The church bell rang for no one.
It was 3:00 AM when the fog rolled in thick like breath on glass, curling along the gutters of Duskwood. No dogs barked. No windows glowed. The town slept like it had something to hide.
Father Elric stood alone in the confession booth, but no one had entered. The door creaked open five minutes ago. But no footsteps. No whisper. Just… air that felt colder.
He cleared his throat. "Forgiveness is free, child. Speak your truth."
Silence.
Then, a scrape—like fingernails on old wood.
He leaned closer to the grille, breath held.
And then, the voice.
"I watched her die," it said. "But I didn't kill her."
Elric's blood thudded in his ears. The voice was low, calm… practiced. It didn't belong to any parishioner. It sounded young, but hollow. Like it had learned to wear emotions the way mannequins wore clothes—nicely draped but never real.
"Go on," Elric whispered, fear hiding beneath his collar.
"I wore gloves. No prints. I moved her body to the cemetery behind St. Lora's, right where the shadow touches the angel's feet. She was beautiful. Still is."
Elric opened his mouth, but the voice cut him off.
"She smiled when I strangled her. At least… I think she smiled."
Chills seized his spine. "This is a joke. You need help."
A pause. Then a small laugh.
"No, Father. You do."
A sharp click. The booth light flickered. A soft thump. When Elric burst out, the opposite door was wide open. No one inside. Just a faint, lingering smell of iron… and lilies.
On the bench was a white collar—like the one priests wore. Only this one had blood along the edges.
And a note.
"Shadow follows those who claim light."