The clock strikes 11:59pm, and as a fog approaches, people scatter into the mist. Even in a world of perpetual-darkness, they rue the looming midnight. Feet slosh atop soggy-blades of grass in a scamper; the legs of children tightly hooking behind backs, as their parents’ flea the fields. The scavenger-hunt for fruit that hasn’t gone ill, will have to wait until morning; should morning ever come.

     As cricket-wings flap in the distance they sound like galloping-horses; something like thunder thumping a mischievous tune. The gusty-winds caused by their innumerous-number shift the clouds overhead like time-lapse photography. However, it’s not the crickets from which the people flee. Their presence is an omen, one which signifies that midnight will arrive in approximately thirty-seconds.

     It’s been precisely a week since the darkness fell, so as the dinner-bell rings, they whom have yet to make it indoors are few. Having wandered beyond the valley into the hills, Brute and his wife Calamity, along with their daughter Rosary, are amongst the stragglers.   

     When slender figures appear in the fog, Calamity yells, “faster!”

     With a guttural-grunt, Brute, while cradling Rosary in his arms, picks up the pace. Truculent-howls for help are muffled as doomed silhouettes outstretch in the lingering-light of discarded-torches. Brute digs deeper, each stride now flinging the soil backwards. Whimpering, his daughter presses her head against his chest, and closes her eyes.

     With the fog closing-in, one after another, the lanterns belonging to the village in front of them are systemically suffocated until only a singular-flame remains. It’s the only flame which burns continually, the one ensuring that none gets lost in the darkness. A lone-beacon on a steeple in the village’s center. As Calamity reaches the sealed entrance, she hollers, “open up!” before frantically pounding on the door.

      Those inside of the sanctuary are unwilling to take the risk. Muttering amongst themselves, they conclude that nothing can be done; as if she were already dead. Callously, they turn their backs and begin to pray; or, that’s what they call it. Now facing a large wooden-obelisk, they heap hollow-phrases at what they’ve come to believe is a hallowed object. Meanwhile outside, Calamity pleads, not only for her own life, but for the life of her daughter. 

      Brute, while barreling towards his wife, growls, “move!” He then dips his shoulder and slams into the steal-reinforced-door after covering Rosary’s head. The impact shimmies a bolt from the door’s hinges. Before rearing back for another go at it, he threatens, “let us in, or I’ll break it down!” 

     A second-slam then splinters the frame, exorcizing the cowering congregants of their lukewarm-conviction. Never before had they opened the door in the midnight-hour, but under duress, the acting-deacon caves. “We’re all His children,” he anxiously proclaims, whilst frightfully scurrying to protect his own hide. As sweat wets his collar, he yawps, “I’m coming,’ as if the act pains him.

     When the door swings-open, Brute and the deacon collide; crashing onto the moldy-floorboards. Leaping over the two, Calamity swipes little-Rosary from her husband’s arms. As she does so, Rosary shrills when a pale-hand then suddenly pokes its way from beyond the threshold. In a swift, effortless motion, Brute is ripped from the dilapidated-floorboards. A subtle-gasp, all that escapes his mouth as he’s whisked outside as though swept-up in a tide. Given the speed in which he’s taken, the temples opening sucks shut behind him.

     Devastated, Calamity sinks to her knees. Now falling-apart, the asynchronous bawls of her and her daughter go uncomforted. Although empathy should abound, glares instead cast an unspoken judgment. It’s a look that says, ‘you don’t belong here.’ A look that says, ‘stay back.’ They shy-away as though the family’s plight is contagious. As far as these survivors are concerned, Calamity is cursed; akin with the nightmarish beasts of the field. 

     Of the twelve in attendance, only a middle-school-age boy by the name of Lamb, is brave enough to approach the downtrodden-twosome. He offers an awkward condolence; a kiss on Calamity’s forehead. It soothes the grief heard in her groans and softens her tremors. Lamb’s kindness however has no-such effect on Rosary, who’s bewailing is unconsolable.

