Chapter 2 Blood on Holy ground

The bells of Winter Haven tolled, their solemn chimes ringing through the crisp morning air.

Dong... dong... dong...

The sound rippled through the village, pulling people from their homes, their beds, their morning prayers. No one needed to be told what it meant. They had heard the howl. They had anticipated the bell, they were up all night, praying, hoping and waiting for the dawn of a new day.

Now, they would hear the names, names they would give anything not to hear, in fear that it may soon be the turn of the children.

A thick silence fell over the village square as the townsfolk gathered, their eyes heavy with exhaustion and grief. It had been five years since the disappearances began-five years of unanswered prayers, empty cradles, and hollowed-out hearts. Five years of emptiness and voidness cause by the disappearances of children. Parents barely existing.

But today was different.

Today, it wasn't just another missing child. Not one that was expected to be taken.

It was Faith.

At the center of the square, a small wooden platform had been erected overnight. Upon it stood a woman draped in solemn white robes, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

Holy Mother Beatrice.

She was not a woman easily shaken. At fifty years old, she had spent decades tending to this village, comforting its wounded, praying for its lost. But as she looked out at the expectant faces before her, her throat tightened.

She had prepared herself to speak. But now, standing here, she realized-there were no words to ease this kind of sorrow.

Still, she had to try. She cleared her throat, their attention moved towards her, all whispering ceased.

"My children," she began, her voice steady despite the pain woven through it, "last night, the howl returned."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. They knew what was coming, but hearing it aloud was different. It made it real.

"And with it," Beatrice continued, "we have lost another." She swallowed, her hands trembling slightly. "Sister Faith is gone."

The reaction was immediate.

Gasps. Cries. It was anticipated, she was well known, infact loved by all.

"No..."

"Not Faith..."

"Not her too..."

A woman collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands. An elderly man clenched his jaw so tightly his face turned red. A young boy-barely twelve-stood frozen, his fists balled at his sides, his face pale.

Faith had been more than just a sister of the church.

She had been one of them.

One of their own.

A man stepped forward, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his expression stormy.

"We cannot stand by any longer." His voice rang out over the murmuring crowd, strong and unyielding.

All eyes turned to him.

Sam.

A father who had lost his daughter three years ago. A man who had waited for answers. For justice.

For revenge.

"We know this thing isn't just a wild beast. It's thinking. It's hunting us. And it's winning," Sam growled. "But no more. If the Holy Mother will not allow us to act, then I say to hell with waiting!"

"YEAH!" A chorus of voices rose behind him, filled with desperation and anger.

The crowd moved, shifting from sorrow to something more dangerous.

Rage.

The people of Winter Haven had spent five years mourning their lost. Now, they were ready to fight.

Pitchforks. Torches. Machetes.

They were already reaching for whatever weapons they could find.

But Mother Beatrice lifted her hands.

"Enough!" Her voice, though hoarse, held the weight of command.

The villagers hesitated.

"Five years," she continued, her gaze sweeping over them, "We have searched, We have hunted and we have failed."

A heavy silence followed.

Beatrice's shoulders sagged. The burden she carried was too great. Too much had been lost already.

"We do not know what we are up against," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "And we cannot afford to lose more of our own."

Newly ordained father Richard stood over in the window of the church watching the commotion, he smirked, pushed forward,

A harsh laugh cut through the hush.

"Well, isn't this touching?"

The voice was smooth. Familiar.

All heads turned to the steps of the church.

A figure leaned casually against one of the stone pillars, dressed in black robes. His arms were folded, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

Father Richard.

He looked... normal. Too normal.

His dark hair was neatly combed. His hands were clean. His priestly collar sat stiff against his throat.

It was almost easy to believe he was nothing more than a man of the cloth.

Almost.

Beatrice's fingers tightened around her rosary.

"Father Richard," she greeted, her voice careful, measured.

"My dear Holy Mother," Richard said, stepping forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone. His gaze flickered over the crowd, amused. "I see our people are in high spirits this morning."

No one laughed.

Sam's grip tightened on his machete.

"High spirits?" he spat. "Faith is missing. And you stand there making jokes?"

Richard tilted his head. "Jokes?" He tsked softly. "Oh, dear Sam, you misunderstand me." His eyes gleamed, a little too sharp, a little too knowing. "I merely mean that I admire your passion. It's always nice to see people... motivated."

Sam stepped forward. "We're done being motivated, Father. We're taking action. Either join us or step aside."

Richard sighed. "Such hostility. And here I thought you have learnt front the church to promote peace."

"Peace is for the living," Sam growled. "And if you're not with us, then stay out of our way."

A slow smile spread across Richard's lips.

"Oh, Sam," he murmured. "You have no idea how much I love watching you all squirm."

Something about the way he said it sent a chill down Beatrice's spine.

Before she could react, Richard turned to face the villagers, his expression shifting effortlessly into one of serene authority.

"My children," he addressed them, "I understand your pain. Your grief. Your anger." He placed a hand over his heart, feigning sorrow. "But I must urge patience. Acting recklessly will only bring more loss."

The crowd hesitated.

Sam narrowed his eyes.

"Go home," Richard urged, his voice smooth as honey. "Return to your families. Let the elders handle this matter."

For a moment, it seemed to work.

One by one, people started to back away, their initial fury cooling into reluctant compliance.

Until-

"No."

A single word.

Spoken softly, but it cut through the crowd like a blade.

Sam stepped forward, his expression unreadable.

"I don't trust you."

The air shifted.

Richard's smirk didn't falter, but his eyes-those dark, knowing eyes-gleamed with something sharp. Something dangerous.

"Oh, Sam," he purred. "That's a shame."

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode back toward the church.

The conversation was over.

The villagers exchanged uneasy glances, their determination shaken.

Mother Beatrice exhaled, rubbing her temples.

"Go home," she whispered.

And, one by one, the people of Winter Haven obeyed.

But Sam?

He stood his ground, staring after Richard's retreating figure.

And as the church doors swung shut behind the priest, Sam made a silent vow.

I'll get to the bottom of this. Even if it kills me.