Chapter Text
"You little shit!"
The darkness around him seemed to breathe.
A cold chill crept up his spine as the empty void stretched endlessly in every direction. He turned, searching for the source of the voice, but there was nothing—only an oppressive silence that made his ears ring.
Then came another sound.
Heavy footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Each one echoed through the darkness, growing closer.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
His pulse quickened.
The air suddenly grew thick, carrying the familiar scent of old wood, melted candle wax, and damp earth. It was a smell he knew all too well.
Shapes began to emerge from the darkness, as though someone were painting the world around him one brushstroke at a time. The outline of wooden pews appeared first, followed by towering crosses and flickering candles that cast long, twisting shadows across the floor.
A knot formed in Travis's stomach.
He knew this place.
Before he could move—or even think—the room fell silent once more.
Travis heard his father's voice echo through an endless, pitch-black void.
"Do you have any idea what you've done to this family? Look what you made me do!"
His father stood in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. In one hand was the cult's ceremonial knife. Before Travis could process anything, a thick, tar-like mass surged from the darkness, wrapping itself around Travis's legs. It dragged him across the cold ground until he was forced to kneel beside his mother's battered, lifeless body.
"This is all your fault!"
His father sneered, his face twisted with rage.
"You made me like this!"
Deep down, Travis knew it wasn't true. His father had always been this way—as long as he could remember. Cruel. Violent. Unpredictable.
He had learned the rules early: keep your mouth shut, never ask questions, never reveal too much.
But seeing his mother's broken body lying motionless on the floor shattered something inside him.
He cried.
Not the quiet tears he hid.
Real, uncontrollable sobs.
The kind he'd never dared let his father see.
"What the hell are you doing?" his father barked. "You fuckin' sissy! Get your ass up, now!"
"Father... why?!" Travis screamed, his voice cracking with horror.
His father's form began to change. Flesh twisted and warped until he stood clad in the dark ceremonial robes of the cult.
"You and your mother deserved this," he hissed. "God will take her now... and let her rot in hell."
He slowly raised the blade.
The metal caught the faintest glimmer of light as it hung over Travis.
Then—
The blade never came down.
Instead, the room fell unnaturally still.
The chanting that had echoed through the house grew louder, voices overlapping until Travis couldn't tell where one ended and another began.
"Amen."
"Amen."
"Amen."
The words bounced off the walls, each repetition louder than the last.
The tar around his legs tightened.
He struggled, clawing at the floorboards until his fingernails scraped against the wood. Splinters dug into his fingertips, but he barely felt them.
"Please..." he whispered.
His mother didn't move.
His father stared at her for a long moment before slowly turning back to Travis.
His expression had changed.
The rage was gone.
That frightened Travis even more.
He looked... calm.
"You know why this has to happen," his father said quietly.
Travis shook his head so hard it hurt.
"No... no, I don't."
His father sighed, almost disappointed.
"I prayed for you."
Another step.
"I begged God to fix you."
Another.
"I tried to raise a faithful son."
His boots stopped inches from Travis.
"But Satan got to you first."
Travis felt his throat tighten.
"I didn't do anything..."
"You questioned me."
"I was scared."
"You questioned God."
"I wasn't—"
The slap came so fast Travis never saw it.
His head snapped to the side. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
"You don't lie in His house."
His father grabbed him by the chin, forcing Travis to look at his mother's motionless body.
"This is what happens when a family turns away from God."
Travis wanted to scream that they hadn't.
His mother hadn't.
She prayed every night. She read her Bible. She tried so hard.
But the words wouldn't come.
His father let go of him.
The tar crept higher, swallowing his knees.
Then his waist.
Then his chest.
He couldn't breathe.
He looked down in panic.
The black substance wasn't just tar anymore.
Hands.
Dozens of pale hands reached out from beneath the darkness, gripping his clothes, his arms, and his wrists, pulling him deeper.
"No!"
He fought against them, but they only tightened their grip.
His father watched without moving.
Without helping.
Without blinking.
Then he smiled.
Not a wide grin.
Just enough for Travis to know he'd never wake up.
The knife rose one final time.
The chanting stopped.
Everything went silent.
Then—
Travis lurched upright with a gasp, clutching at his chest as though the hands were still wrapped around him.
His room was dark.
Quiet.
No chanting.
No knife.
No blood.
Just the frantic sound of his own breathing.
He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to five.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
When he opened them again, nothing had changed.
It had only been a nightmare.
At least...
That's what he told himself.