Velma stood outside the church, her breath turning to mist in the cold October air. The moon hung low and heavy behind the drifting clouds, bathing the crooked stairs in silver. She stood there alone with her book reading. The rest of the mystery crew gang had gone back to the motel after another long night chasing down the so-called “Specter of Saint Dymphna’a.” But something about the case wouldn’t let Velma rest.
The church loomed before her, its stone walls veined with Ivy, it’s steeple, leaning over slightly, like it was listening. A single lantern burned in the belfry—though no one had lived or worshiped here in 50 years.
Velma adjusted her glasses and continued reading. The heavy outdoor of the church cracked open just enough for the wind to whisper through. The sound drifted out, a faint hum, almost a chant. She turned and pushed the door open. It groaned, echoing through the nave. Inside, the pews were dusted with age and cobwebs hung like curtains. Her flashlight beam landed on something odd near the altar. Footprints in the dust leading toward a trap door. Velma’s pulse quickened but she crouched by the trap door anyway. The latch was old and corroded. She hesitated, only a moment before lifting it open. A cold gust rose from below, carrying the sense of damp earth and incense. She shined a flashlight to the darkness. down step down. Then from behind her a voice, low and familiar whisper “Velma… You shouldn’t be here alone…” The beam of light caught a face, male, indistinct, and smiling faintly from the shadows between the pews. The lantern above flickered to life again in the church. The church bells began a toll. Velma swallowed hard, straightened her glasses, and muttered looks like another mystery. Then she stepped down into the dark.
Velma:
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