The forest whispered silence.
Elira sat in the backseat of a black van that rattled with every bump. Trees stretched tall and crooked, their branches clawing at the grey sky like desperate hands. The driver hadn't spoken since the station. Just white knuckles on the wheel and a dead stare ahead.
They stopped in front of a decaying building. A sign leaned to one side, half-swallowed by ivy:
SAINT MORIAH HOME FOR CHILDREN"Where the lost find purpose."
The building looked more like a mausoleum than a home. Cracked bricks. Clouded windows. A sagging roof. Above the door, a rusted bell hung limp, unmoving.
No one came out.
The driver tossed Elira's bag to the ground, muttered something she couldn't catch, and drove off—fast.
Then, the front door creaked open.
A woman stepped out, tall and thin, cloaked in a dark habit. Her face was pale, sunken, eyes sharp beneath the veil. She stared at Elira like she wasn't entirely human.
"You're late," the woman said. Her voice was brittle. "Come."
No introduction. No warmth.
Inside, the air was thick with mold and metal. The hallway stretched long and dim, lit by flickering bulbs and lined with crooked portraits of saints. Their eyes seemed to follow her.
Children watched from doorways. Silent. Still. As if they were part of the walls.
One girl, barely ten, mouthed something as Elira passed.
"Don't make noise."
That night, sleep never came.
The bed was cold. The blanket smelled like rot. And beyond the door, something moved. Slow. Wet. A dragging sound—followed by soft sobs.
Then… a scream.
It came from the far end of the hallway, behind a heavy wooden door chained and bolted.
Elira pressed her ear to the wall.
Whispers leaked through the cracks.
Something… waiting.