The chapel stood at the edge of the property, past the crooked fence and dying trees.
It looked more like a tomb than a place of worship—tall, narrow, with stained glass windows blackened by time and filth. No one ever went near it. Not by choice.
But that Sunday, Sister Helena ordered every child to attend.
No exceptions.
They filed in silently, rows of pale faces, eyes downcast. Elira was pushed into a pew between two older girls who trembled with every breath.
The walls dripped with moisture. Candles flickered in the cold draft. And at the far end of the chapel, just above the altar—
Bodies.
Not real.
Not alive.
Children. Dangling from the rafters, strung like puppets. Eyes open. Mouths sewn shut. Their limbs twisted in prayerful poses, as if frozen mid-surrender.
And no one reacted.
No screams. No whispers.
Only the organ began to play—a deep, broken sound that groaned like something dying.
Sister Helena stood at the altar, her black veil casting shadow across her face.
She raised her hands.
"Today," she said, "we give thanks to the one who listens."
The children echoed in monotone: "We give thanks."
Elira felt the locket grow hot against her chest.
She looked up—and for a split second, one of the hanging bodies moved.
A twitch. A blink. A slow, shuddering breath.
No one noticed.
But Elira did.
The chapel spun. Her vision darkened at the edges. Whispers clawed at her ears—"She sees you."
Then Nina appeared again.
No reflection this time.
She stood at the end of the pews, pointing directly at Elira, mouth still sewn shut, blood seeping from the stitches.
Behind her, the stained glass window cracked.
And through it, something began to crawl.