1 Peter 5:8 "Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour."
The morning news blared through countless aging televisions, crackling radios, and glowing smartphones across General Santos City, filling the airwaves with an unsettling sense of urgency. The broadcast echoed through the streets, where even the faintest sound seemed amplified in the heavy, stifling atmosphere. Outside, the sun hung low in the sky, a weak, dull orb barely able to pierce the thick, brooding clouds that seemed to smother the city. Despite the hour, it felt like dusk had settled, casting a gray pallor over everything as the oppressive weight of the day settled in.
The news anchor's voice was taut, grave, every word heavy with an unspoken dread, as if the very air around him was thick with fear.
"Authorities continue to investigate the recent spike in violent deaths across the city, with the majority of incidents reported in the darkest alleys and isolated corners. Police have not released a full statement but confirm that the deaths are not only brutal but also inexplicable. As if the mounting terror wasn't enough, an odd atmospheric phenomenon persists—nights are stretching longer, and even in the daylight hours, shadows seem to grow unnaturally dark and elongated."
There was a pause, long enough for the tension to become palpable. The anchor shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his notes as if hoping for some semblance of clarity. When he met the camera again, his unease was obvious.
"Residents have reported seeing shadowy figures moving just out of sight, darting in the corners of their vision, but no official explanation has been given. Some scientists are speculating that the recent solar dimming might be causing psychological effects, though, as of now, there is no conclusive evidence to support this theory."
A shaky, grainy cell phone video flickered to life on the screen. It was taken from a building overlooking the same abandoned lot where Shaundrey's friends had met their grisly fate. Though the video quality was poor, viewers could make out the vague shapes of something—not human—lurking just beneath the surface of the frame. Dark, flickering forms, writhing like liquid shadows, danced and slithered near the ground, almost alive with a malevolent purpose.
The anchor's face paled as he read the latest, chilling update.
"In response to the growing unrest and fear among the citizens, Mayor Bryl Santos held an emergency press conference this morning."
The feed switched, and the screen filled with the image of Mayor Bryl Santos, standing before a makeshift podium outside the General Santos City Hall. His face was drawn and tired, etched with lines of stress and fatigue. Behind him, armed officers stood at attention, their weapons gripped tightly in their hands, their eyes darting warily across the gathering crowd.
The mayor cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the quiet before he spoke. His voice, though strong, carried an undercurrent of strain, betraying the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
"Citizens of General Santos City, I understand the fear and confusion many of you are experiencing," he began, his voice ringing out, loud and clear. "We are actively investigating these disturbing incidents and have increased police presence throughout the city. Reports of moving shadows and unexplained attacks are being taken seriously, but we urge everyone to remain calm and stay vigilant."
He paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as he gathered his thoughts.
"Until we have more answers, I strongly advise all citizens to remain indoors after sunset. Keep your homes well-lit, and avoid traveling alone at night. We've instructed the police to patrol in pairs, armed with high-powered flashlights, to investigate any unusual shadow activity. I urge you all to cooperate with the authorities and report any suspicious activity immediately."
Mayor Santos gripped the edges of the podium with white knuckles, his gaze burning through the cameras as if trying to project authority, to assure the people that control was still in their hands.
"Let us not give in to fear or superstition. We will find the answers. We will protect this city."
The mayor gave a tight, controlled nod, then stepped away from the podium as reporters shouted frantic questions, their voices rising in a chaotic swell. Despite the composed exterior, his discomfort was evident—the unease he couldn't quite mask as he walked away from the podium.
The broadcast cut back to the news studio, where the anchor, his face still pale, continued cautiously.
"Mayor Santos' speech has stirred both relief and skepticism among the city's residents, as many believe something far darker is at play. Meanwhile, experts from various fields are collaborating to better understand the solar dimming phenomenon and its possible connection to the escalating violence."
Across the city, whispers filled the air. People huddled in groups, pulling their jackets tighter around their bodies as if to ward off a cold that wasn't entirely natural—like the night itself had seeped into the day, spreading its chilling tendrils into the hearts of those left in its wake.
Last night, the city felt colder than it had any right to be.
