Chapter 3 Shadows in the Chapel

The church was silent.

Not the peaceful kind of silence that filled the halls during morning prayers, nor the reverent hush of whispered confessions.

No.

This was the kind of silence that pressed against the walls like a held breath. The kind that made shadows stretch too far, that made candle flames flicker when there was no wind.

The kind of silence that meant something wasn't right.

Richard stood before the massive crucifix at the altar, his hands folded as if in prayer. His lips curled into a smirk.

"How ironic," he murmured, tracing a finger along the polished wood. "After all these years, I still find myself here."

He tilted his head, as if waiting for a response.

None came.

The crucifix loomed above him, the carved face of Christ frozen in eternal suffering.

Richard's smirk faded.

He turned his back to the altar and let his gaze wander over the empty pews. This church had once been his home. It had raised him, shaped him, given him purpose.

Now, it was nothing more than a stage for his deception.

A place to play the priest. A calling he was forced into.

A place to keep his secrets hidden in plain sight.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his dark hair. His body still ached from the transformation last night. He had barely made it back before sunrise.

Faith had been unconscious when he carried her through the misty woods, her weight featherlight in his arms.

The moment he had laid her down in the dark castle, he had felt the pull-an unshakable urge to return here, to this holy ground.

A cruel joke.

The beast in him hated this place.

But the man?

The man still came back.

Still knelt in the pews when no one was watching.

Still whispered prayers into the silence, even when he knew no god was listening.

A sudden noise broke the quiet.

Footsteps.

Richard's head snapped up. His nostrils flared.

Someone was coming.

He turned just as the doors creaked open.

A lone figure entered.

Holy Mother Beatrice.

She walked slowly, her movements stiff with age, but her gaze was sharp as it settled on him.

"Father Richard," she greeted, her voice steady. "You're here early."

Richard smiled, all charm and warmth. "It is my duty, Mother."

Beatrice studied him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then-

"I know what you are," she whispered.

The words were soft, but they struck like a hammer against stone.

Richard's smile didn't falter. But the air between them shifted.

Dangerous. Tense.

"Oh, Mother," he sighed, taking a slow step forward. "I was hoping we wouldn't have to have this conversation."

Beatrice didn't move.

Her fingers curled around the rosary at her waist.

"I have seen enough to know the truth," she said. "I have heard the whispers. I have felt the evil that lingers in these halls."

Richard's red eyes gleamed.

"And what do you plan to do with this... revelation?" he asked, voice silky smooth.

Beatrice tightened her grip on the rosary. "I will fight it. I will fight you."

Richard chuckled. "Brave words from a fragile old woman."

She didn't flinch.

"Tell me, Mother," Richard mused, circling her like a wolf stalking its prey. "When did you first suspect?"

Beatrice lifted her chin.

"The night Father Michael disappeared."

Richard stilled.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

A flicker of something-irritation? Amusement?-crossed his face.

"Ah," he breathed. "So you noticed."

Beatrice's voice trembled, but she forced herself to stand firm. "You are a monster, Richard. A wolf in sheep's clothing."

Richard exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "No, Mother."

Then, in a flash, he was in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the sharpness of his fangs.

Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"I'm worse."

The candlelight flickered.

Beatrice reached for her cross.

Richard's fingers wrapped around her wrist before she could lift it.

"Tsk, tsk," he murmured. "You don't want to do that."

Beatrice's heartbeat pounded against her ribs.

Richard leaned in, his breath warm against her ear.

"If you're smart," he whispered, "you'll keep pretending you know nothing."

Then-

He let go.

Beatrice stumbled back, gasping.

Richard's expression was unreadable as he stepped away.

"I do so enjoy our talks, Mother," he said casually. "Shall we have another soon?"

Beatrice said nothing.

She turned and hurried toward the exit, her footsteps echoing in the empty chapel.

Richard watched her go.

Then, slowly, he turned back to the altar.

His smirk returned.

He loved a good game.

And this?

This was only the beginning.

While Richard played his games in the church, deep in the dark castle, Faith stirred.

Her body ached. Her mind was foggy.

The last thing she remembered was running. Then-darkness.

Now, she was lying on something soft.

She blinked, her vision adjusting to the dim light.

She wasn't in the village anymore.

The air smelled different. Cold. Ancient.

And the bed she lay on?

Too fine. Too royal.

A door creaked open.

Faith tensed.

Soft footsteps approached.

Then, a voice-small, hesitant.

"Mommy?"

Faith's breath caught.

She turned her head, her eyes landing on a child standing in the doorway.

A little girl. Barefoot. Dressed in a simple white gown.

But it wasn't just any child.

Faith knew this face.

She had seen it before-etched in the tear-streaked drawings of desperate parents.

It was one of the missing children.

Faith's blood ran cold.

"Where am I?" she whispered.

The little girl tilted her head.

"This is Daddy's house."

Faith's fingers curled into the sheets.

Daddy?

Before she could ask another question, the girl smiled sweetly.

"He's going to be so happy you're awake."

Then-

The girl turned and skipped away.

Leaving Faith in the darkness.

Alone.

Trapped.

And now knowing something far, far worse-

Richard hadn't just been taking children.

He had been keeping them.