     Mourning her father’s loss, she blubbers, “Papa... Papa!” And as her voice weakens from repetition, she laments the betrayal of his absence. Although she’d witnessed his abduction, six-year-old Rosary has trouble comprehending. As she whines, her mannerisms shift from desperate to despondent. Helpless without her father’s strength, she’d beseeched his imminent return. Yet, it’s a gentle-boy who has answered her call.

     After looking up at Lamb, Rosary cleaves to her mother, hiding her face in Calamity’s bosom. Having lost both of his parents, Lamb takes no-offense. Had he a mother to hold, he would do the same, in a time such as this. Fortunately for others, the love she’d breathed into him, continues to breathe back.

     Love, like food in these darkened lands, is a scarcity; When Lamb offers the duo something to eat, it doesn’t go over well.

     Just a few-feet away the startled-deacon known as Cloth, who’s been barricading the entrance, drops what he’s doing to reprimand the boy. He asks with a snatch of Lamb’s collar, “what food!? Do you mean yours?” Deacon Cloth then releases the boy with a shove, sending him stumbling into a pew.

     At this, Calamity and Rosary stand at attention. Their waterworks, as if controlled by faucet, instantly shut-off. Tensed arms then hold Rosary close, as Calamity’s shoulder-blades dip and protrude forward in a defensive-posture. Her eyes wander with calculated-intent, taking in all that they see.

     Rusted sterling candle-stands with wax dripped about their frames can be found scattered around the room. The light they give-off causes the oak-walls to blush, illuminating the chapel’s most bleak qualities. Scuffs and scratches on floorboards explicitly detail that the room’s dated amber-pews have been crudely repositioned. A third of them sit around what looks to be a large-bin made of sheet-metal. It’s a makeshift fireplace, doubling as a stove. A can of beans is being heated atop the charred chicken-wire that’s fastened to its mouth. The aforementioned food which Lamb offered to share is close enough that Calamity can hear it bubbling, yet so far that all she can smell is the stench of stale-air, and unclean-bodies.

     As she continues to look around, a dingy hand-knotted-rug beneath the pulpit piques her interest. That it’s both frayed and matted is curious. It’s as though it has been worn and stained by fervent heretical-prayers. And, judging by the displaced-dust along the stage of which it lies, it’s recently been moved. As the congregants notice Calamity’s intrigue, they clump together, blocking her view.

     The majority of them are women dressed in long, floral, loose-fitting gowns. In addition to seven women, there are three children, all of whom are boys. Each boy idly stands with his hands folded, and his face to the ground. Judging by appearances, the oldest is about sixteen and the youngest-two are twins, roughly four-years of age.

     One of the twins lifts his head to peak-up at the beans. Before he once again lowers his head, a labored gulp reveals the fact that the child hasn’t eaten in quite some-time. A heavy-exhale then indicates that his patience is waning.

     While shining a half-cocked smile that looks more like a grimace, the greying-woman behind him snarks, “no need to whine Nathaniel, the food is ready.” Kneeling down, she adds, “now go tell Lamb to make you and your brother, Nehemiah, a plate.”

     A firm pat to the butt then sends the boy on his way. His hesitant-steps are neither joyful nor inspired. If there’s any peace to speak of, it’s brittle. It’s as though he can hear the sound of proverbial-eggshells crackling beneath his bare-feet. He’s cautious, as though the ground could give-way at any given moment.

     Upon reaching Lamb, no words need to be spoken. There’s only a light-tug of his hem. Aware of his duties, Lamb grabs three-bowls that are caked in the greasy-residue of a previous meal, and begins loading them up. Beans are then plopped into the dirty- bowls like gruel. And, as the boys wait to be served, it becomes clear that Rosary has an admirer.

     “It’s impolite to stare, Nehemiah,” says Mother Prudence, who stands nearest the pulpit. Although her voice is monotone, there’s an air of authority to her words. That Nehemiah ignores her heed, twists her otherwise stone-expression downward. Again, she calls to him, “Nehemiah!” but the boy doesn’t respond.