Mayor Bryl Santos stood in the middle of the crime scene, his eyes locked on the mangled remains of Shaundrey's friend, a gruesome reminder of the horrors unfolding in General Santos City. The faint, acrid scent of blood still hung in the air, clinging to the dampness that soaked into the ground beneath his feet. It was as if the city itself had become a tomb, its heartbeat muffled beneath the weight of fear and darkness. The cold seeped through his shoes, a bone-deep chill that had little to do with the weather.
Around him, officers moved with a careful caution, their voices hushed as if afraid to disturb the dead. Bryl didn't need to hear their words; he could feel the tension hanging thick in the air, each officer avoiding eye contact, unsure of what to say or what they even knew. His city was unraveling at the seams, and every moment he stood there made it harder to ignore the creeping suspicion that something far more sinister was behind it all.
He turned to Greg, still standing near the scene, his eyes distant and lost in thought. Since the chaos had erupted, the detective had been quieter than usual, his mind clearly trying to piece together the puzzle—only the pieces didn't seem to fit.
"This isn't just another random killing, Greg, is it?" Mayor Santos' voice cut through the stillness, thick with concern and a trace of something more—something close to fear.
Greg didn't immediately answer. He stared at the scene, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a moment, he shook his head slowly, as if to shake off the weight of the thought. "No, sir. This feels… different. There's something else happening here. Something unnatural."
Santos glanced down at the blood-soaked ground, searching for something, anything—some clue that had been overlooked in the rush of discovery. He could feel the city's pulse, the way it was racing with anxiety, with questions that couldn't be answered. People were terrified, and they needed a leader to step up and take charge. He couldn't be the one to let them down.
He could feel the pressure mounting, the weight of it settling in like a stone pressing against his chest. "What are we going to do about this?" His voice was urgent now, almost pleading. "The people are scared. The shadows… they're killing them, Greg. We can't let this continue."
Greg ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharpness of his movements. He took a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the ground as if searching for answers in the pavement itself. "I don't know yet, Mayor. But I do know this isn't just about the killings. Something is controlling these shadows. And we need to figure out what."
Santos nodded, his brow furrowing. The shadows were no longer just a metaphor for the city's fears; they had become an insidious, living threat. He could feel the weight of it all pressing on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. "That's why I'm calling in Dr. Lovely Ramirez," he said, his voice firm with resolve. "She's a scientist. She's been studying the strange atmospheric changes in the city. Maybe she'll have some insight into what's happening with the shadows. We need her expertise—fast."
Greg's skepticism was palpable. He shot the mayor a sideways glance, his eyes narrowing in doubt. "You think she'll have answers? This... this is beyond science, Bryl. We're talking about shadows that kill."
Bryl's gaze hardened, sharp and unwavering. "I'm hoping she can find out what's causing all of this," he replied, his voice low and intense. "The longer we wait, the more people will die." His tone shifted, growing somber, as if the gravity of the situation had finally crushed down on him. "Get to her, Greg. We need everything she's got."
For a long moment, Greg simply stared at him, the unspoken weight of the request hanging between them. He didn't speak, but his silent agreement was all that was needed. Whatever the truth was behind these shadows—whatever this thing was—it wouldn't stop until they stopped it. And they couldn't afford to fail. Not now. Not when so many lives hung in the balance.
John sat, a solitary figure in the deepening twilight, his coat clutched tightly around his body like a shield against the creeping cold. The sun had dipped behind the rows of slanted rooftops, casting long, shadowy fingers across the cobblestones, and the familiar evening chill wrapped itself around him, sinking into his bones. Yet despite the biting air, he stayed exactly where he always did—just outside the bakery, always watchful, always present, his gaze never straying far from Grace or the warmth of the shop he had come to care for.
Inside the bakery, the comforting sounds of the evening preparations were beginning to wind down. Eulogio, the gruff yet kind-hearted baker who had taken John in without question, stepped out into the dimming light. His hands were dusted with flour, and his apron was streaked with the remnants of the day's work. He paused, looking at John with something that resembled concern in his eyes.
"John," he called, his voice softer than it usually was, betraying a weariness that hadn't been there when they first met. "Come inside, get yourself some bread. You can't stay out here all night. It's too cold for that."
