The next morning, Ethan was not in his haunted house. He had run, sprinted, nearly tripped over three trash bins, and somehow ended up in what he thought was the safest place a horror protagonist could possibly hide: a church.
Churches were supposed to be holy ground. Safe. Ghosts, demons, cursed vacuum cleaners—none of them were supposed to be able to cross the threshold. At least, that was how it worked in movies. Ethan clung to that logic like a drowning man clinging to a pool noodle.
The pews were crooked, the ceiling beams sagged, and he swore the stained glass was dirtier than his old dorm bathroom, but hey—at least it wasn't the haunted shack. He lay across one of the benches, hugging his backpack like a teddy bear, telling himself he'd made a smart move.
Except.
It was perfectly not alright.
The moment he had stepped in, something had been off. No maintenance, dust everywhere, and—was that smell blood? Yes. It was. Definitely blood. Not incense. Not wax. Not that musty old-book smell churches normally had. This place smelled like someone had mopped the floor with ketchup that had expired in the 1800s.
Ethan groaned and sat up, stretching. His neck cracked, his spine popped, and he rubbed at his eyes. He was half-asleep, half-hoping when he opened them, he'd see a regular church, clean and peaceful.
Nope.
The cross at the altar wasn't the same as last night. In fact, he could've sworn it had been upright before he fell asleep. Now? Tilted. Maybe even upside down. Definitely not a good sign.
"Yeah, no. That's normal. Totally normal. Churches just… do that sometimes, right?" he muttered. "Maybe it's on a swivel? Adjustable cross for different moods? 'Repentance Mode: Tilt 30 degrees.'"
He dragged himself to his feet, shuffling toward the front where a man in a long black robe stood waiting. The man's face was shadowed by a hood, hands folded neatly as if in prayer. Ethan, still half in dreamland, didn't question it.
Instead, he noticed the man holding out a towel.
"Oh. Service here is better than some hotels," Ethan said, plucking it from his hand. "Do I tip you now or after confession?"
He wiped his face with it. The towel was damp. Creamy. And then it began to sting.
By the time Ethan pulled it away, his skin was tingling and hot, like he'd just rubbed chili powder into his cheeks. He looked down—and froze.
The towel wasn't white. It wasn't clean. It was smeared in thick, dark red.
"…oh. Fantastic. It's blood. Great skincare routine you got here," Ethan muttered, his voice climbing an octave. He stared at the hooded man, who remained still as a statue. "Is this, like, your holy water substitute? Extra iron for the skin?"
And then it hit him.
This wasn't a church.
The crooked cross. The smell. The shadows in the corners. The way the "pews" weren't really pews at all but mismatched chairs facing the wrong direction. His stomach lurched. His hands went clammy.
Ethan laughed nervously and tossed the towel back. "Thanks, really. Five-star service. I'll leave a glowing review on… uh… TripAdvisor. Or Yelp. Wherever evil cults advertise these days."
He turned and marched toward the door. Casually. Calmly. Totally-not-panicking.
Then he noticed them.
Several people. All in the same black robes. Standing in the aisles. Sitting in the benches. Heads turning in perfect, silent unison to watch him leave. Their faces were hidden, but he could feel their eyes like daggers stabbing into his back.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," Ethan whispered. "Silent followers in robes? This is like every horror movie ever. Next you're gonna chant something in Latin and sacrifice a goat."
The robed figures began to rise. One by one.
Ethan quickened his pace. "Nope. Nope. Not today, Satan. Or… whoever's running this freak show."
They began to follow.
That was enough for him. Ethan bolted, sprinting down the aisle, pushing open the heavy wooden doors with a crash. Cool morning air hit him like salvation, and he didn't stop running until the silhouette of the old, creepy house came into view again.
"Both are pretty creepy, I guess!" he wheezed, gasping for air as his sneakers slapped the uneven road. "Haunted house or cult church. What a fantastic buffet of terror. My life's a comedy special written by ghosts."
He staggered up the porch, threw open the door, and found himself face-to-face with the ghost from last night.
Her pale figure hovered right at the entrance, blood dripping from her knife.
Ethan froze. Closed the door. Opened it again. Yep. Still there.
He groaned. "I paid—well, technically my dad paid—for this place! So let me sleep peacefully for at least a fortnight, okay?"
For a moment, the ghost tilted her head. Then, without a word, she vanished.
Ethan blinked. "…Huh?"
And that was somehow even scarier.
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