Chapter 3: The Unmade Man

Chapter 3: The Unmade Man

The echo of the priest’s final, terrified shriek seemed to crystallize in the cold air of the cathedral, hanging there long after the sound itself had died. Leo stood frozen, his feet rooted to the stone floor, the silent screams of Father Renwick still ringing in his ears. The cavernous space, which moments ago had felt like a potential sanctuary, now seemed like a vast, ornate tomb.

He didn't dare turn around. The priest hadn't been screaming at him. He had been screaming at the empty air over his shoulder, at an invisible passenger Leo had unwittingly brought into this holy place. A cold spot, distinct and sharp, pressed against the back of his neck. The faint, cloying smell of stagnant well water, the same scent from his bathroom, was thick in his throat.

The Drowned Mark.

The words were a brand on his mind. It wasn't just a random haunting. He was marked. Chosen. The blue toothbrush wasn't a warning; it was a token. A claim.

Panic was a physical thing, a clawing beast in his chest demanding that he run, that he flee out the massive front doors and into the indifferent anonymity of the city. But where would he go? The thing had been in his locked apartment. It had followed him here. Running was useless. The priest was the only person who had seen it, who had given it a name. He was the only one with answers.

Leo’s gaze fell to the floor, to the silver rosary that lay where Father Renwick had dropped it. The small, intricate crucifix glinted in a sliver of stained-glass light. On pure instinct, driven by a primal need for a shield he didn’t believe in, Leo stooped and snatched it up. The metal was cold and heavy in his trembling palm, a small, solid anchor in a world that was rapidly turning to mist.

Clutching the beads, he forced his legs to move. He walked toward the pulpit, his footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silence. The small wooden door to the sacristy stood slightly ajar, a rectangle of deeper shadow in the gloom. The priest had fled through there, deeper into the bowels of the ancient building.

Leo pushed the door open. It swung inward with a low groan, revealing a narrow, stone-walled corridor. The air that flowed out was dense and much colder, laden with the smell of damp earth, old incense, and melting beeswax. It was the smell of secrets and time. A single, high window barred with iron allowed only a weak, gray light to filter in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the frigid air.

“Father?” Leo called out, his voice a pathetic whisper that the oppressive silence immediately swallowed. “Father Renwick?”

He took a hesitant step inside. The corridor opened into a small, vaulted chamber—the sacristy. Ornate liturgical vestments, rich with gold and purple thread, hung from wooden hangers like the husks of holy men. A stone basin for washing sacred vessels was set into one wall, its faucet dripping with the same maddeningly patient rhythm as the one in his apartment. On a small table, a silver chalice sat next to an open book. It was a place of quiet ritual, of preparation for sacred mysteries.

And in the center of the room was Father Renwick.

Leo’s breath caught in his throat, a strangled, painful rasp. His mind simply refused, for one long, eternal second, to accept what his eyes were seeing. The priest wasn't standing. He wasn't kneeling. He was arched.

His body was bent backward in a perfect, horrifying arc, a bow of flesh and bone drawn taut by an unseen archer. The crown of his head, his gray hair matted and dark with moisture, was pressed flat against the stone floor. His heels were planted just inches away. His spine, his very skeleton, had been reshaped into an impossible curve. The black fabric of his cassock was stretched to the point of tearing, the buttons straining. His shoes, polished and sensible, pointed directly at the ceiling.

It was a posture of absolute violation, a human form twisted into a grotesque mockery of devotion.

Leo took a stumbling step back, his hand flying to his mouth. A gagging reflex surged up his throat. He thought the priest must be dead. No one could survive that. The human body wasn't made to bend that way.

But then, the priest’s eyes snapped open.

They were wide, bloodshot, and utterly aware. And they were locked directly on Leo. There was no pain in them. No plea for help. There was only a vast, terrifying emptiness, a hollowed-out look, as if his soul had been scooped out and replaced with something cold and wet.

Then, a sound began to emanate from his throat. It wasn't a scream or a moan. It was a low, gurgling rattle, the sound of a man trying to laugh through a lungful of water. It was a wet, choking noise that was both a sob of ultimate despair and a giggle of insane amusement. The sound of a broken toy.

Gurgle-hic-hic-haaa…

Leo stared, paralyzed by a horror so profound it transcended fear. This was not a man anymore. It was a thing. An object being displayed for him. Another token. Another sign.

As Leo watched, the impossible shape of Father Renwick began to… soften. The sharp lines of his body blurred, wavering like a reflection in a disturbed pond. The solid black of his cassock seemed to lose its texture, turning slick and dark. The gurgling sound intensified for a moment, then stopped with an abrupt, final pop, like a bubble bursting.

And then he was gone.

He didn't fall. He didn't crumble to dust. He simply dissolved. One moment, the horribly contorted form of a man was there, filling the center of the room with its profane geometry. The next, there was only empty space. Reality had erased him.

But he had not vanished without a trace.

Where the priest's head and heels had touched the floor, a dark patch was spreading rapidly across the pale stone. A puddle. A pool of still, dark water that did not reflect the weak light from the window above. It grew silently, a perfect circle of absolute black, smelling deeply of the cold, dark earth, of a place that had never known the sun.

Leo stared at the spreading water, then down at the silver rosary clutched in his white-knuckled fist. It felt useless now, a child’s toy against the dark. The priest hadn’t just died. He had been unmade. Reclaimed.

And as the last of the gurgling echo faded, Leo knew with chilling certainty what the water was. It was the same water that had made the footprints in his hall. It was the source. It was the calling card of the thing that had marked him. And it had just shown him a preview of what was coming for him. SOON.