John, seated cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, lifted his head to meet Eulogio's gaze. His lips curled into a faint but sincere smile, though his eyes remained alert, darting over the street as he muttered quiet Bible verses under his breath. "Thank you, sir. But I'm fine here. The Lord watches over me."
Eulogio's eyes softened with a mix of gratitude and frustration. He wiped his hands on his apron, but there was a hesitation in his movement. "I... I owe you my daughter's life, John. You don't need to keep sitting out here. You've done enough." His voice faltered slightly, as though the weight of his words hung heavily on him.
John's gaze flickered to the darkening street, his expression unreadable, and he nodded gently. "Best to stay watchful. Trouble likes to creep in when no one's looking."
Eulogio let out a sigh, rubbing his face with a tired hand. His gaze turned thoughtful, and after a moment, he spoke again, his voice lower, more resigned. "Well... If you're going to keep hanging around, at least come inside and help out. I could use an extra pair of hands in the mornings, especially with the bread."
A warmth spread across John's face at the offer, a quiet gratitude reflected in his eyes. "Thank you, sir," he said, his voice soft but filled with sincerity. "I'll do whatever I can."
When Grace appeared from the back, having overheard the conversation, her face lit up like the first rays of dawn. "Papa! That's a great idea! John's already like family!" Her voice was filled with infectious joy, and she rushed forward to embrace John, her eyes sparkling with genuine affection.
Eulogio, though still gruff, gave a faint smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward despite his attempt to hide it. "Well, I'm not going to argue with her." He grunted in his usual way, but the warmth of the moment was enough to soften the rough edges of his demeanor.
John looked between the two of them, a small but contented smile crossing his face. There, in the quiet simplicity of the bakery, he found a sense of peace—one that he hadn't realized he'd been searching for. For the first time in a long while, he felt the faint stirrings of something more than just duty in his heart. He had a place here. And that, in itself, was enough.
Days blurred together, and John found himself settling into a rhythm at the bakery—kneading dough before dawn, sweeping flour-dusted floors, and always keeping watch. Grace greeted him each morning with a bright smile, her warmth as steady as the sun, while Eulogio, ever gruff, had started to grumble less and nod in quiet approval. It was a life of small comforts, the scent of fresh bread wrapping around them like a familiar embrace.
But peace never lasted long.
One evening, as the last loaves cooled on the racks, Eulogio suddenly doubled over with a harsh, rattling cough. He braced himself against the counter, his broad shoulders shuddering with each deep hack.
Grace was at his side in an instant, eyes wide with fear. "Papa! Are you alright?"
Eulogio wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, forcing a tired smile. "Just a little... tickle in the throat," he muttered, but his voice was thin, his breath labored. "I'll be fine."
John wasn't convinced. And by morning, neither was Grace. Eulogio's face was ashen, dark circles ringing his weary eyes. His breathing was shallow, each inhale dragging like sandpaper against his throat. No more excuses.
"We're taking you to the hospital," Grace insisted, bundling him in a thick shawl. Eulogio didn't protest—perhaps the surest sign that something was truly wrong.
General Santos Medical Center was in chaos.
The waiting room overflowed with bodies, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic, blood, and sweat. People slumped against the walls, sprawled across benches, some curled up on the cold tile floor. Bruises bloomed like ink stains across their skin. Blood seeped through hastily wrapped bandages.
Nurses rushed past, barking orders. A doctor, his coat stained with something dark, wiped a trembling hand across his forehead before moving to his next patient. The entire room pulsed with urgency, with panic.
A harried nurse nearly collided with them as she rushed by. Grace caught her arm. "Please! My father is sick—he's coughing, weak—"
The nurse shook her head, eyes hollow with exhaustion. "We're full," she said, voice raw with overuse. "Fights breaking out all over the city—people turning on each other. Attacks in the streets, in their homes. Bites, stab wounds, claw marks—" She exhaled shakily. "It's a nightmare."
John's gaze swept the room, his stomach tightening. A man sat with claw marks slashed across his face, his skin a sickly, unnatural shade of gray. His eyes—flat, lifeless—stared at nothing. A woman nearby clutched a bloodied arm, her lips moving in a frantic whisper, her fingers twitching in some erratic rhythm.
