The cathedral loomed with hollow silence, its spire cavalier. Its doors held shut, darkness pools in places the light seems to fear. A cold wind howled between its arches, whistling through elder stone. Judith paused, her breath unsteady—something crooked being sewn. The scent of iron in the air, A Gargoyle's wicked stare, The lack of evening prayer, Fresh graves noting despair. Michael stretched and checked his watch. "Small town charm. Guess we're alone." James just smirked and kicked a pebble, watching as it skipped and spun. "Or maybe they all lock their doors before the final light is gone." James took notice, nudged her shoulder. "Judith, hey, you’re looking pale." Michael smirked and shook his head. "It’s just the road. She’s looking frail." Nearby, a man wiped his palm, a streak of red against his sleeve. James leaned closer, voice now lower. "It’s the blood, isn’t it?" She didn’t answer, only swallowed, pulse unsteady, stomach tight. The houses leaned like wary beggars, shutters drawn and chimneys bare. Signs were old, the paint was faded, shops still open—yet unclear. Michael laughed and tapped a window, peering in with easy grace. "See? It’s fine. Just folks who keep to business, nothing off about this place." Yet Judith shivered, hands unsteady, something gnawed behind her ribs. A feeling thick as stagnant water, pressing fingers to her lips. The river slithered through the town, murky and swollen from the rain. Its surface broke in rippled bubbles—something deep...methane? The bell tower stood beyond the market, looming tall with weathered scars. A plaque beneath was carved and broken, a ripped stars and bars. Judith traced the worn engraving, fingertips along the cracks. A name half-gone, a past eroded—something here was pulling back. The town was silent, but it listened, every doorway wants to bite. Michael grinned but checked his watch. "Well, I say drinks before goodnight?" Judith nodded, tried to follow, but her steps were slowing down. Something lingered, something breathing, lurking beneath the hollow ground. She dreamt of streets that pulled her under, stones that drank and hands that rose. A town that walked yet never wakened, waiting where the river flows. The town beneath, it shifts, it writhes, it drinks the prayers at night And those who listen long enough… they dream in red, not black and white
