Chapter 3 THE UNBURIED

The magistrate of Coldmere was a small, meticulous man named Alban Wren. His office sat behind the town square in a crumbling old stone building that smelled of mold and tobacco. He wore spectacles thick enough to distort his eyes, and when Elias and Clara arrived-filthy, shaking, clutching bloodstained letters-he studied them like specimens on a dissecting table.

He didn't speak at first.

Just read.

And read.

Page after page of the stolen letters, the confessions of the damned. Whispered sins from Raven Hollow: a baker who saw Thorne bless a man then bury him in the same hour. A mother whose child bled from the eyes after receiving holy water. A farmer who swore he saw the priest walk barefoot through fire.

Each letter, darker than the last.

When he finally looked up, his voice was cold. "These are serious accusations."

"They're truths," Elias said. "They killed for them."

"Truth is not proof," Wren replied, tapping the page. "Anyone can write a lie in ink."

Clara stepped forward, face pale but firm. "Then come see the bodies."

The magistrate's gaze lingered. "Bodies?"

"Brother Micah," she said. "Nailed up like a scarecrow. Blood carved with scripture. Jonas, in the church crypt. And there are others. Hidden."

Wren drummed his fingers on the desk.

Then stood.

"Very well. I will send my men to Raven Hollow within the day."

"No," Elias said. "You can't wait."

The magistrate narrowed his eyes. "And why not?"

"Because if you delay-he'll vanish. Or worse, everyone else will."

---

They left the office an hour later under armed escort. Four Coldmere guards, each carrying crossbows and sabers. Elias walked ahead, silent. Clara beside him, her hand always near her knife.

The magistrate rode behind in a covered carriage, guarded by two more.

By dusk, they reached the woods again.

The fog had lifted.

But the silence remained.

No birds. No crickets. No wind.

Just the sound of boots on brittle leaves.

When they passed the old well near the border of Raven Hollow, one of the guards paused.

"Sir," he called to Wren, pointing to the well. "Something's off."

The magistrate emerged from his carriage, frowning.

The well was dry.

Bone dry.

But something glistened at the bottom.

Clara peered over.

And screamed.

Dozens of eyes stared back.

Glass. Lifeless.

Bodies-stacked. Mouths open, faces twisted in terror. Men. Women. Children.

The well was full of them.

"Holy God," one guard whispered, crossing himself.

Elias turned away, fists clenched.

They weren't buried.

They were hidden.

---

They entered Raven Hollow just before nightfall.

It was too quiet.

Not a soul in sight. No windows lit. No dogs barking. Just rows of dark houses and a church that stood at the village center like a watching eye.

Wren frowned. "Where is everyone?"

"They're hiding," Clara muttered. "Or gone."

The guards fanned out, searching homes. One returned minutes later, pale and shaking.

"Sir-every house is empty. Beds made. Tables set. But no people."

Another guard joined him. "We found food still warm. Bread still rising in ovens."

Elias felt the fear creeping in. "He knew we'd return."

Clara whispered, "He's waiting."

Wren turned to his men. "Search the church."

---

They crossed the square slowly.

The front doors of the church were open.

Candles burned inside.

Elias entered first.

The sanctuary looked unchanged. Pews neat. Altar gleaming. But the air was thick, heavy-like a room filled with breath that wasn't human.

One of the guards stepped onto the dais and pulled back the altar cloth.

He recoiled.

Beneath it, instead of holy relics, were teeth.

Hundreds of them. Piled like seeds.

Filed. Polished. Some still with roots.

Then the crucifix above the altar fell.

Smashed against the stone.

The wood split-and from inside spilled bones.

Small. Fragile.

Clara turned away, retching.

Elias didn't move.

He stared at the shattered pieces, then at the walls.

Something had changed.

He moved to the confessional again.

Now, both booths were gone. Only blackened floor remained, burned into the shape of wings.

Featherless. Twisted.

He heard footsteps behind him.

Clara.

Then the magistrate's voice: "This isn't a church."