Grace gripped John's arm. "What's happening to people?" she whispered.
John's jaw tightened. He didn't have an answer, but deep in his gut, he felt the truth coil like a serpent.
"Something evil," he murmured. "The kind that poisons souls and bodies alike."
With no help to be found, they had no choice but to take Eulogio back to the bakery.
They settled him onto a makeshift bed behind the counter, layering blankets over his fevered body. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
John moved quickly, rummaging through old supplies, mind racing. He had no real medical training, only the lessons he'd picked up from a church charity program years ago. But he knew enough to try.
He brewed a warm herbal tea, pressing the steaming cup into Grace's shaking hands. He dampened a cloth with cool water, gently dabbing it against Eulogio's burning forehead. And when Grace wasn't looking, he pressed a hand to Eulogio's chest and whispered a quiet prayer, asking for strength, for healing—for time.
Grace sat beside her father, clutching his calloused hand, blinking back tears. "You'll be okay, Papa," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You'll see."
John didn't answer. He just kept working.
Because hope was a fragile thing. And the shadows were closing in.
Darkness slithered over the city like a sentient thing, racing unnaturally fast as if the night itself was impatient to devour the world. The bakery stood alone, its warm glow flickering uncertainty, the power lines groaning under some unseen force.
John stood at the window, his body tense. The silence outside wasn't true silence—it was layered with things just beyond the range of normal hearing. The slow shuffle of feet. A distant, wet crunch. The brittle sound of glass cracking under something weightless.
"What was that?" Grace whispered, her voice barely audible.
John didn't answer immediately. He turned from the window, eyes steady but urgent. "Stay with your father. Don't leave his side."
A shadow slid past the window. It wasn't human. Too tall. Too fluid.
John's fingers instinctively curled around the small Bible in his pocket. He took a step forward, careful to remain in the dim light, heart pounding as he peered outside.
In the failing glow of a flickering street lamp, he saw them—twisted things, their forms shifting and writhing like living smoke. They slithered along the pavement, their limbs clawed and unnatural, their eyes burning like dying embers. The light of the lamp seemed to bend around them, struggling to hold back the encroaching dark.
Then the bulb exploded with a sharp pop, plunging the street into absolute blackness.
A deep, guttural growl reverberated from the shadows.
John's breath hitched. He didn't move.
They had come.
His lips moved instinctively, his whisper barely audible over the silence pressing in.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil…"
Behind him, Grace clutched her father's limp hand, her own trembling. Eulogio's breathing was ragged, uneven. The darkness outside thickened, pressing against the windows like a living tide, clawing at the fragile glow of the oil lamp on the counter.
Then—BANG. BANG. BANG.
A sharp knock against the bakery door made Grace stifle a scream.
"Police! Open up!" a gruff voice called. "Everything alright there?"
John hesitated, then cautiously cracked the door open. Two officers stood outside—Officer De Vera and Officer Ramiro—both tense, hands hovering over their holstered pistols. Their eyes flickered nervously to the streets, their breath visible in the sudden chill.
"You folks okay?" De Vera asked, squinting at John. "The power's out in half the block. It's… unusually dark around here."
John stepped aside, his gaze flicking to the alley across the street, where something moved just beyond the reach of light. "It's not just the power," he murmured. "They're out there. Watching."
Ramiro frowned. "Who's 'they'?"
John looked him dead in the eye. "The shadows. They're alive. They're hunting us. They already tried to break in."
The officers exchanged an uneasy glance. De Vera exhaled, shifting on his feet. "Look, sir, I know things have been—"
A growl rumbled from the darkness.
It wasn't human.
Everyone froze.
Something moved—a shifting, liquid blackness, creeping along the pavement like smoke given form.
Ramiro inhaled sharply. "What the hell is that…?"
He drew his pistol. De Vera did the same.
Before either of them could fire, the darkness lashed out.
De Vera barely had time to scream before razor-sharp talons tore through his back, splitting him open like wet paper. Blood sprayed the wall as he fired blindly into the air, the bullets passing through the void as if hitting nothing at all.
"Jesus Christ!" Ramiro yelled, his hands shaking as he unloaded his clip. The thing barely flinched, its form twisting, shifting, laughing in a voice that wasn't a voice at all.