     Aggravated, Mother Prudence chirps, “child!”

     The boy jumps, suddenly awakened from his amorous-daze. The bowl, now filled with beans, nearly slips through his grasp as Lamb hands it over. Now, having a firm-grip on the crockery, he looks again. This time however his eyes shift from Rosary to her mother. The bond they share is visible, and the longing he feels, tangible. Sullen, he takes a seat beside his brother. While Nathaniel scarfs his meal, Nehemiah eats as though the food were flavorless slop; something has stolen his appetite.

     As the child’s dim demeanor goes unnoticed by the others, beads of wax subtly drip down candles as if they’re crying in his stead. And Lamb, with a bowl of his own, proceeds to Calamity. Acting on his own accord, he then offers her what he has. Before returning to the fire, he whispers, “stay awake.”

     It’s an unnervingly kind gesture, one that’s reluctantly accepted by the suspicious-mother and daughter duo.

     With a couple bites, an invasive sense of relief penetrates their ridged-interiors. This is the first they’ve eaten in days; it takes but a moment for them to devour the seemingly meager meal they’ve been gifted. The room, previously dense with adrenaline then becomes precariously calm. The weight of stress paired with a warm-meal has caused Calamity’s eyes to droop and her arms to become heavy. The thought of rest tempts her with a seductive-caress. A trance-like muted-melody then tugs at her eyelids, but Calamity fights it back.

     Exhausted however, young Rosary succumbs to the soothing limerick of slumber. As her head nods and drool escapes to her chin, the bowl slips from her clutch. With heavy flutters her eyes blink while glaring at the near empty-bowl as it rotates like a pinwheel. And, just as she dozes, the menacing shadow of Deacon Cloth creeps into view.

     Caught off-guard Calamity flinches. The wary, weary-mother then quickly turns. Now facing the encroaching deacon, her heart-rate accelerates. With what little-strength remains, she bares her teeth, and aggressively exhales. The feint hiss heard in her exaggerated breath, stops Cloth in his tracks. The man is no fool; he knows a snarl when he hears one. Nevertheless, he lingers, his feathers ruffled by Calamity’s gal. It’s only as Mother Prudence snags his attention with a disapproving sigh of her own, that he reigns in his pride. 

     With a wave, Mother Prudence then sends out an invitation. It would appear the dubious-deacon’s leash has been yanked, but his first step in her direction is met with the blistered palm of Prudence telling him, “Stop.”

     Again, she waves, but a look of disgust flashed at the deacon makes it abundantly clear that her invitation is for Calamity. Given the perceived threat posed by Cloth’s presence, Calamity is left with no choice but to accept the invitation. After hoisting the sleeping Rosary into her arms, she begins her short-walk to the front of the chapel.

     The eyes of the women on either side of Prudence, stray. It’s easier for them to gaze vacantly than to look into the eyes of Calamity, whom they would’ve left to die, were it not for Brute’s brash tactics. There is however, one in the group, one who refuses to look away. A slender young-man with short unkempt red-hair, ironically his name is Samson. The young man whose face is peppered with acne scars, leers with a throbbing distain. “Harlot,” the teenager mutters under his breath. 

     The ill-tempered comment riles the murder of old-crows at his back: In unison the women all glance at Calamity. That glance is then quickly redirected at their matron, Prudence. It’s a non-verbal complaint, one which questions her judgement.

     Reasonably unable to overcome her distrust, Calamity stops short of the altar. She offers a subtle humiliating nod of gratitude to Prudence, before then taking a seat beside Lamb; who sits on a pew by the fire. She then lays Rosary on her side. With her leg as her daughter’s headrest, she begins to delicately adjust the looping-wisps of hair from her forehead, sweeping them back into the mass of Rosary’s tangled curls. She hopes desperately that the poor child’s rest will be sweet, and that the night terrors will remain outside.

