Chapter One:
BLACK TEARS
The bells of St. Peter tolled low and heavy, drowning the evening fog in their trembling song. People flooded the cathedral steps in their finest coats and worn shawls, whispering prayers of awe. Word had spread like wildfire:
The angel was crying.
Inside, beneath the towering stone vaults and flickering candlelight, the statue stood as it always had—marble wings outstretched, head bowed, arms reaching toward the faithful. But tonight, something new stained its face:
A single drop of black.
It clung to the edges of the angel's stone eyelid, thick as ink and glistening like oil in the candlelight. The crowd murmured, trembling with reverence:
"A miracle."
"Proof of the Lord!"
"A blessing bestowed upon us."
My breath caught. I stood beside my father, feeling the warmth of his hand on my shoulder. He looked uncertain, almost pale, but he managed a thin smile.
"Stay close, Vincent," he whispered.
The bishop stepped forward, robes dragging across the marble. "Fear not," he proclaimed, raising his hands. "The angel sheds tears for our sins. Let us accept its grace."
Father muttered under his breath, "Grace shouldn't be black."
But no one seemed to hear him.
A man in the front row—a young and eager looking fellow with bright eyes—pushed forward. "Let me receive it first," he said. "Let me be blessed."
Gasps rippled through the crowd as he climbed the pedestal. He reached up with a trembling hand.
"Sir, don't–" Father started, but it was too late.
The black tear fell.
It struck the man's palm with a wet, sickening sound, as if something alive had landed there. For a heartbeat, all was still.
Then the man screamed.
His body convulsed violently, the tear seeping into his skin and spreading through his body like a virus in an instant. His spine cracked with a sharp snap that echoed through the cathedral. Skin bubbled and peeled like melting wax. Legs ripped and lengthened. His jaw split open, widening into something inhuman, and his eyes rolled back until only void remained.
The crowd reeled back, shrieking in terror— all the faith they had in God's protection was gone.
I froze, cold from the inside out.
The bishop stumbled away as the creature that had once been a man let out a guttural and monstrous howl—a noise that rattled the stained-glass windows.
Then it lunged.
Its claws tore through the first person it reached. And then the second. And the third. Each body hit the floor, twitching—then rising again, reshaped into the same grotesque horror within a single second.
Screams filled the cathedral like fire consuming dry wood.
"Run!" Father grabbed my arm, pointing me to the smallest crack in the wall created by the beast. "Go!"
"But–Father–"
"Go!" His voice cracked. "Please."
Chaos swallowed his words. Candles toppled. Blood splattered across the spews. The creatures tore through the congregation with horrifying speed, each kill birthing another devil's spawn.
Father pushed through bodies and overturned benches, shoving me towards the crack and ushering me in with urgency that only a parent could have.
"Father, come with me!" I begged, grabbing his sleeve.
But before he could answer, one of the creatures crashed into him.
The sound it made—half snarl, half gurgling roar—shredded my soul as I saw its malformed arm lifting into the air.
Father twisted, trying to keep it away from me. "Run!" He shouted again, just before its claws pierced his chest.
Everything froze. The monster jumped mindlessly to its next victim.
The world went silent except for my heartbeat, pounding so hard it hurt.
Then Father's body began to contort—bones cracking, limbs twisting, skin darkening. His face stretched revoltingly into something unrecognisable. He was turning.
"Father–no–no–NO!"
I stepped forward, reaching for him, unable to accept, unable to breathe—
A hand seized the back of my coat.
"Not another step," a low voice murmured behind me.
I struggled, desperate, refusing to be pulled away. "Let me go! That's my father!"
"That's not your father anymore," the voice said, firm but not unkind. "He is only a puppet now."
I fought harder, but the grip only tightened. The stranger dragged me fully through the crack and ran away into the forest, holding me in his arms.
"Stop!" I wailed, tears blurring everything. "I can save him! I can–"
"You cannot," the man interrupted. "Not tonight."
I tried to get a look back at the cathedral, at my beloved father, but his shoulder didn't even let me do that. All I could do was cry and bang on his chest in rage and despair.
The sounds heard were many—horrified screams of humans yet to become monsters themselves, the blood curdling roars of those unnatural creatures, the slow burning of the cathedral—why did this have to happen to me?
"I apologise, poor child…" I heard the man mutter.
I paused my relentless banging on his chest, looking up at him with eyes of perpetual tear-fall. Suddenly, without another word, I felt a hand hit the back of my neck.
"Ack…!"
Darkness swallowed him.
Or perhaps it only felt that way.
Through the haze of fading consciousness, Vincent thought he saw movement.
The angel statue shifted.
Stone scraped against stone as its arms lowered from their eternal reach. Cracks spread along its marble joints like veins. Slowly—deliberately—it stepped down from its pedestal.
Its face did not change.
And yet, something about it was wrong.
The candlelight reflected strangely in its carved eyes, as though something behind them was watching. Waiting.
All around it, bodies lay broken.
Those who still twitched soon rose.
Not as people.
As monsters.
When the last scream faded, they stood motionless, swaying gently in the smoke-filled air.
Then the statue lifted one finger.
And they obeyed.
Like hounds loosed from a leash, they surged toward the sleeping city.
Somewhere in the dark, Vincent's heart still beat.
Unaware that the bells would never ring again.