Before Ramiro could reload, it was on him.
The claws found his throat.
A wet gurgle. A spray of red.
His body crumpled, lifeless, as his flashlight hit the pavement and shattered.
The light flickered.
And then it went out.
Darkness surged forward.
John slammed the door shut, bolting it as Grace sobbed behind him, clutching her fevered father. The shadows clawed at the wood, scraping deep gouges, the air thick with the scent of rot and something far worse.
John pressed his back to the door, eyes closed. His lips moved faster, words tumbling forth in quiet desperation.
"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…"
A long, agonizing creak shuddered through the bakery as something pressed against the walls, against the very foundation of the building.
"Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over…"
The oil lamp flickered wildly, its glow struggling against the encroaching dark.
"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…"
The scratching at the windows grew louder.
"And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
A low hiss filled the room.
John opened his eyes.
The shadows had found them.
The pews of Great Commission Missionary Baptist Church were packed with restless bodies and anxious souls. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, candle wax, and the faint musk of old wood. Mothers clutched their children close, fathers sat rigid with fists clenched, and elders whispered quiet prayers under their breath. They had come seeking refuge. Seeking answers. Seeking hope.
Outside, the night pressed in, thick and unnatural, wrapping around the church like a hungry beast. The wind howled through the trees, but there was no movement—no rustling of leaves, no chirping of crickets. Only silence. And shadows that seemed to breathe.
Behind the pulpit, Pastor Joseph stood tall, his worn Bible open before him. His voice, rich and steady, carried through the sanctuary like a spark in the darkness.
"Turn with me to Mark 7:21-23," he said, his voice laced with the weight of truth.
The pages rustled as he read aloud:
"For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders,
Thefts, covetousness, wickedness, deceit, lasciviousness, an evil eye, blasphemy, pride, foolishness:
All these evil things come from within, and defile the man."
His words settled over the congregation like a heavy fog. A child whimpered. Somewhere in the back, a woman crossed herself.
Joseph's gaze swept over them, piercing, unflinching.
"We look at the darkness around us and we tremble. The killings. The strange shadows. The fear that grips our city—it is terrifying. But let me tell you something, Church..."
He stepped down from the pulpit, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards. The chandeliers overhead flickered as if reacting to something unseen.
His voice lowered, deep and commanding.
"The greatest darkness is not the one outside."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. In the front row, Mariz gripped her belly, her knuckles white. The shadows beyond the stained glass stirred.
Joseph continued, his words hammering against the walls of the church.
"It is not the night that makes men wicked! It is not the shadows that turn them evil! The evil was already there—hidden, waiting. The darkness only brings it to light!"
A sudden gust of wind slammed against the windows, rattling the stained glass in their frames. A few people gasped, their heads whipping toward the doors.
Joseph pointed at the congregation, his voice rising with holy fire.
"We blame the devil for everything, but Jesus Himself said these things come from within! The heart of man is corrupt. It is filled with greed, hate, and sin. And when the light of God is removed, what happens? The darkness takes over!"
The candles flickered violently. The old wooden cross above the pulpit creaked. Outside, the shadows thickened, pressing against the doors, stretching long, clawed fingers over the stained glass.
Then—BANG.
A deep, echoing thud against the church doors. Something was out there. Watching. Waiting.
A woman near the back stifled a sob. Mariz turned to Joseph, her voice a trembling whisper.
"Joseph... they're here."
Joseph didn't move. He didn't flinch.
Instead, he lifted his Bible high.
"No matter what is waiting outside, Church, we are not afraid! For Christ is our shield, our light in the darkness!"
And then, without hesitation, he lifted his voice and began to sing.
🎵 Turn your eyes upon Jesus...
Look full in His wonderful face... 🎵
At first, only a few voices joined in, weak and shaking. But then, something shifted.
The voices grew. The trembling notes became firm, defiant. A chorus of faith rising against the abyss.
🎵 And the things of earth will grow strangely dim...
In the light of His glory and grace... 🎵
The shadows outside convulsed. Shuddered.Writhing in agony.
They could not enter.
They could not stand the light.
The final note faded into silence. And the darkness outside was gone.
