Aaron ran into the sacristy, slamming the door.
The mirror there trembled.
His reflection looked… delayed.
It copied him half a second too late.
The Bible appeared beside the sink.
Open.
Waiting.
The pages no longer used ink.
They used flesh-colored veins.
They pulsed.
A verse formed:
YOUR BODY IS MY PAPER.
Pain bloomed across Aaron's arms.
Words carved themselves into his skin, invisible knives tracing scripture made of guilt.
He screamed prayers, but they echoed back wrong, distorted, hungry.
"God, help me!"
The mirror's reflection smiled when he didn't.
Instead, the reflection spoke:
"You replaced Him with habit."
The walls of the church bent inward.
Veins crawled through the stone.
The organ began playing itself, slow funeral chords.
Aaron realized the truth:
The Bible wasn't possessed.
It was replacing God in places where faith had become empty ritual.
The book didn't want readers.
It wanted vessels.
The page turned.
And his name appeared again.
This time carved into bone.