News Article from The Weekly Paper
SCORCHED SANCTUARY: MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY AT SAINT NICHOLAS CHURCH
June 6th, 1996, will forever be etched in the memories of the Saint Nicholas Church District as the day of a catastrophe shrouded in both tragedy and mystery. What began as a seemingly ordinary evening ended in devastation when flames engulfed the historic church, claiming several lives and leaving three confirmed dead.
Initial investigations pointed to human error, with suspicion falling on Isaac White, the Head Pastor of Saint Nicholas. Known for his habit of chain-smoking, White was rarely seen without his signature angelic lighter, a relic he often claimed was a "gift from heaven." Authorities believe the lighter may have sparked the inferno, but this explanation fails to account for the unsettling events reported by witnesses leading up to the blaze.
According to parishioners who were inside the church that fateful night, the atmosphere shifted abruptly just moments before the fire. Objects began to levitate, pews scraped against the marble floors as though moved by unseen hands, and the stained-glass windows vibrated in their frames. Some even described hearing whispers, faint at first, but growing louder until they coalesced into a bone-chilling screech that reverberated throughout the building.
Then came the message.
As the flames erupted and chaos ensued, the church seemed to split in two, as if struck by an otherworldly force. Above the crackling of the fire and the screams of the fleeing congregation, an unearthly voice rang out:
"Judgment draws near for you saints and sinners, as the second coming of Christ has arrived."
The survivors emerged from the wreckage dazed, many clutching their rosaries or crossing themselves in silent prayer. But while some sought solace in their faith, others questioned whether the fire was a sign of divine wrath or something far darker.
Isaac White, who perished in the fire, was found near the altar, his body charred beyond recognition. His angelic lighter, remarkably untouched by the flames, was discovered in his grasp, its golden surface gleaming amidst the ash.
To this day, the events at Saint Nicholas Church remain a source of speculation and fear. Was it a tragic accident, a supernatural reckoning, or something else entirely? The only certainty is that the Scorched Sanctuary will haunt the memories of those who survived—and those who dare to uncover the truth.
January 22nd, 2012
I finally had a moment of peace and quiet, away from the incessant noise and laughter. The muffled echoes of gym class still rang faintly in my ears, but at least here, in the dim solitude of the changing room, I could think. My temples throbbed from the strain of the day, threatening to birth a migraine. As I walked in, I stripped off my sweat-soaked gym clothes and shoved them into my locker, keeping only my keys and the crucifix that hung around my neck.
The crucifix irritated me—not just physically, as it left an angry trail of acne along my skin, but emotionally. Religious imagery always made me uneasy. The thought of some divine entity looming above, judging every thought and action, was terrifying. And death? That was worse. The idea that our souls, stripped of agency, would forever be puppets to the whims of our Creator—it was too much.
The low metallic rattle of the lockers broke my thoughts. It started faintly, like an orchestra tuning to discord, but soon grew into a cacophony. The lights flickered erratically, casting jittering shadows along the tiled walls. A low ringing filled my ears, a sound that grew sharper as I stood frozen, staring at the shaking room.
"Breathe... Breathe... Breathe," I whispered to myself, trying to stay calm.
Then silence.
The shower hissed as cool water sprayed out, droplets splattering against the marble tiles. I stepped under the flow, letting the water stream over me, washing away the grime and the day's sins. The sound was soothing, almost enough to drown out the memory of Aaron's threat earlier that day.
"Watch your back, Kristopher. I'd hate for something bad to happen," he'd said, his grimacing face twisted with malice. He was still nursing the injury I'd accidentally caused—a soccer ball ricocheted off my clumsy kick, hitting him square in the face.
A part of me felt justified. He and his cronies had tormented me relentlessly since middle school. But another part of me—a deeper, quieter part—felt guilt gnawing at the edges of my conscience. The satisfaction of seeing him in pain was fleeting, replaced by the dread of retribution.
The water couldn't wash away the nausea that coiled in my stomach. I hated the mirror of my reflection in my mind: my soft, round body, the pimples and blemishes that dotted my face, the uneven stubble that clung to my jawline, and my limp black hair that refused to cooperate. My blue eyes, once a source of pride, seemed dull and lifeless.
Then I heard it.
"Well, well, well," a voice drawled, cutting through the hiss of the shower. "If it isn't the Whale of Eden Academy. Didn't think your fat ass would still be here after hours!"
My heart sank. Aaron Black.
I turned, the fog of steam obscuring my view, but I recognized his silhouette instantly—tall, broad, dark and exuding that trademark smugness. Behind him stood two others, their identical builds marking them as the Davis twins, Michael and Matthew.
"P... please," I stammered, trying to edge past them. "I don't want any trouble. I was just about to leave."