Joseph exhaled, gripping the pulpit. The sweat on his brow glistened in the candlelight.
Mariz wiped away silent tears.
The battle wasn't over.
But for now, the light had won.
"We... we can't stay here," John muttered, his voice strained, barely above a whisper. His thoughts raced, each one more urgent than the last. He glanced at Grace, whose face was pale with fear, and there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes. "Help me with your father. We need to get him out."
With a grunt of effort, John heaved Eulogio onto his shoulder. The older man was limp, barely conscious, his ragged breathing shallow and labored. Sweat beaded on John's forehead as he steadied his load. Grace, shaking with anxiety, scrambled toward the counter, her trembling hands grabbing what she could—loaves of bread and bottles of water, her movements frantic. She stuffed them into a worn cloth bag, her heart pounding, the weight of each second pressing down like a heavy stone.
They moved quickly, but every moment felt like an eternity. The shadows seemed to be closing in, pressing against the walls, the air thick with an unnatural cold. The old bakery creaked and groaned as if it were alive, its timbers buckling under the weight of the encroaching darkness. Without a word, they made their way to the back door, stepping into the alley.
The moon hung in the sky like a cold, distant eye, its light barely enough to cut through the inky blackness around them. A low hum filled the air, the shadows whispering and shifting in the corners of John's vision as if they were watching, waiting for the moment they could strike.
The truck was an old, beat-up model, its faded paint chipped and rusted. John helped Eulogio into the passenger seat, his legs shaking with the effort. Grace scrambled into the back of the truck, clutching the supplies close to her chest. She looked out into the alley, her eyes wide, scanning the dark corners for any signs of movement. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as the shadows drew near.
The engine sputtered, coughed, and groaned to life, the sound hollow and weak, but it started. Just as the first shadowy figure stepped out of the darkness, reaching towards them with clawed fingers that seemed to stretch and writhe, John slammed his foot onto the accelerator.
The tires screeched against the pavement as the truck lurched forward, its engine growling in protest. The road ahead was a blur of flickering streetlights and looming shadows that stretched like dark claws reaching for them. The night was alive with the unnatural sound of the creatures slithering closer, their whispers like a chorus of nightmares just beyond the truck's walls.
Grace twisted in the back, her eyes wide with terror. She saw them—more shadows, emerging from the darkness like hungry predators. "They're still following us!" she gasped, her voice cracking with panic.
John kept his eyes glued to the road, his jaw clenched in a tight line. He muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the roar of the truck and the pounding of his heart. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…" His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of a prayer, a plea for safety in the face of the unknown.
In the rearview mirror, he saw it—the bakery. The once familiar building, now consumed by thick, black tendrils, wrapping around it like a suffocating shroud. The darkness shifted and pulsed, as if the very walls of the bakery were alive, struggling to fight back. The shadows crept up the walls, the bakery's windows disappearing into the blackness, leaving only empty darkness where the light had once been.
John's heart sank as he took one last look. It was gone.
His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles stark white. He pressed his foot harder onto the gas pedal, pushing the truck faster as the road blurred into nothingness behind them. They needed to get out, needed to get to safety before the darkness swallowed them whole.
The rain began to fall harder, a curtain of silver obscuring the road ahead. But John didn't stop. Not until they were safe.
John's fingers clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles burned white. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling with ragged intensity. The rain lashed against the windshield, each droplet streaking like silver knives as the wipers struggled to keep up. His eyes darted from the flooded road ahead to the rearview mirror—where they lurked.
The shadows slithered like living ink, twisting and stretching unnaturally, their clawed hands reaching, scraping against the truck's bumper with a sound like nails on bone. The air inside the vehicle was suffocating, thick with the stench of rain and something far worse—the creeping scent of decay.
From the back seat, Grace stole a terrified glance through the cracked rear window, her pulse hammering.
"They're getting closer!" she gasped, her voice barely cutting through the roar of the engine and the pelting storm.
John gritted his teeth and slammed his foot on the gas. The truck groaned in protest, the old engine howling as it lurched forward, tires skidding over the slick pavement. Beside him, Eulogio slumped against the window, his pale face barely visible in the dim interior. His shallow breathing rattled against his ribs, each exhale weaker than the last.
