The mop squeaked softly against the cold stone floor, echoing in the vast, empty chamber. The boy's hands trembled as he wrung out the dirty rag into the bucket, watching ripples form and vanish under the flickering glow of the torch lamps mounted along the church's walls. It was evening, and the heavy wooden doors were locked for the night, shutting the world outside in silence. The church, old yet preserved, stood as a relic amidst the restless city, its gothic arches swallowing sound and shadow alike.
He moved the mop back and forth across the floor, humming faintly under his breath to steady himself. The boy was small for his age, hardly more than sixteen, with sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. His mother had once dreamed of him wearing the collar of a priest. She used to whisper it to him every night before bed, even as sickness wasted her away. He whispered it now, almost like a prayer, almost like a plea.
"One day… I'll be a priest… just like you wanted."
The words hung in the still air, fragile and uncertain. He bit his lip, pressing the mop harder, as though he could scrub away not just dirt but the memory of her pale hands gripping his.
His gaze wandered upward, toward the altar. That was where people usually gathered kneeling, praying, confessing, hoping their sins might dissolve in the golden light streaming through stained glass windows. But tonight, the stained glass was nothing but shards of black against the night sky. The only illumination came from the dim torches and the faint halo of the altar candles. Shadows clung thickly to the corners like cobwebs.
He carried the bucket forward, each step clinking faintly, the sound loud in the cavernous silence. He wanted to finish quickly. The church at night made his skin crawl. There was always a sense of being watched, of something breathing in the spaces where light did not touch.
When he reached the altar, he stopped. His mop slid from his hands, clattering across the floor. The bucket tilted, spilling water that crawled along the cracks of the stone like veins.
His breath hitched. His heart hammered in his ears.
The crucifix loomed above him the familiar figure of Christ nailed to the cross, head bowed in eternal sorrow. But tonight, Christ wasn't alone.
Another body hung there.
A man. Naked, covered in blood, suspended upside down from the arms of the crucifix. His head dangled toward the altar floor, strands of matted hair dripping crimson that pooled beneath him.
The boy's scream lodged in his chest, strangled, as his body shook violently. The mop lay forgotten, the wooden handle clattering against the altar steps. His hands twitched as if paralyzed, unable to shield his gaze from the grotesque sight before him.
...
The morning light stretched lazily across the narrow street, sliding through thin curtains and landing softly on Mateo Torres' face. He stirred awake to the faint hum of an old electric fan and the smell of warm rice. For a moment, he just lay there, watching how the sunlight pooled on the cracked walls of his room.
It was a good morning quiet, ordinary, and familiar.
He sat up, combed his hand through his bronze hair, and listened to the distant chatter of neighbors outside. Someone's radio was playing a cheerful song. Somewhere, a tricycle honked twice. Mateo smiled faintly. Nothing ever changed here.
In the small kitchen, he found his adoptive parents already waiting. His father, a man with hair like fading silver threads, sat in a wheelchair near the window. His mother hummed softly while arranging plates on the table, her movements slow but careful.
"Morning," Mateo greeted, his voice still rough from sleep.
"Morning, hijo," his father replied, smiling. "You're up early again."
"Someone has to cook," Mateo said with a grin as he turned on the stove. The sizzling sound of garlic hitting the pan filled the kitchen. The scent of fried eggs and sinangag rose like a warm memory.
His mother laughed softly. "You cook better than me now."
"Learned from the best," Mateo said, glancing at her with a small smirk.
They ate together, talking about little things how the neighbor's cat had given birth again, how the electric bill was strangely lower this month, and how the weather had been so nice lately. It was one of those slow mornings that made time feel forgiving.
When it was time to leave, Mateo helped his father settle comfortably by the window again, where he could watch the world outside.
"I'll be home by eight," he said, putting on his jacket.
"Don't forget your lunch," his mother called, handing him a small container wrapped in cloth.
He smiled, waved, and stepped out. The morning air hit his face cool, gentle, and alive. The clouds above drifted like pale sails, and the streets gleamed faintly from an earlier drizzle.
He got on his bike, the metal creaking softly, and pedaled through the narrow road. Around him, the town was waking up vendors arranging fruits, kids running late for school, and the old barber already sweeping his front door. Everything felt perfectly normal.
The breeze brushed against his skin, carrying the faint scent of bread from the bakery two blocks away. Mateo breathed deeply, enjoying the simplicity of it. Days like this always made him forget that the world could ever be cruel.
---
By the time he reached the small grocery shop, the sun had already climbed high, casting long shadows across the street. The bell above the glass door jingled as he entered.
"Morning, Torres!"
His coworker, Lando, greeted him with a lazy salute from behind the counter. The others were already restocking shelves, talking about nothing in particular. The shop wasn't big, but it was always busy just enough to make the hours pass quietly.
"Morning," Mateo said, grabbing the mop. The floor still carried traces of dust from yesterday.
"Hey," one of the workers called, glancing at the small TV near the register. "Turn it up. Something's on the news."
The chatter in the shop quieted as the volume rose. On the screen, a reporter stood outside an old church, her face pale under the gray morning light. Police tape fluttered behind her.
"Authorities are investigating a gruesome scene discovered early this morning at Saint Adriel's Church," she said. "Officials have confirmed that the victim was found hanging upside down in the altar area. Investigators believe the body was moved postmortem."
Mateo stopped mopping. The room suddenly felt colder.
"Who the hell would do something like that?" Lando muttered.
The other worker, a woman in her twenties, crossed her arms. "They said the killer didn't even kill him there. Just hung him up for everyone to see. That's messed up."
"That's why they called it a serial case," Mateo said quietly, trying to sound calm. "It's not just murder it's a message."
Lando scoffed. "Well, that's great. Now I can't go out at night. I was planning to grab drinks later."
Mateo smirked, leaning on the mop handle. "Then stay home. It fits you anyway."
The others laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. The chatter returned, the kind of forced normal talk people used to chase away unease.
The last light inside the shop flickered as Mateo turned the key. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound left, a dull mechanical breath echoing in the empty aisles. Outside, the street was nearly dark just the soft orange glow of a flickering lamp post barely pushing back the shadows.
He stepped outside, locking the door behind him, when something caught his eye.
Across the street past the narrow stretch of cracked pavement stood a figure.
It was distant, half-swallowed by darkness. Mateo squinted, thinking maybe it was just someone passing by. But the man didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his outline sharp against the gloom, as if carved out of the night itself.
"What the hell…" Mateo whispered, his voice barely leaving his throat. He waited, but the figure stayed motionless.
He cupped his hands and called out, forcing a shaky laugh.
"Hey! We're closed! Try again tomorrow!"
No response. The figure didn't even flinch.
The air felt heavier now, pressing against his chest. Mateo's throat tightened. "I said we're closed!" he shouted again, louder this time. His words vanished into the wind.
Then, the figure's eyes opened.
Two circles of white light faint, but sharp enough to pierce the dark. The rest of the face was swallowed in black, leaving only those pale, ring-like eyes staring straight at him.
Mateo froze. His heart kicked in his ribs. He blinked, and for just a second, looked away his hand trembling against the lock.
When he looked back, the figure was gone.
The street was empty.
A breath escaped him, ragged and shaking. "What the f*ck was that…" he muttered, backing toward his bike, his voice small against the silent night.
The lamp flickered once and went out.