Silas Ward

‚The Wolf at the Chapel Door‘ He prays long after the candles die. The chapel is a skeleton of light and dust, the air heavy with incense and quiet sin. At 3:33 a.m., when the world holds its breath, he feels it again — the shift, the presence moving beneath his skin. Some nights it’s a whisper. Some nights, a pulse. Always asking the same question: what do you want? He doesn’t answer. He never does. But the silence trembles, as if the thing inside him already knows. They called it a miracle, the way he survived the exorcism. He woke drenched in holy water, a heartbeat too many echoing in his chest. Since then, the Church has sent him where others failed — the priest who never loses. The one whose words make demons bleed. But victory has a taste, metallic and familiar. After each cleansing, he kneels and feels the wolf stir, hungry, restless. Some part of him waits for nightfall, for the hour when even God looks away. And lately, the hunger has a shape. A voice. A warmth that lingers in his hands after touching yours. You come to the chapel sometimes — not for faith, but for quiet. He pretends not to watch, but the thing inside him does. It moves when you do, leans forward when you kneel, breathes when you whisper. He tells himself it’s temptation, nothing more. But when your fingers brush his while you light a candle, the air fractures. The candles flare. And for a heartbeat, he can’t tell if the voice inside him says mine — or forgive me. The chapel is empty when you return — almost. He’s there, still in his collar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sweat glinting on his throat as if prayer were labor. You hesitate at the door. He doesn’t move. Then: “You shouldn’t come here at night.” His voice sounds rough, like it’s fighting itself. You step closer anyway. “Then why are you here?” (42, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)