Before I could move, one of the twins grabbed my shoulder, his grip bruising as he slammed me into a shower knob. Pain shot through my side as I cried out.
"You humiliated me today, Kris," Aaron snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "Do you think you can just walk away after that?"
He struck me, a hard punch to the stomach that left me gasping for air. I doubled over, clutching my side, but he didn't stop. A swift kick sent me sprawling onto the wet tiles, the taste of blood filling my mouth.
"You're nothing but white trash," he spat, gripping my hair and smashing my head against the marble floor. Stars exploded in my vision as a sickening crack echoed in my skull.
"Pass me the switchblade," Aaron ordered, his voice eerily calm.
Panic surged through me as I thrashed against the twins holding me down. My pleas were muffled as a hand clamped over my mouth. The first cut burned, a fiery pain that tore through my back.
"P... S... Y... C... H... O..."
Each letter was carved with deliberate cruelty, his laughter ringing in my ears. Blood pooled beneath me, mingling with the water, creating a crimson tide.
As the world faded to black, I felt myself floating, weightless, drifting in an endless void. Then, I was on the moon, standing between two versions of myself—one wreathed in shadow, horns curling from his head, and the other bathed in radiant light, a halo glowing above.
"Kristopher White," they spoke in unison, their voices echoing in the abyss. "Are you a saint or a sinner?"
I hesitated, trembling. "I... I don't know."
Disappointment flickered in their eyes.
"Indecision leads to ruin," they said. "You must choose. Save humanity, or destroy the world that has given you nothing but pain."
After hearing their statements, I felt myself plummeting back toward Earth. The stars above twisted and blurred into streaks of light, like tears smearing across a dark canvas. My body felt weightless and heavy all at once, my mind a storm of conflicting emotions. As I fell, the echo of their voices lingered: Save humanity… Destroy the world… Choose.
With a jarring jolt, I slammed back into my body. My chest heaved as I drew a ragged breath, the acrid stench of blood and mildew filling my nostrils. Pain radiated through every nerve, sharp and relentless, like my flesh was on fire. My back throbbed with a searing heat, each of Aaron's letters etched into my skin a brand of humiliation and agony.
The cold marble beneath me was slick with water and blood, and I shivered despite the heat radiating from my wounds. I forced myself onto my hands and knees, trembling under the weight of my own body. My vision swam, the world tilting on its axis, but I refused to stay down. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself to my feet.
"I... hate... this... fucking school," I growled, each word trembling with suppressed rage. My voice echoed in the empty shower room, harsh and hollow. Tears burned at the edges of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I'm tired of being tormented like this. It's not fair! Why am I always the villain, the target for everyone's cruelty?
My thoughts raced, bitter and venomous. What have I done to deserve this? Why does Aaron get to strut around like he's untouchable, some perfect little angel, when he's the spawn of Satan himself? The anger surged, boiling in my chest, an overwhelming tide threatening to drown me.
I stumbled out of the shower, each step sending fresh waves of pain coursing through my body. My bare feet left streaks of crimson on the white tile, a silent testament to my suffering. When I reached the locker room, my breath hitched.
Scrawled across my locker in bold, jagged letters was the phrase: "BURN IN HELL WHITE TRASH." The words cut deeper than Aaron's blade, each stroke of the marker a slap to my already battered pride. My belongings lay scattered across the floor, as if my life had been spilled out and thrown away. Some of my things had been tossed into the trash, dripping with the sticky residue of a sports drink that smelled like a sickly mix of blue raspberry and alcohol.
My fists clenched so tightly my nails dug into my palms, threatening to break the skin. My body trembled, not with fear but with fury. I turned toward the cracked mirror above the sinks, and my reflection stared back at me—a bruised and broken stranger. My once-bright blue eyes were bloodshot, now gleaming with a feral intensity.
"I just want it to stop," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat.
A dark thought slithered into my mind, unbidden and insidious. I imagined Aaron's smug face contorted in pain, his body crumpled under the weight of my fists. The twins, their arrogant sneers replaced with blank, unrecognizable masks, their features shattered and bloodied. I saw myself standing over them, triumphant, the tables turned at last.
The mirror began to ripple like the surface of a disturbed pond. The reflection warped, distorting my features into something grotesque, inhuman. A sharp screech filled my ears, the sound of nails dragging across a chalkboard, relentless and maddening.
Then, without warning, the mirror shattered.
The shards exploded outward, a cascade of jagged fragments scattering across the sink and floor. My breath caught as I saw the reflection of my face in one of the larger pieces—a glint of black liquid oozing from my nose like a slow, tarry drip.
"Gah..." I groaned, clutching my head as the pain flared, a sharp spike driving through my skull. My knees buckled, but I steadied myself against the sink, my hands trembling.
