still there, and embedded right in the center was a jagged iron spike pointing straight up.

Scattered around the base of the spike were rusted iron nails.

I reached out and touched the spike, instantly yanking my hand back.

It was warm—almost hot—and sticky. It wasn't old tree sap; it was something wet, viscous.

With a sickening jolt, I realized it was blood.

My childish brain scrambled for an explanation. Maybe they put the statue away? Took it to be cleaned?

But right before I entered the shrine, the statue's silhouette had been clearly visible for a split second. It was right there. I was absolutely sure of it.

How could it just vanish?

I looked around. The old, dilapidated shrine groaned around me, its wooden beams creaking under the weight of time. Cobwebs hung from the high ceiling like tattered burial shrouds.

It was just a crumbling old building, nothing more.

A cold chill slithered down my spine.

And then, I saw it. A side door, usually kept tightly shut, was slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of total darkness behind it. My eyes were drawn to it against my will, sensing the secrets hiding in that pitch-black void.

As I stared, a round, vaguely human-head-shaped silhouette slowly peeked out from behind the crack of the door, then quickly darted back into the shadows.

I gasped, a lump forming in my throat.

I jerked backward, stumbling off the pedestal and crashing hard onto the dust-covered floor. A sharp pain shot up my tailbone.

I lay there frozen, completely paralyzed with fear.

Then, an elongated shadow flitted across the gap in the side door and vanished.

Suddenly, I heard the sound of a rock being kicked away. A second later, the sliver of moonlight filtering through the front door disappeared.

The shrine was plunged into an abyssal, pitch-black darkness. It felt like a massive, invisible weight was crushing me.

Panic erupted in my chest.

I scrambled to my feet, stumbling blindly in the direction I thought the door was.

My hands slapped against solid wood. I shoved against it with everything I had. It wouldn't budge.

My teeth were chattering uncontrollably, but I clamped both hands over my mouth to stifle any sound.

Every single cell in my body was screaming at me to shriek for help, but an icy, primal instinct told me I couldn't. Whatever was in here with me, I didn't want it to find me. Not yet.

I dropped to my knees, crawling on all fours toward the incense altar, my heart hammering like a drum.

I scrambled frantically and wedged myself underneath it.

I was trembling violently, all four of my limbs shaking. I buried my face between my knees, praying to a god I didn't even believe in, begging for dawn to come.

And then, I heard it. A soft, rustling sound. Like something being dragged across the stone floor.

It was getting closer. Slow and steady.

My terrified brain tried to rationalize it. A stray dog? A rat? But the sound was far too heavy for that.

The altar cloth rustled. Two skeletal hands crawled onto the floor.

It was dragging something—a heavy, embroidered robe—across the stone tiles. It was the exact same silk robe that had been draped over the Prophet's statue.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

It wasn't a statue.

It was her. Or rather, whatever remained of her.

A horrifying realization clamped down on my heart.

It's the Prophet! The thing crawling on the floor... is the Prophet!

But... wasn't she dead? Wasn't she a statue?