Shadows of the Past

The Town's Curse

The crowd closed in, surrounding them like a rising wave ready to swallow them whole. Panic clawed at Thomas's mind as his back pressed against the heavy wooden doors of the church. He could feel rough hands snatching at his clothes, trying to pull him into the throng, when suddenly a deafening bang shattered the air, echoing through the church like a crack of thunder.

The sound startled Thomas, making him jump, and the villagers froze, their shouts shifting to gasps and cries as they stumbled back in fear. Smoke drifted from the barrel of Cillian's gun, which he held high, his stance steady and unwavering. Thomas turned to look at him, his body still trembling, and found Cillian's gaze unwavering, his message clear: they would not be taken easily.

Thomas gave a slow, resolute nod, his trembling fading as he steadied himself and met the crowd's gaze head-on. The villagers glared back, their faces twisted in a mixture of fear, confusion, and simmering rage. Their eyes flickered between Thomas and Cillian, sizing up the intruders who had dared to breach their sanctuary.

The murmur of angry whispers rippled through the crowd, growing louder, more agitated. Yet for the moment, the warning shot kept them at bay, their hesitation buying Thomas and Cillian precious seconds. The tension hung thick in the air, and Thomas could feel the weight of their hostility, each stare like a silent threat. But he held his ground, unyielding, refusing to be chased away by their fury.

"Weapons aren't allowed in the house of God," a deep voice intoned, echoing through the cavernous church.

Thomas's eyes darted around, searching for the source. At the far end of the aisle, a figure emerged—a tall man draped in an all-black robe, moving forward with a measured, commanding presence. The crowd parted reverently, like the Red Sea, allowing him to pass without question. Every step he took exuded authority, his weathered face etched with lines that spoke of age and wisdom.

Thomas shot a quick glance at Cillian, who gave the faintest nod, as if they'd both come to the same silent understanding: this man was the leader here. He was more than just a figurehead; he was the one the crowd looked to for guidance, the one they feared and revered.

"Father John, these demons brought Hell upon the steps of our church! The executioner waits outside!" A frantic woman's voice rang out as she fell to her knees before the robed man, clutching at his garment with trembling hands.

Father John merely smiled, a calm, unsettling expression, and placed a gentle hand atop her head. "Fear not, my child," he soothed, his voice as smooth as silk. "These men are but lost souls, like the rest of us."

He lifted his gaze to Thomas and Cillian, his piercing blue eyes settling on them with an intensity that seemed to strip them bare. Thomas swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as a chill crept down his spine under the weight of Father John's gaze. The man's serene smile never faltered, yet it held a darkness that made Thomas feel as though he was being drawn into something far beyond his control.

"Aren't I right, gentlemen?" Father John's voice echoed, smooth yet edged with a subtle challenge.

Cillian cleared his throat, his eyes flicking uneasily to the crowd before he spoke. "We seek shelter."

The leader inclined his head, his smile widening. "Don't we all?" Turning back to his congregation, he raised his arms with a serene authority. "Let us welcome these men into our church, for they are our friend, our neighbor..."

Then, his gaze returned to Thomas and Cillian, that smile deepening, almost predatory. "Our family."

The crowd murmured, glancing between each other with a mix of wariness and forced smiles, the tension thickening with every word. Father John's voice was soothing, inviting—but there was a quiet menace behind it, as if his words held meanings they couldn't yet see. And though the church doors were now shut behind them, Thomas felt no safer within these walls than he had outside.