The bells keep ringing.
Not loud.
Not frantic.
Just steady.
Measured.
As if someone is timing every toll with the calm precision of an old
ritual finally allowed to breathe again.
Irvine sprints through the tunnel, boots slamming into the uneven
concrete. The lightbulb above him flickers violently—buzzing like a nest
of angry hornets. The air gets colder, damper, thicker.
His breath steams.
"Inara—talk to me," he pants.
Static.
A brief crackle.
Then her voice, thin with terror:
"I'm here. I'm… I'm standing at the church door. I didn't mean to.
It's like the ground… pulled me."
Irvine grits his teeth.
He's heard soldiers talk like that—men in shock after explosions, too
disoriented to control their own feet.
"Inara, don't step any closer. Stay on the stone path, understand?
Don't cross the threshold."
She exhales shakily.
"I'm trying. But Irvine… this door is open now. It wasn't this wide
when I arrived."
He slows for half a second as his flashlight trembles in his grip.
Something brushes his neck.
Cold fingertips.
He spins and slams his back to the tunnel wall.
No one.
Nothing.
But another photograph lies at his feet.
He almost doesn't want to pick it up.
But he does.
His jaw locks.
It's the church interior—pews rotten, candles melted to bone-like nubs.
At the altar… the Groom.
Facing forward.
Waiting.
And beside him… a woman in a torn wedding dress.
Not Inara.
Not yet.
Someone from the old war.
Someone long dead.
But the hand the Groom is extending—
is reaching toward the camera.
Reaching toward him.
Irvine crushes the photo in his fist.
"I'm close, Inara," he manages. "I'll drag you out myself."
She gives a tiny, terrified laugh.
"You always say that like you're scolding me."
"Good. Then listen like I'm scolding you."
Her breath quivers again—this time faster.
"Irvine… something moved."
He stops dead.
"…where?"
Her voice drops to a bare whisper.
"Inside. Behind the pews. I didn't see it clearly—just a shape. Tall.
Too tall. Like the ceiling wasn't high enough for him."
His heartbeat spikes.
"Inara. Back away from the door."
"I tried," she chokes. "I can't. The floor is… shifting. It's like I'm
standing on breathing stone."
The church bell tolls again.
Slow.
Patient.
Welcoming.
The Groom's rhythm.
Irvine pushes forward, fury ripping through him.
He will not let a dead man take her.
Not a spirit.
Not a curse.
Not some warped memory of a war that wasn't theirs.
A thunderous crack echoes above ground.
Inara gasps.
"Irvine—he's closer."
"Do NOT look back!" he commands.
But the wind betrays her.
It curls around her veil and twists it gently—almost lovingly—toward
the doorway.
Like a groom brushing hair from his bride's face.
Inara squeezes her eyes shut.
"His shadow is at my feet."
Irvine's legs nearly buckle.
"Inara, listen to me. I need you to move. Any direction away from that
door."
"I can't. My dress is stuck."
His blood goes cold.
"Stuck on what?"
There is a long, awful silence.
Then—
"…I think he's holding it."
Irvine explodes into a run so hard his lungs scream.
The tunnel turns sharply upward into metal steps—an emergency exit built
by soldiers decades ago. He takes them two at a time. Rust slices his
palm, but he doesn't care.
Above him, the metal hatch is slightly open—someone unlocked it.
Not Grant.
Not any of them.
Something else.
He pushes through and emerges behind an old shed on the village's west
side. The church looms ahead—tall, broken, lit from within by a soft,
unnatural glow.
Inara stands on the steps, her veil trembling like a living thing.
Her dress…
the back of it…
is slightly lifted.
Like fingers are holding it up.
"Inara!" he shouts.
She gasps and whirls, eyes wide with tears.
"Irvine—don't—"
The church door SLAMS against the stone wall behind it, wide open now,
as if irritated by the interruption.
A long, slow creak echoes through the entire square.
Then—
the Groom steps into view.
Not fully.
Just the silhouette.
But the outline is unmistakable:
A tall male figure.
Rigid posture.
Broad shoulders trapped inside a rotten uniform jacket.
Head tilted in unnatural curiosity, as though examining Irvine like a
new, amusing obstacle.
His presence fills the doorway like a wall.
And when he moves—
the entire church seems to exhale.
Inara sobs.
"Irvine, he wants me. I can feel it."
Irvine doesn't hesitate.
He charges forward.
"Let go of her," he growls at the shadow.
The Groom tilts his head further—
a faint snapping sound echoing from his neck—
as if amused.
The bells toll again.
Irvine grabs Inara's arm and yanks her away from the threshold.
The ground vibrates violently in response.
A warning.
A punishment.
The Groom's silhouette takes one deliberate step out of the church.
Stone cracks under his weight.
"Inara GO!" Irvine shoves her behind him.
But the village shifts again—
the cobblestone path rearranging subtly under their feet, forcing them
back toward the church steps like a living organism obeying its master.
The Groom extends a hand.
A photograph prints from the camera hanging at Inara's hip, spitting out
onto the ground.
It lands face-up.
Both of them freeze.
It's a picture of Irvine—
lying on the church floor—
blood spreading under his skull—
Inara kneeling beside him—
her veil covering his face like a funeral shroud.
Inara screams.
Irvine steps forward, fury burning through him.
"I'm not dying here," he growls at the shadow.
"And you're not getting her."
The Groom stops moving.
The bells halt mid-toll.
The air stills.
Then—
the last candle inside the church flickers out.
Pitch black.
Total.
Smothering.
A nightmare swallowing the doorway.
Irvine tightens his grip on Inara's hand and whispers:
"Run."