     Interrupting the familial display of affection, Lamb asks, “What’s her name?” But, before Calamity can summon the energy to respond, he energetically introduces himself; as well as the others.

     Aside from Cloth, Prudence, Samson, and two of the women, he has trouble putting names to faces. That he struggles to identify four of the female congregants is understandable, considering they all look to be middle-aged doppelgängers, each of whom is covered from wrist to ankle in modest-garb. “No matter, they’re not important. I simply call them all ma’am,” he says.

     When it comes to speaking of the other two-women, Lamb lowers his voice, and explains, “see the angry lady standing behind Samson? That’s his mom. Her name is Eve. I call her Eve-l, but she doesn’t pay much attention to me. And, the lady with the fake-smile, that’s Charity; she takes things that don’t belong to her.” 

     Lamb then shifts focus to the twins who just so happen to be sleeping as hard as Rosary. While squeezing Calamity’s forearm, again he whispers, reiterating the sentiment he shared when handing her the bowl; “Don’t fall asleep.”

     Just then, a gusty-wind howls from outside. It slips through the boarded-up windows, causing candle-flames to dance serpentine.   

     The invasive-breeze licks Calamity’s neck. The light, as it sways, plays tricks on her mind. If only for the briefest of moments, the pious-demeanor of Mother Prudence radically pivots to ravenous, and the deacon’s dull-expression lifts with a devious-splendor. The imagery wriggles its way into the corners of Calamity’s mind, repeating itself back, prompting her to remain alert. It’s like an alarm-bell, lending credence to Lamb’s words. What first seemed to be a safe-haven, now resembles a den.

     “Leave the woman be,” says Prudence to Lamb. “But, first get the poor creature a blanket,” she adds.

     As Lamb hops to the task, the adults who were left standing now gather by the fire. They warm themselves, yet, no heat reaches their shoulders; they’ve grown colder. Closer to Calamity, yet, the chasm between them couldn’t be more distant; everyone is too close for comfort. Their distain is plane, yet they smile; straining.

     For Calamity, these quarters are becoming claustrophobic. Some would even construe the groups lackluster-performance as… predatory.

     The Four of whom Lamb calls ma’am, seemingly take turns keeping an eye on Calamity. When one of them looks, the others conspicuously look away; muttering amongst themselves. With hushed-tones they bicker. Their worrisome tongues wag, shedding light on the fact that their formerly-worn poise was merely a manifestation of fear, and pretention. “We have to do something,” “this is bad,” “she shouldn’t be here,” a few phrases used by the antsy quartet.

     As Prudence then floats past, the women simultaneously appear to become mute, and blind. Other than the anxious twiddling of thumbs, their stillness is statuesque; it’s unsettling. Although, not as unsettling as the sight of the grey-haired Charity, whom coddles the unconscious-twins.

     Under normal-circumstances, her repetitious petting would likely be seen as wholesome, endearing even, but there’s an underlying ferocity in her affection. A covetous-contempt stiffens her fingers. Whilst she drags the boys closer, a violent-friction can be heard as her hands roughly scrape against their shirts.

     With each pet the twins curl into a ball, subconsciously recoiling. Then, as the petting slows, Charity’s eyes drift to Rosary, before falling back on the one called Nathaniel; a wishful yet nefarious glimmer glinting from her pupils.

     As Lamb then arrives with the blanket, he accidentally drops it, on purpose. While kneeling to recover the moth ravaged fabric he looks up at Calamity, and discreetly shakes his head no. “Here you go,” he then says cheerfully, before mouthing the word, “pretend.”

     Initially Calamity accepts with a ponderous-tilt of her neck, but then, eureka. The blanket is carefully placed in a way that it touches no more than Rosary’s torso, so as not to restrict movement, should a hasty evacuation become warranted. Her unyielding skepticism clearly infuriates the likes of Cloth, Eve, and Samson. They stew with impatience, viewing her guarded posturing as impudence.    

