Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
These three men are demented. The stories circulating about them are so extreme and brutal that they’d make the devil himself sit up and take notice. You only have to look at where they’re living to know how messed up they are because these three aren’t poor. Far from it. They’re rich. God-like rich, yet all three of them sleep in this dilapidated, forsaken structure that should’ve been demolished years ago.
Three chipped concrete steps lead to two massive wooden doors with cut-out stained-glass windows depicting the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus.
My memory drifts to the last time I was in a church and how religion and everything holy were used to mark me as perverse. A virgin called a Jezebel by my adoptive parents, who held me down as the son of a preacher raped me while they called him a real man.
My hands tremble as I lift the bottom of the brass knocker, raising it before I allow it to drop on the massive wooden door with peeling paint. My heart pounds in my chest like a volcano about to burst.
A raven perches beside me, his beady eyes connecting with mine, both of us anticipating whatever or whoever waits once the door opens. His wings expand, mocking me that if the shit hits the fan, he’ll fly off while I’ll be stuck in the nightmare.
I study the black harbinger. “Looks like no one’s home.”
I wrap my fingers around the metal door handle as I dig into my pocket for a hair clip, but it opens before I can pick the lock.
The church is far from abandoned as it appears from the outside. Foolishly, someone has renovated the place to bring it back to its former glory. Pristine wooden floors. Clean pews that appear to be polished daily. The altar displays a shiny Jesus hanging on the cross, sacrificing himself to save all the sinners.
My hand instinctively shoots into my pocket, and I grip the handle of my blade. It won’t help if someone comes at me with a gun. I’m the idiot who brought a knife to what could be a gunfight. But based on what I’ve heard about the beasts, they prefer hand-to-hand combat. It allows them a slower execution, and their sadistic nature leans toward the brutality that a blade or other sharp object allows over the quick death of a bullet.
My hurried footsteps between the pews and down the side steps fill the space, mocking me with their echoes.
A state-of-the-art kitchen is on my right, with a Wolf stove and a built-in fridge. Three bowls lie on a large marble table, all different sizes, with cutlery scattered beside them—a half-eaten meal abandoned as if they were in too much of a rush to clean up before they left. They may have left in a rush, but they could return just as quickly.
I scurry down the corridor and push on another door slightly ajar. If anything would make me run screaming from the church, it would be what I’m witnessing right now.
Moonlight shines into the room like a dim flashlight, displaying walls covered with plastic. A tear in the plastic in the center of the space serves as a makeshift door. Behind this is a large surgical table filled with various tools. My hands sweat, and I fight the urge to run as a massive bloody chainsaw catches my eye.
I stumble back, struggling to subdue the irrational fear that if I turn my back on the room, it will devour me.
I don’t realize I’ve backed away from one hellscape into another until I stumble and land on my ass. I shimmy backward until my back hits the wooden wall of a different room. My heart races and my eyes widen as I look at the wall before me.
Hooks hold a flood of torture devices. Floggers, whips, canes, and batons. Some have puncturing tools at the tips, while others are more benign. On the left side of the torture wall hangs a shrine to Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary. The room is a fucked-up shrine, highlighting sin and salvation.
I close my eyes. Is all of this worth the possibility of information that will likely lead me to a dead end?
Then I see their faces. Memories of the only happy time in my life warm and bolster me. The terror dissipates, and my courage returns. Gathering myself off the floor, I leave the room with my head held high and walk to the next door.
I enter the next room with less trepidation. This room has a completely different vibe. Pretty and pristine, with large stained-glass windows on one wall. In the center of the room is a large marble baptismal bath that could’ve been a jetted hot tub if renovated.
With renewed courage, I search for the prize that will lead me to answers.