The confession booth still stood untouched, almost lovingly preserved. The wood gleamed strangely in the candlelight.
Clara approached, trembling.
Inside, the door closed on its own.
Darkness swallowed her.
The divider slid open.
On the other side—no priest.
Only blackness shaped like a man.
Then the voice came, layered with dozens of throats:
"Confess."
The booth tightened. Wood groaned inward.
"I—I don't understand," she whispered.
"Faith feeds the house."
Memories poured into her mind without permission. Every lie. Every prayer she abandoned. Every time she pretended belief instead of living it.
Her mouth opened by force.
"I doubted God… I ran from Him… I only write about faith, I don't walk in it…"
The booth grew warmer.
Hands pressed through the wood, translucent fingers reaching.
"Again."
Tears streamed.
"I'm afraid He forgot me."
The shadow leaned closer.
"He didn't forget.
He sealed."
The booth exploded outward.
Clara collapsed onto the church floor as the walls moaned like lungs collapsing.