     Outraged, Samson shoots to his feet before being summarily yanked back to a seated position by Cloth. Sick of the charade Samson huffs, and murmurs, “this is taking too long. He then asks, “why isn’t it working?”

     By ‘it,’ he’s referring to the obscure-mixture of sedatives used to spike the beans. Beans, the consumption of which has left both the twins as well as Rosary in a state of temporary-comatose. Like a rag-doll Nathaniel is snatched up and plopped onto the lap of Charity, his head bobbing about in a lifeless manor. While Charity peers at the boy, she wipes the slobber from his flush cheeks.

     She treats the act as though it were a recent addition to her daily-routine, one of which she’s grown fond. She’s pleased as pie, holding the boy close; as if he were made of velvet. “My sweet, sweet boy,” she whispers, bouncing him on her knee. 

     There’s no visible way to tell how many times the children had been drugged, nor for what reason, but having witnessed the sedative’s effects, it’s no wonder that Samson is bewildered by Calamity’s fortitude. Mother Prudence, the lone congregant who appears unbothered. But as the seconds tick past that’s beginning to change. Vigilant, she paces from boarded-up window to boarded-up window, peeking through the cracks. Other than the murky-haze of muddy-blacks, there’s nothing to be seen, but still she peeks, her eyes on a swivel. With it now ten-minutes to 1:00am, she then looks up at the clock, and then over to Calamity.

     Collecting herself, Prudence tugs the wrinkles from her dress, before gingerly approaching. Shooing Lamb further from the area, she then takes a seat beside Calamity. There, she poses a question, one which is best answered in actions. Her voice ripe with what could easily be mistaken as admiration, she inquires, “who are you?”

     As all eye’s then suddenly close-in on Calamity, she takes pause. The mere mention of her name could stir conflict, leading to unforeseen-consequences; both for her, and Rosary. Choosing her words carefully, she responds saying, “I’m just a mother... What about you?”  

     With a regal-wave across the room, Prudence answers, “Well, yes...these are my children, and I would do everything in my power to protect them... So, again I ask, who are you?”

     Instead of an introduction, Calamity issues the following statement: “Up until last week, I thought I knew the answer to that. I thought I was a homeowner, but now my house is ash. I thought I was a wife, but now my husband’s dead. To be honest, I was a horrible person, taking whatever I wanted. But now, at this very moment, all I wish to take is my own life. And, perhaps I would if not for the fact that I was, and am still, just a mother.”

     Somewhat off topic Prudence cuts in. With a curious tilt of her neck, and a scheme-ish light in her eyes, she ponders aloud, “would you die for your daughter?” 

     Granite-like expression, Calamity blurts without thinking, “No... but I’d kill for her.” After then taking a breath, she adds, “Who are you to ask?”

     With a look on her face that says ‘how dare you,’ Mother Prudence boastfully proclaims, “I am but a humble-servant who’ve been chosen by the master himself. Long before the darkness fell, he appeared before me. I was then commissioned with safeguarding the innocent and cleansing these lands of those who would defile them.” Gesturing to Lamb, she then continues, “were it not for me, this poor boy would have been ravaged by the night. His soul, devoured by the wickedness which lies beyond that door. A wickedness of which, you reek.”

     Whilst Calamity struggles to process the self-righteous mouthful, Prudence slowly reaches over her to Rosary, and gently pulls her blanket the rest of the way up. Grazing her cheek with the back of her fingers, she whispers to the child, “it’s ok, you’re safe now.”

     A strange-nod of approval is then sent out by her to her congregants, before being returned in kind. Prudence, with the backing of her fellowship, then raises the temperature. Her tone now abrasive, again she asks, “who... are... you?”

     Before Calamity can respond she’s stifled, bombarded by a paranoid inquisition. Demanding an account, Mother Prudence hounds, “how did you get here? Where did you come from? Why were you out so late? What... is... your... name?”

     Abruptly Calamity attempts to rouse Rosary from her slumber, vigorously shaking her whilst pleading, “wake up!” But Calamity’s efforts are futile. Rosary’s mind has been plunged into a pharmaceutical-dreamscape, one of which time is the only remedy. Unfortunately, for the panicked mother, time is in short supply. 

