Scary stories I wrote

The Weeping Angels of St. Mark's Church

In the quiet stillness of an old, abandoned church, a soft echo reverberated through the air, as if the very walls remembered the prayers and confessions that once filled the space. Now, only shadows and silence resided here, draping the church in an eerie stillness. Ivy had begun to reclaim the crumbling stonework, creeping through broken stained-glass windows and snaking around the forgotten pews.

Clara was drawn to this place. She couldn't explain why, but something about its desolate beauty had captured her curiosity. A cold draft whispered through the room, carrying the scent of damp stone and decay. She glanced at her watch, then back to the entrance, half-expecting her friend Jack to arrive. He was late, as usual. As she waited, Clara wandered deeper into the church, her footsteps the only sound echoing through the empty halls.

At the altar, she noticed them for the first time-two statues, standing silently against the far wall. They were angels, their wings spread wide, faces bowed in an expression of eternal sorrow. Clara approached them with a strange sense of unease. Their craftsmanship was extraordinary; every feather, every fold of stone appeared so lifelike that, for a moment, she swore she could hear them breathe.

She looked away, shaking off the ridiculous thought, and circled behind the altar to inspect the statues more closely. As her gaze shifted back to the angels, her breath caught in her throat. They had moved.

Now, both statues stood with their hands over their eyes, as if weeping. Her heart began to race, the blood thundering in her ears. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, they were closer. Clara gasped, stumbling back. This wasn't possible.

Panic rising, she spun around, searching for any explanation, but the church was empty-silent as a grave. When she looked back, the angels had moved again. Their hands were no longer covering their faces. One was reaching out towards her, its stone fingers curled as if grasping for her throat. The other had its eyes wide open-cold, empty, and utterly devoid of life. Yet, she could feel their gaze piercing through her.

Don't blink.

The warning rang in her mind, though no one had spoken. Clara swallowed hard, her eyes burning as she forced herself to keep them open. She backed away slowly, trying to distance herself from the creeping statues. But no matter how far she moved, they inched closer, their cold stone faces twisted in expressions of malevolent hunger.

She couldn't hold her gaze any longer. Her eyes fluttered shut, and in that heartbeat, everything changed.

The room seemed to collapse around her as she felt a gust of icy wind brush against her skin. She snapped her eyes open, but it was too late. One of the angels stood directly before her now, its face mere inches from hers, its mouth wide open in a silent scream. Her breath hitched in her throat as the world seemed to blur at the edges. The last thing she saw before darkness consumed her was the angel's eyes-unblinking, soulless, and hungry.

Jack arrived at the church minutes later, calling Clara's name into the empty echo of the building. His voice bounced off the walls, unanswered. He searched through the pews, behind the altar, but found no sign of her-just the statues. The two angels stood there, their hands over their faces, frozen in their eternal weeping.

But there was something different now. A third statue stood beside them, a figure with her face covered in stone tears.

It looked uncannily like Clara.

(A/N): who seen Dr. Who

Word count not including this: 607