"No," Elias said. "It's never been."

---

Then the doors slammed shut.

All of them.

The windows darkened.

The candles blew out.

And the silence... broke.

A voice echoed through the rafters.

Low. Calm. Familiar.

"You brought strangers into sacred ground."

Elias turned.

Father Thorne stood near the baptismal font, his robe immaculate, his face calm.

The guards raised their weapons.

He didn't flinch.

"Leave this place," Wren ordered, stepping forward. "You are under investigation for murder, desecration, and concealment of human remains."

Thorne only smiled.

"Murder?" he asked. "You speak of murder... in my house?"

Then he raised his hands.

And the walls began to bleed.

---

Blood seeped from the stone.

Thick. Black. It poured from cracks, soaked the floor, painted the stained glass red.

The guards shouted.

One fired a bolt.

It struck Thorne in the chest.

He didn't even stagger.

He pulled the bolt from his flesh slowly. No blood followed.

Then the church screamed.

The sound tore through the air like thunder and flame. The walls shook. Pews flew backward. Candles reignited-but the fire was black.

One guard caught fire instantly, shrieking as he turned to ash.

The others opened fire.

Useless.

Thorne's shadow spread across the floor, long and clawed. It rose up like smoke, wrapping around the guards.

One by one, they were silenced.

Clara ran to Elias.

"Run!" she shouted.

But the doors were gone.

Only stone.

Wren screamed. "This is witchcraft!"

Thorne laughed.

"No. This is faith."

---

They fled down the side hall, through the vestry, into the crypt below.

Darkness followed them.

Not shadow-hunger.

Elias led the way, back through the secret passage Jonas had shown them. The torches were gone, but the bloodstains remained.

They passed the spot where Jonas's body had been.

Now empty.

Only thread remained. Black and frayed.

"He's not dead," Clara gasped.

"No," Elias said. "He's not resting."

Then they saw it.

The unburied.

The hidden room beyond the crypt.

Lit now by dozens of candles, burning upside down.

Bodies stood upright-propped against walls, each stitched at the mouth, eyes held open with wire.

Men. Women. Children.

All marked with the same words: Veritas Solvet.

The truth shall unbind.

Clara stepped back.

"They're not dead."

One of the bodies turned its head.

Elias grabbed her hand and ran.

---

They emerged through the rusted grate into the prayer room.

The church above still screamed.

Voices chanted from every wall-dozens, maybe hundreds. The voices of the unburied.

Clara fell to her knees.

"I can't-I can't-"

Elias knelt beside her. "We're not done."

"We can't fight him."

"No," he said. "But we can destroy what he hides."

He took the letters from his satchel.

Then pulled out the last one-Annalise's.

He hadn't read it yet.

With shaking hands, he opened it.

And gasped.

Clara leaned in. "What is it?"

"She knew," Elias whispered. "She knew everything."

---

Annalise's letter wasn't a confession. It was a record.

Of rituals.

Of victims.

Of the unburied.

She wrote of Thorne's origins-how he came from beyond the Eastern marshes, carrying no past but a book bound in human leather.

He was no priest.

He was a collector.

He heard confessions not to absolve-but to bind.

To trap souls between death and salvation.

Each confession gave him ownership of a soul.

Each silence gave him power.

And the truth?

The truth would unbind him.

---

They had to reveal it.

Elias grabbed the holy book from the altar.

Not scripture.

A ledger.

Each name inside matched a confession.

And each had a date of death beside it.

They tore it open in the square.

Set it aflame.

Then scattered the ashes.

As the last page burned, the church behind them wailed.

Then fell silent.

---

A door opened in the stone wall.

Not a door of wood-but light.

From within stepped Jonas.

Whole. Pale. Eyes bleeding tears.

He smiled.

And collapsed.

Elias caught him.

Jonas whispered, "Thank you."

Then truly died.

---

Behind them, the church began to crumble.

One stone at a time.

No fire. No wind.

Just collapse.

As if the truth had peeled the skin from the lie.