A CHURCH HORROR STORY

It was supposed to be a temporary job. A month, maybe two. That’s all I needed—enough money to keep the lights on and food in my cabinets. So when Father Delaney from St. Ives called about needing a night caretaker for the church, I didn’t hesitate. The pay was good. The hours were quiet. And I didn’t believe in ghosts.

St. Ives was an old church—built in 1894, they said. Gothic stone walls, a towering spire, stained-glass windows that flickered when cars passed at night. It sat just outside the edge of town, surrounded by thick woods that always seemed too quiet. Too still.

“Just lock up after midnight,” Father Delaney said as he handed me the keys. “And don’t go into the basement. Ever.”

I smiled nervously, thinking it was some priestly attempt at humor. He didn’t smile back.

The first few nights were uneventful. I’d sweep the nave, polish the pews, check the boiler in the back, then lock all the doors. I’d sometimes sit in the front row and look up at the towering crucifix above the altar, lit dimly by candlelight.

But on the fifth night… something changed.

It was just after 1:00 a.m. when I heard the sound: organ music.

Slow, soft, and eerily familiar. At first, I thought it was a recording. The pipe organ hadn’t been used in years—Father Delaney told me that during the tour. Yet the melody crept through the church like smoke, curling around the rafters.

I climbed the narrow stairs toward the choir loft, each step creaking under my weight. The door was slightly ajar, and the music was louder now. My hands trembled as I pushed it open.

The loft was empty.

The organ was still.

The keys were dusty.

But the music… continued.

It echoed through the church, even though nothing was playing. I backed away, heart thudding in my ears, and nearly tripped on the steps running down. The moment I reached the bottom floor, the music stopped.

I checked every door, every room. Nothing. No one.

By the time dawn crept through the stained glass, painting the walls with color, I was already packed and ready to leave. But just before I walked out, I noticed something strange.

A single pew—third row, left side—was wet. Like someone had been sitting there. No leaks above. No water near it.

And there were fingerprints on the hymn book. Bloody ones.

I reported it to Father Delaney the next morning.

He didn’t seem surprised.

“You should leave,” he said quietly. “Before it notices you.”

“What notices me?” I asked, half-laughing, half-terrified.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached into his desk and handed me a small wooden cross.

“It’s not much, but it might buy you time.”

I took it, unsure what to say.

That night, I didn’t want to go back. But something made me. Some pull. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the paycheck. Or maybe… something darker.

The church felt colder than usual. I could see my breath even though it was early autumn. I made my rounds quickly, avoiding the choir loft, trying not to look at that pew.

At exactly 3:03 a.m., the bells rang.

The church bells.

The same ones that hadn’t worked in years.

I rushed outside. Nothing. The bell tower was empty. The ropes weren’t moving.

And that’s when I saw it.

A figure… standing in the woods.

Tall, thin, dressed in tattered priest robes. Face hidden by shadow. It didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

I backed into the church and slammed the doors shut.

And the organ started again.

This time louder. Faster. More frantic.

I covered my ears, but the sound wasn’t coming from the organ—it was coming from inside my head. I could feel the notes vibrating behind my eyes, scratching at my skull.

Then… silence.

I looked up.

The figure was inside.

Third pew. Left side.

The wet one.

He looked… wrong. His skin was gray, stretched too tight over bone. His eyes were hollow, empty sockets that seemed to burn. And his mouth—oh God—his mouth was a jagged, gaping wound that stretched from ear to ear. Smiling. Always smiling.

He raised one hand and pointed toward the altar.

I turned.

And saw the basement door wide open.

I don’t remember walking down the stairs. I don’t remember choosing to go. But somehow, I was at the bottom. The air was thick. Heavy. Like something had died a thousand years ago and never stopped rotting.

The walls were covered in scripture… but they weren’t written in ink. They were scratched into the stone—by hand. Nails. Fingers. Scratched until they bled.

And in the center of the basement… a circle.

Drawn in ash and bone.

And inside it… the skeleton of a child.

Small. Curled up. Still wearing a tiny wooden cross.

Then came the whispers.

Dozens of them. Hundreds. Chanting. Pleading. Laughing.

They swirled around me, voices from no mouths, filling my ears with secrets I couldn’t understand. My head pounded. My vision blurred.

And from the shadows behind the altar, he emerged.

The priest.

Not Father Delaney. The one from the woods. The one from the pew.

He walked toward me with that smile, arms outstretched like he wanted to welcome me. Embrace me.

I held up the cross Delaney had given me.

He hissed.

The basement shook. Candles burst into flame. The air screamed.

And then—

I was outside.

Lying on the grass.

It was morning. Sunlight. Birds.

The church behind me was quiet again.

I never went back.

But I’ve since learned the truth.

Years ago—decades, maybe—there was a priest who lived at St. Ives. Obsessed with resurrection. With eternal life. He believed the blood of a child, sacrificed beneath the altar, could grant him godhood.

He was caught. Executed.

But his spirit never left.

And every few years, someone hears the music.

Sees the figure.

Feels the pull.

Father Delaney died last week.

They found him in the basement, eyes torn out, mouth sewn shut.

And the doors to St. Ives?

They’re open again.

Waiting.

For someone else to take the night shift.