"Hold on!" John bellowed.
The city around them felt empty—lifeless—as if the streets themselves had surrendered to the growing darkness. Streetlights flickered ahead, their feeble glow offering little hope. Then, one by one, they shattered.
A deep, guttural laugh echoed from the writhing black mass behind them.
The shadows swelled, twisting into grotesque shapes—elongated arms with jagged claws, red eyes that gleamed like embers, gaping mouths dripping with ink-like saliva. One of them lunged, latching onto the truck's tailgate with a screeching wail. The metal buckled under its grip.
The vehicle veered violently.
Grace screamed as another monstrous hand clawed at her window. A sharp crack! splintered the glass, sending jagged shards flying across the dashboard. John fought the wheel, the truck sliding out of control, tires hydroplaning over the waterlogged road.
"God help us," he whispered, sweat mingling with rain on his brow.
Then—BOOM!
The back tire exploded.
The truck spun wildly, slamming through a rusted chain-link fence. The world blurred into a chaotic swirl of motion—metal shrieked, glass shattered, and then—impact.
Silence.
John's head whipped forward, his forehead striking the wheel. A sharp pain burst behind his eyes as warm blood trickled from a cut on his lip. His ears rang.
Grace coughed beside him, shaking, her fingers pressed against a bleeding scrape on her arm. In the back seat, Eulogio groaned weakly, barely conscious.
The silence didn't last.
From behind them, low growls rumbled—a chorus of inhuman whispers slithering closer.
John forced himself to move, his vision swimming as he kicked the door open and stumbled into the rain.
"Get out! Now!" he yelled, hauling Eulogio from the wreckage, feeling the man's weight sag against his shoulder. Grace stumbled beside him, her breaths ragged, eyes darting toward the inky shapes emerging from the darkness.
The shadows slithered like a living tide, claws scraping against the pavement, their twisted figures writhing in hunger. The cold around them deepened, creeping into their bones like fingers of ice.
Then—a light.
A warm glow pulsed through the downpour, standing defiant against the abyss. Great Commission Missionary Baptist Church.
The towering cross above the entrance shone like a beacon, its golden radiance slicing through the gloom. John didn't hesitate.
With every ounce of strength left, he hoisted Eulogio higher and ran.
Grace followed, her legs burning, lungs aching, but she dared not look back. The very air seemed to vibrate with the guttural snarls of their pursuers. The moment they crossed onto the church grounds, the shadows recoiled, shrieking.
John slammed his fist against the wooden doors.
"Help! Please! Open up!"
For a breathless second, there was no response.
Then—the heavy doors swung open.
Pastor Joseph stood in the doorway, his eyes wide in alarm as he took in their soaked, bloody, terrified faces.
"What in God's name—"
John's voice broke. "Please!"
The Pastor hesitated only a moment before yanking them inside. The doors slammed shut behind them.
John staggered, lowering Eulogio onto a pew, his entire body trembling. Grace collapsed onto the wooden floor, her fingers pressing into her temples as she gasped for breath.
Joseph reached for the door—ready to bolt it—when a sound froze him in place.
A voice.
A horrible, rasping voice that seeped through the cracks of the church walls, twisting in the air like a plague of whispers.
"You can't hide them, holy man..."
The room turned deathly cold.
John shuddered. Grace whimpered. Even in the safety of the church, the darkness lingered, pressing against the outside walls like a living thing.
Outside, a monstrous figure took shape, its jagged claws scraping slowly against the wooden doors.
"Light cannot keep the darkness forever... We will consume them. One by one... until the streets run red with fear."
The voice slithered over them, whispering from every corner of the room.
"You can't save them. They belong to us."
Joseph stood firm, tightening his grip on the Bible in his hands. His heart pounded, but his faith did not waver.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. His voice was low, but it reverberated through the sanctuary with unshakable conviction:
"God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear..."
The air lightened.
The unnatural cold faded.
Joseph exhaled and bolted the doors.
Turning back, he saw John on his knees, his body slumped in exhaustion. Grace still trembled, tears streaking her face. Eulogio stirred weakly, whispering something incoherent.
Joseph steadied himself, his voice quiet but resolute.
"We're safe... for now."