Chapter 3: The Altar of Whispers

Chapter 3: The Altar of Whispers

Jett didn't strike him. He simply straightened up, his face a mask of cold fury and religious fervor. The threat hung in the air, heavier than any physical blow.

"Stay," Jett commanded, his voice a low growl that promised violence. "The Choir will decide what to do with a blasphemer like you. Don't even think about running. We'll know."

Then, as silently as he had appeared, he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the hallway. Leo was left alone, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was somehow worse than Jett's presence. It felt heavy, watchful.

He stared at the symbol on the floor, the jagged lines seeming to mock him. Altar. The word was absurd. This was a derelict house, a place for squatters and rats, not… worship. Jett was just a psycho, a territorial transient with a god complex. He had to be. Leo clung to that thought like a lifeline. He and his "Choir" were just a gang of weirdos who’d claimed this place. That was all.

But his rationalizations felt thin, brittle. The old man's warning, Jett's burning eyes, the unnerving cleanliness of the house—it was all starting to weave together into a tapestry of dread he couldn't ignore.

He sank to the floor, his back against the far wall, as far from the carved symbol as he could get. He wouldn't sleep. He couldn’t. He sat there through the long, dark hours, his guitar case clutched to his chest like a shield, flinching at every creak of the old house settling. The money in his pocket, once a source of pride, now felt like evidence of a crime he hadn't understood he was committing.

When the first weak, grey light of dawn finally filtered through the grimy, boarded windows, it felt less like a rescue and more like an illumination of his prison. He had to get a grip. He had to prove to himself that this was all in his head. Jett was crazy. The house was just a house.

His goal was simple: to demystify this place, to strip it of the power Jett’s words had given it. With a new, fragile resolve, Leo stood up and began to explore.

He started with the adjacent room, what might have been a dining room. It was as empty and clean as the rest, the floor swept bare. He was about to turn back, a wave of relief washing over him, when he saw it. On the faded floral wallpaper, drawn in what looked like charcoal, was the same symbol. It was smaller, more crudely rendered, but unmistakable. And on the floor directly beneath it sat a small, perfectly neat pile of dried acorns. An offering.

A cold knot formed in Leo's stomach. It was one thing to see the symbol carved by a squatter claiming territory. It was another to see it presented like this, with a strange, ritualistic tribute.

He forced himself to move on, his steps now hesitant, his search no longer for reassurance but for confirmation of his growing fear. He entered the kitchen. The room was stripped bare of appliances, but the countertops remained. And there, etched into the dusty linoleum, was the symbol again. The offering this time was a small, spiral arrangement of shiny, colorful shirt buttons. Who would collect buttons and leave them as a tribute in a dead house?

The mundane objects, recontextualized as sacred offerings, were more unsettling than any overt horror. This wasn't the work of one madman. This was a shared, systematic belief. This was a church.

His heart thudding, he took the stairs, each step groaning under his weight, the sound cannoning through the silent house. The second floor was a series of small, empty bedrooms. In the first one, the symbol was drawn in what looked like a child’s purple crayon on the wall. Below it, on the floor, lay a single, tragic offering: a lock of blonde hair, tied neatly with a piece of faded red string.

Leo backed out of the room, a wave of nausea rolling through him. He thought of the generous, smiling people of Andalusia, the families he’d played for. Were these their secrets? Their desperate pleas to whatever… thing… they worshipped in this place? You pull it out of them, Jett had said. Their pity. Their secrets. You play it all back into the air.

He stumbled into the last room at the end of the hall—the master bedroom. The sight that greeted him shattered the last remnants of his denial. The room wasn't empty. The wall above the space where a headboard would have been was dominated by a massive, meticulously painted version of the symbol, its jagged lines stark and menacing. The floorboards before it were covered in dozens of offerings, a museum of forgotten sorrows.

There were dried, brittle bouquets of wildflowers. A handful of rusted, antique keys. A child’s single, worn-out leather shoe. A collection of old photographs, their silver nitrate surfaces tarnished, the faces of the people within methodically scratched out with a sharp object. Each item was a story of loss, a prayer left at the foot of an uncaring god.

This was their holiest place. The nexus of their faith.

The air was thick with a palpable sense of reverence and desperation. Leo felt like an intruder desecrating a tomb. He backed away slowly, a strangled sound caught in his throat. Jett hadn't been speaking in metaphors. This house wasn't just a squat, it was a living, breathing shrine.

He fled back down the stairs, his mind reeling, the images of the offerings burned into his vision. He burst back into the main living room, the room where he had slept, intending to grab his gear and make a run for it, Jett’s warning be damned.

But he stopped dead in the center of the room, seeing it now with horrifying clarity.

It wasn't just a large, empty room. It was a nave. The massive, cold fireplace was the focal point, the pulpit. And the vast, empty floor space… it was designed for a congregation. The symbol Jett had revealed, the largest carving of all, was positioned directly in the center of it all.

Right where Leo had unrolled his sleeping bag.

Right where he had sat and casually strummed his guitar, basking in the glow of his successful con.

Right where he had counted his money, his blasphemous earnings, tainting their most sacred ground.

A wave of ice-cold horror washed over him, so intense it made him dizzy. He hadn't just trespassed. He hadn't just slept in their temple. He had curled up and slept on their central altar, his music an unwitting sermon broadcast from the very heart of their faith. The "tithe" Jett had spoken of wasn't just about money. It was about repayment. A blood offering for a sacrilege he couldn’t possibly comprehend.

The oppressive silence of the house pressed in on him, no longer empty but expectant. It was the silence of a congregation waiting for the sacrifice to begin.

Creeeeak.

The sound came from the top of the stairs. A floorboard, groaning under a sudden weight.

Leo froze, his blood turning to ice. Jett had said to wait. He hadn't said Leo would be waiting alone.