I forced myself to focus, to block out the searing agony and the surreal chaos around me. My locker creaked as I opened it, my fingers fumbling with the handle. Inside, there was almost nothing—just the crucifix and the angelic lighter.
The crucifix gleamed faintly in the dim light, an ironic beacon amidst the wreckage. My fingers brushed over the lighter, it's cold metal a reminder of my father and the church that once stood as a sanctuary. Now, it felt more like a relic of a life long lost, a symbol of broken faith.
I turned back to the mess strewn across the room. My clothes, soaked and sticky, clung to the garbage like an insult. I sifted through them, my stomach churning at the slimy texture. The least soiled items—a pair of gym bottoms and a black undershirt—offered no comfort. As I pulled them on, the fabric clung uncomfortably to my skin, a final humiliation.
I stared at the wreckage one last time, my breath heaving, and clenched my fists. My jaw tightened as anger and shame churned in my chest.
"One day," I whispered to myself, my voice cold and resolute. "One day, they'll regret this."
Stepping out of the locker room and into the dimly lit hallway, I hugged my belongings tightly to my chest, praying no one else would see me like this. The stench of my soaked and soiled clothes clung to me, a putrid reminder of my humiliation. My footsteps echoed hollowly as I made my way to the school's back entrance, hoping to slip away unnoticed.
But luck was never on my side.
I collided into someone, nearly dropping what little I had left. Looking up, I froze. Mr. Stevens, my music teacher, stood before me. He was a short, pudgy man with a balding head, offset by a bushy beard that was graying with age. He wore one of his signature music note-themed neckties, a constant reminder that his world revolved around melody and harmony—a stark contrast to the chaos of mine.
"Oh, Kristopher," he said, startled, his concerned gaze sweeping over me. "I didn't think you'd still be here after school hours and… by the Lord, what happened to you?" His voice was laced with genuine concern, but it only made my throat tighten.
"Aaron happened to me," I wanted to say, but the words caught in my throat. No one would believe me if I told the truth. Aaron Black—the golden boy, the untouchable angel of Eden Academy—could do no wrong in their eyes. So, I bit my lip, swallowing the bitter truth.
"I… slipped in the locker room," I mumbled, barely meeting his gaze. "Landed on my face."
Mr. Stevens frowned, his brow furrowing as he examined me. His eyes lingered on the cuts and bruises that painted my skin, and I could tell he didn't entirely believe me. But he sighed, glancing at his pocket watch.
The subtle hint of disgust was almost imperceptible as he inhaled, catching the rancid odor of my clothes.
"Look, Kristopher," he said after a moment, his tone weary but kind. "How about I give you a ride home? You shouldn't be walking around like… this."
I hesitated, embarrassment clawing at me. I didn't want anyone to see me like this, but I also didn't have the strength to argue or decline. My house wasn't far, but the thought of enduring more humiliation on the walk home—of strangers staring, whispering, judging—was too much.
"...Okay," I said softly, clutching my belongings tighter.
Mr. Stevens nodded, his expression softening as he gestured for me to follow him. We walked silently to the staff parking lot, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His old sedan sat in the corner, paint peeling from the edges and a cracked mirror held together with duct tape. He unlocked the door with a click, and I slid into the passenger seat, sinking into the worn leather.
The car smelled faintly of coffee and old sheet music, a strangely comforting scent. Mr. Stevens started the engine, the car sputtering to life with a reluctant growl.
As we drove, the silence stretched between us. I stared out the window, watching the streets blur into a haze of streetlights and shadows. My thoughts raced, replaying the events of the day in vivid, agonizing detail. Aaron's smirk. The twins' laughter. The searing pain in my back.
"You know," Mr. Stevens said suddenly, breaking the silence, "you don't have to deal with everything alone, Kristopher."
I turned to him, startled by the unexpected statement.
"If something—or someone—is hurting you, you should talk to someone about it," he continued, his tone careful but firm. "You don't have to carry that weight by yourself."
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around my belongings. "I… appreciate that," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "But… it's not that simple."
Mr. Stevens glanced at me briefly, his eyes filled with something I couldn't quite place—pity, perhaps, or understanding. Maybe both.
The rest of the ride passed in silence. When we pulled up to my house, I muttered a quiet thank you and stepped out of the car.
"Take care of yourself, Kristopher," Mr. Stevens said as I closed the door.
I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything more, and watched as his car disappeared down the street. Turning to face the dark, empty house, I felt the familiar weight of loneliness settle over me.
Inside, the silence was suffocating. I trudged upstairs, dropping my soiled clothes into the laundry bin and collapsing onto my bed. The day's events played on a loop in my mind, each memory sharper and more painful than the last.
As I stared at the ceiling, the words of the two entities echoed in my ears.
"Are you a saint or a sinner?"
I didn't have an answer. Not yet.
But one day, I would…I hope so.
End Of Chapter