     Without warning the probing from Prudence then drastically goes sideways. “Answer me, Demon!” she exclaims. No time is given before she then demands the unseen-entity to show itself.  With a zealot’s fervor she commands, “show thyself!” 

     As Calamity then pops to her feet, she’s overcome with dizziness. Waves of vertigo rocking the room, she finds that moving is like trying to wade through water. With each new thought muddying the last, she can only conclude that something has gone horribly wrong. 

     Eye’s bulging, veins protruding, the Ma'am’s then all chime in. Each after the other, they wail, “stop her! grab her! cleanse her!... save the child!”

     Propelled by rage, spit flies as Eve then cries out to Samson and Cloth, “she’s possessed, seize her!”

     Still cradling the boy Nathaniel, Charity squirms, grasping at the air. “Don’t let her harm the girl!” she squeals without cause.

     Hunters, corralling their prey, Samson and Cloth then fanout and press closer to Calamity. Shuffling from side to side, they ensure that there’s no route of egress. Each advancing-step driving the desperate mother back yet another ghastly inch from her offspring.

     The feral-swipes aimed at Calamity’s encroaching adversaries hit nothing but air. Due to her wavering consciousness, her motor-functions have been compromised. Teetering-back, she crashes against the elevated stage and bumps into the pulpit. To stay her fall she then grabs hold of the first thing she sees; the dingy hand-knotted rug. Nevertheless, as she pulls to remain upright, her downward momentum wrenches the rug askew, causing both her and the pulpit to tip-over before summarily thudding to the ground.

      It’s an opportune moment, one which see’s Charity toss Nathaniel from her lap, and spring to her feet. Clamorous, she then steals her place beside Rosary.

     While Charity hovers over the child guarding her as if she were her own, Samson and Cloth collapse upon Calamity. As Cloth tries to wrestle her into submission, Samson lends aid, wrangling her legs.

     Outside, the wind howls and wraiths moan, beckoned by the prospect of a sacrilegious-sacrament. In the midst of this spectral-seething, Mother Prudence is overcome with a villainous sense of urgency. She belts, “faster! We haven’t much time!

    Floundering, Calamity fights tooth and nail, only to find that her teeth and nails have grown dull. Lethargically, she wriggles and squirms, writhing for autonomy. The adrenaline her body has produced, overpowered by the sedatives side-effects. As Cloth and his protege then lift her into the air, Calamity musters one last energetic-burst.

     She contracts, squeezing as if trying to bring her knees to her breasts. Unable to hold on, Samson let’s go. When Calamity’s feet then drop from his hands, they hit the floor before quickly bouncing back up, as though it were a trampoline. One after the other, her heels strike the young-man’s chest, thrusting his flimsy-physique backwards and in to the makeshift-fireplace. As with Calamity before him, the angry adolescent tries to remain upright. In so doing, he haphazardly plants his hands on the chicken-wire. As the miniature-screws holding the wire in place give-way, the face of Samson is then greeted by the flames. Like the wick of a Candle, his upper-half ignites; and like wax, his garments melt and meld to his flesh.

     Eve goes mad. After scrambling to her son’s side, she flails to her knees. There she rends her long floral-gown until most of her skin is bare. While doing so, she screams.

     No hint of empathy is shown by Prudence. Instead, she views Eve’s sentimentality as a weakness. Upon shoving the mother and her disfigured son out of the way, she succeeds where Samson had failed.

     With Calamity now subdued, Prudence and Cloth carry her on to the platform. As Prudence then shouts, “open the pit!” the nearest Ma’am springs into action.

