Chapter 2: The Neighbor's Sermon

Chapter 2: The Neighbor's Sermon

The silence in the apartment was a fragile skin stretched taut over a bed of screaming knives. Every alien shriek from the city outside was a fresh incision, making the quiet inside feel thinner, more precarious. Leo stood rigid, his hand still tingling from the phantom shock of yanking the TV cord from the wall. The rhythmic pulse he’d felt from the broadcast lingered in his marrow, a low, hypnotic thrum that seemed to harmonize with the crimson light painting the room.

Alice hadn't moved. She was a statue of terror, her arms wrapped so tightly around herself it looked painful. Her wide, frightened eyes were fixed on the door, as if she could see the horrors of the city unfolding right through the wood. The unanswered ringing of her parents' phone echoed in the space between them, a ghost of the normal world they had lost only an hour ago.

Then, a sound from next door shattered the stillness. A heavy, resonant thud.

It was the sound of a body hitting a wall.

Leo and Alice both flinched. The muffled shouting from Mr. Henderson’s apartment, which had been a part of the background chaos, now took center stage. It was louder, closer. More desperate.

“Please, Arthur! Stop! What are you doing?” It was Mrs. Henderson’s voice, thin and reedy with panic.

Another thud, harder this time, followed by the splintering crack of wood. It sounded like a bookshelf or a cabinet being overturned.

“He is risen!” Mr. Henderson’s voice was a guttural roar, unrecognizable from the gentle retiree who used to nod at them in the hallway. It wasn't a voice of anger, but of ecstatic, terrifying fervor. “He sees us! He has opened the way!”

Leo’s instinct was to stay put, to make himself smaller, to wait for this storm to pass. He was an analyst, not a hero. He dealt with data, not deranged neighbors. But Alice took a small, shuffling step towards the sound, her face a canvas of disbelief and horror.

“Mrs. Henderson…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Stay back,” Leo hissed, grabbing her arm. His touch felt clumsy, his own fear making his movements jerky. “Don’t go near the door.”

The pleading from next door was cut off by a wet, gurgling cry. It was followed by a series of frantic, rhythmic impacts. Heavy and soft. It was a sound Leo had only ever heard in the grisliest of his old horror movies, and hearing it in reality, separated only by a few inches of drywall, made his stomach clench with bile.

The primal part of his brain screamed at him to hide, to barricade the door and pray they weren’t next. But another part, the part that needed to know, to see, to analyze the threat, was stronger. The memory of the news anchor’s serene, blood-streaked face flashed in his mind. This wasn't just violence. It was something else. He had to understand.

“Leo, what are you doing?” Alice’s terrified whisper followed him as he crept towards the front door.

“I need to see,” he breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He ignored the screaming in his head, the cold dread that was a premonition of what he was about to witness. His hand, slick with sweat, reached for the peephole cover.

He slid the small metal plate aside.

The peephole’s distorted lens offered a fish-eye view into the hallway, which was bathed in the same hellish red glow filtering through the hall’s skylight. Their neighbor’s door was wide open. And Leo saw everything.

The Henderson’s small, tidy entryway was a scene of utter desecration. Furniture was smashed, family photos shattered on the floor. In the center of the chaos was Mrs. Henderson. She was on her knees, her back to Leo, her small frame trembling.

Towering over her was Arthur Henderson. He was holding a heavy, bronze bust—a reading award, Leo recalled seeing it on their mantle once—and his face was a mask of zealous bliss. His eyes, wide and unblinking, were tilted upwards as if looking straight through the ceiling to the sky beyond. The crimson light from the apartment’s window caught in them, making them glow like hot coals. He wasn’t looking at his wife. He was looking at his god.

He raised the bronze bust high above his head, his movements stiff and ritualistic, like a priest lifting a holy relic. This wasn’t an act of rage. It was an offering. A sermon delivered in blood and bone.

“A sacrifice to the Oculus!” Henderson bellowed, his voice cracking with rapture. “A gift for the Crimson Dawn!”

Leo felt frozen, his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to look away, to slam the peephole cover shut and pretend he hadn't seen. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed, an unwilling parishioner at this obscene ritual.

He saw the bust descend. He heard the sickening crunch, a sound that would be seared into his memory forever. He saw Mrs. Henderson collapse, a silent, broken heap on the ruined welcome mat.

The thudding stopped. The only sound was Henderson’s ragged, ecstatic breathing. He dropped the bloodied statue with a clang and fell to his own knees beside his wife’s body. He didn't weep. He didn't show remorse. He simply spread his arms wide, embracing the carnage, and turned his face fully towards the open doorway, towards the unseen sky. The crimson light bathed his features, washing away any trace of the kind, elderly man he once was.

Then, he screamed at the heavens, a desperate, bargaining cry that chilled Leo to the very marrow of his bones.

“Take her! Not me! I am your servant! I am yours! Not me!”

The plea hung in the air, a terrifying confirmation of Leo’s deepest, most unspoken fear. The thing in the sky wasn't just a catalyst for madness. It wasn't a passive phenomenon.

It was aware. It was listening. And it was choosing.

Leo stumbled back from the door, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a gag. The world swam before his eyes, the red-tinged darkness of his own apartment feeling just as threatening as the hallway. He leaned against the wall, his legs threatening to give out.

“Leo? What did you see?” Alice’s voice was a distant pinpoint of sound in the roaring cavern of his horror.

He couldn't form the words. He could only shake his head, his tired, paranoid eyes meeting hers. The indistinct madness had just been given a name and a face. Oculus. This wasn't the world ending in fire or ice. It was being consumed by a new, terrible faith. Mr. Henderson hadn't just murdered his wife. He had offered her as a sacrifice, begging for his own salvation from a blood-red, silent god in the sky.

And outside, the chorus of unearthly screeches continued, a symphony of approval for a sermon well preached.