This was my submission to the ChillingPen competition.

The rain fell in relentless sheets, washing the cobbled streets of Victorian London in a murky cascade of black and grey. The gathered crowd in the dimly lit chapel awaited the words of Pastor Jeremiah with a sense of foreboding that hung in the air like a thick, suffocating fog. Lightning arced across the stormy sky, casting eerie red glimmers through the stained-glass windows, as if the heavens themselves wept.

The pastor, a gaunt figure with pallid skin and trembling hands, stood at the pulpit, his skeletal frame casting long, grotesque shadows on the walls. His eyes, haunted by the horrors he’d read in the newspapers, were sunken pits of despair. “The times we find ourselves in,” Jeremiah began, his voice a quivering whisper that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his tortured soul, “are troubled indeed. We stand amidst the darkness, where shadows hide unspeakable horrors.” Lightning struck again, the thunderous crash shaking the foundations of the chapel and eliciting audible gasps from the congregation. “As the papers proclaim, Jack the Ripper eludes the grasp of justice, prowling these very streets.”

The pastor implored the congregation to keep their wits about them and to find solace in prayer as they faced the encroaching malevolence. His frail frame seemed to wither beneath his heavy black robe, like a fragile flower bending under the weight of a relentless storm.

The congregation left the church with hushed tones and worried bickering, their faces etched with anxiety. The pastor stood at the door with trembling hands. He offered his best wishes, fearfully aware that it might be the last time he would see their familiar faces.

…

The rain-soaked night brought a knock echoing through the chapel, a sound that reverberated with a sinister resonance. The pastor approached the heavy wooden door with trepidation, his heart pounding like a drum in the dark. He opened it to reveal a stranger, drenched and shivering. The man’s haggard appearance, pale complexion, and sunken eyes struck fear into the depths of the pastor’s soul.

His own frailty reflected in the stranger’s emaciated frame. For every thread of his heart, he wanted to close the door on the desperate figure before him. But God’s teachings and a lifetime of ministry insisted he offer sanctuary. Reluctantly, Jeremiah let the man within the walls, his misgivings buried deep beneath a facade of Christian charity.

The stranger’s presence in the rectory became a haunting presence, an oppressive weight that hung in the air like a curse. He slept in the darkest corner of the room, his presence casting a pall of dread over the house of God. He attended sermons from the back pews, his eyes pools of inky blackness that seemed to absorb the very light around them. His long, unkempt hair framed his gaunt face, and his bony fingers seemed almost skeletal in the dim candlelight. The townsfolk whispered in concern about the eerie newcomer.

Nigh a week into the stranger’s stay, their worries could no longer be contained, and a few brave souls approached the pastor. “Pastor,” one of them said, voice quaking, “we fear this man may bring darkness upon us. He is an ill omen, and the signs are all around, like the omens of doom foretold in ancient scriptures.”

The pastor, his heart heavy with doubt, gazed at the concerned faces before him, their eyes mirrors of his own growing unease. “My children,” he replied in a measured tone, his voice trembling like the fragile edge of sanity, “let us not forget the teachings of the Good Book. We must open our hearts and show God’s love to those in need, even when the shadows of doubt creep upon us.”

…

Time passed, and with it, so did the regularity of peculiar incidents. The pastor found himself praying more fervently, his words like desperate pleas to a distant and indifferent God.

Birds fell from the sky, lifeless and black, their feathers stained with crimson. Cats vanished into the labyrinthine alleys, never to be seen again. Plants withered and died, their leaves turning a sickly grey. Their deaths like harbingers of doom.

…

The night most feared arrived with a sense of impending doom. The wind howled outside like the lamentations of lost souls, and the shadows within the rectory seemed to deepen.

The pastor went about his normal routine of blowing out candles, closing windows, and checking locks, his trembling hands guided by a routine honed over years, but tonight, the familiar rituals felt like futile gestures. Only when he reached the final door did he realize that it was locked from the outside, the windows barred, as if the very walls of the church had conspired to trap him in a nightmare.

Panic surged within him as he tried to force the door open, his frail form trembled as if threatening to consume him. The pastor fled within the confines of his home, the corridors now a maze of shadows that seemed to come alive, twisting and contorting like malevolent spirits.

In the darkness, two bodies met. A scuffle ensued, their breathless gasps echoing through the dimly lit corridors, like the laboured breathing of condemned souls. One voice pierced the night, uttering the words, “God save me,” carrying the weight of a thousand sins. There followed a silence that hung in the air like a tombstone, marking the end of hope.

As abruptly as the chaos had erupted, darkness descended, swallowing the night and its terrors. Night passed into day, and the world outside the confines of the church transformed into a bright morning.

A passerby picked up a newspaper, and as he read the headlines, a chill ran down his spine, a biting that seemed to seep into his very bones. “The Chapel of Shadows.”

The story detailed a gruesome discovery within the chapel walls, a discovery that defied reason and logic. But the most horrifying revelation came in the form of a wanted poster, featuring the pastor’s visage…