     For a moment, the non-distinct woman’s long-loose-fitted-gown hinders her climb, getting caught on the splintered wooden steps. Staggered, her ensuing stride thumps as it lands. Oddly enough, the ground sounds hollow. As she then continues, she stops short of the displaced rug, and reaches beneath its seam. She then rolls the rug back, thus revealing the seller-door cleverly hidden underneath. Kneeling down, she takes hold of the old-fashioned brass door-knocker that serves as its handle. Jerking it upwards, the grit from its rusted finish clings to the callouses on her palms. And as the door swings up, a deathly aroma wafts into her nostrils.

     Hardly conscious, Calamity’s hard-fought defense has been reduced to twitches. What would appear to be muscle-spasms, is in truth, the only visible remnant of her might. Her vision goes blurry, her body goes numb, her thoughts become… hopeless. As she’s then cast into the pit, the singular name on her lips, “Rosary.”

     When suddenly, a chill swallows the rooms warmth. Looking to the door, Mother Prudence then screams, “Nooo!”

     As Calamity falls, the seller remains open. The last thing she sees are her own body’s drug-induced ethereal tracers. The turbulent shrieks of those who had forsaken her; the last thing she hears.

     When Calamity awakens, five-hours have passed. It’s now six o’clock, and the dungeonous-cavern she’s in is pitch-black. Fortunately, due to an old habit, she carries fire in her pocket. With a few flicks of her thumb, sight is restored. Immediately upon surveying her surroundings, she then closes her eyes once more. As if the stench wasn’t sufficient evidence of death, the dead-bodies are. She plucks from one an arm, and from another a tattered-garment, before then setting the rag ablaze.

     Judging by decomposition, these people hadn’t died recently. Even the freshest, several-months-old. Whatever happened here, it happened long before the darkness fell.

     Again, Calamity sparks her lighter. This time however, just beyond the human-remains, she spots a small-tunnel that looks as though it has been dug by hand. As she crawls through the dirt and dread, her hope is slim but it has been sharpened to a razors edge; in the midst of such dire-circumstance, she crawls. So far as she’s concerned, this unconsecrated-tomb will not be her resting place.

     Entering, she begins to traverse the tunnels narrow pathway. Inch by inch the walls become tighter. It would seem that the earth itself refuses to let her go. Upon arriving at another corpse, the fearful voice in her head cries out, “turn back.” But, there’s nothing to turn back to. Any hope of saving Rosary hinges on her making it out alive.

     Patiently, she begins to separate the old-bones and toss them behind her. She then feels something metallic as she tugs at the woman’s collarbone. There’s a heart-shaped locket attached to a thin-silver-necklace. Opening the locket, she illuminates the picture inside. Though the paper is worn and the photo is dated, she recognizes the child in the picture. The boy they called Lamb; this woman must have been his mother.

     With tears in her eyes, Calamity continues to crawl, digging until the hard earth becomes soft. Digging, until there’s nothing left to dig. Damp air tickling her cheeks, she then scrambles to the front, eager to embrace her daughter. But, upon seeing that the temple door is ajar, her heart sinks to her belly. The temple... is empty.

     Six hours earlier, hellbent on proceeding with her wicked machinations, Prudence had forgotten about Lamb; the boy who would’ve been drugged, had it not been for his purposeful generosity. While everyone was focused on Calamity, Lamb snuck his way to the entrance, unmolested. Unnoticed, he then began tearing down the deacon’s barricade. Finally, to ensure that no others would have to endure such torments as he had endured, he opened the door.

     Swiftly, the abyssal-entities belonging to midnight swept through the so-called sanctuary. Before even the steam from their breath could dissipate, the wicked Mother Prudence and her congregation were no-more. Sad to say, the children of whom’s faith they devoured, shared in their fate.

     Bitterly, Calamity weeps, as she sits were her daughter once lay, each stray sound calling her attention to the entrance. Though the hours tick by, she doesn’t move. Leaving the door wide, she simply sits, and she waits; knowing, that midnight will again come as it came.

     ‘Almost,’ she reels, as the crickets’ yell twelve. Then, as someone screams, “Help!” Calamity stands and sprints to their aid; the light from their flames striking a post with the village name; Limerence.