The Cursed Story

Chloe Gomez's POV:

My eyes slowly began to adjust to the pitch black. Faint outlines emerged from the gloom.

I could make out the blurry silhouette of the altar above me and the stone tiles beneath my feet.

The rustling stopped. Then came a wet, slurping noise, followed by a low, guttural gulp.

It was close. Way too close.

My body went completely rigid, every muscle locking up in terror.

With mounting horror, I realized the "Prophet" was eating. It was devouring the offerings left earlier that day—the sweet fruits, the soft pastries.

I buried my head deeper into my knees, holding my breath tight in my chest, chanting a silent prayer: Don't see me. Please, don't see me.

After what felt like an eternity, the slurping finally stopped.

The rustling resumed, slowly fading away until it disappeared into the darkness. I let out a long, shaky exhale.

I carefully crawled out from under the altar, my limbs stiff and quivering.

I needed a better hiding spot. A place where it couldn't smell me or hear me.

As my eyes adjusted further, the layout of the room became clearer. In the center stood a massive sacrificial table. Behind it, lining the walls, stood rows of hazy humanoid figures.

A fresh wave of terror hit me. My heart battered against my ribs like a panicked bird trapped in a cage. But then, a sliver of rationality cut through the fear. They weren't people; they were Saint statues.

I remembered now. Before the Prophet took over, this building used to be an old Catholic church.

But then I noticed something far stranger, something that filled me with a profound sense of dread. Every single Saint statue was facing the wall, their backs turned to the center of the room. They had their backs to me, as if out of shame, or fear.

A blood-curdling thought hit me. They were guarding against something.

A sudden surge of desperate courage welled up inside me.

If the "Prophet"—or whatever that thing was—was afraid of the Saints' gaze, then maybe they could protect me too.

I scrambled toward the nearest Saint statue. Its massive bulk offered a silent, stony embrace. I grabbed its thick arm and pressed my body tightly against its back.

The statue was imposing, and for a fleeting second, I felt a false sense of security, like I had a shield against the creeping terror.

Then, a heavy, ragged breath echoed from right behind the statue. Close. Unbearably close. My heart leaped into my throat. The Prophet was back.

I clung to the statue's arm for dear life.

I could hear scraping—the frantic, tearing sound of claws gouging into the back of the stone Saint, as if the creature was trying to rip the rock apart.

My nerves were stretched to the breaking point. My arms burned with exhaustion, and my fingers were going numb. Sweat beaded on my forehead, stinging my eyes, making my palms slick. My strength was failing; I was losing my grip.

I bit back a desperate scream as my hands finally slipped. I plummeted, my body slamming hard against the stone floor with a sickening thud.