Chapter One.
In the chapel of rest, where moonlight spilled through stained glass and painted the Virgin in spectral hues, a figure lingered in the shadows. He stood watch over the coffin of a young woman. Her skin, pale as winter porcelain, gleamed beneath the fractured beams of light. Dark hair framed her still face, straight as a raven’s wing, while her white Sunday dress lent her the illusion of an angel sleeping. The light kissed her features until she seemed half-ghost already, caught between heaven and earth.
Hidden, yet present, the watcher clung to the edges of existence—there, but not there. He fed on the strangeness of the hour, the quiet, the hush of stone and dust. Within him simmered a hunger, not of flesh but of spirit, a desire to meet her, the one, the special one he had yearned for across lifetimes.
The hush was broken by footsteps. Father Michael, the chapel’s weary guardian, made his way along the nave. His eyes caught the coffin, its lid ajar. He froze.
Careful. Cautious. He moved closer, eyes narrowing. His fingers traced the polished wood. No damage. No claw marks. No sign of intrusion. Only a lid left open to the air. His lips whispered a prayer as he made the sign of the cross. Then, gently, he closed it. The thud rang louder than it should have in the silence.
The priest’s gaze lingered on the shadows that pressed against the corners of the church. For a moment, he thought he saw something shift, something waiting. But he forced himself to turn away, locking the great doors behind him.
Father Michael crossed the car park with his robes clinging damp to his frame, the rain beating down in sheets. The moon tore its way through the ragged clouds, silver light glaring, cruel and cold. The streetlamps shuddered, their yellowing glow no match for the storm’s fury, sputtering as though the night itself wished them snuffed out.
From the bell tower came the automaton’s voice: eleven heavy dongs, each strike rolling over the stones like the judgement of some unseen hand. Michael stopped, lifting his gaze toward the tower’s looming silhouette. For a heartbeat he lingered, rain tracing cold fingers down his brow. Then, with a shiver, he pulled his hood tight and hurried across the slick ground, seeking the narrow comfort of his home adjoining the church.
The world muttered around him. Shadows darted with each flicker of light. The downpour hammered every surface like a relentless drumbeat. From the alleyways, cats shrieked and spat their protests, hissing curses at the rain.
And yet, within the chapel he had left behind, the silence remained absolute. The shadow in the corner did not stir. It waited, patient, steady, and present, as though time itself dared not move it.
Morning came, though the sky remained heavy and weeping. Rain battered the earth without pause. At the ninth toll of the bell, the church doors swung wide, groaning on their hinges, and the mourners filed in.
Clad in black, they entered quietly, the shuffle of feet and the hiss of wet coats filling the nave. A portable stereo crackled alive, carrying the plaintive tune of Highland Paddy, its notes clashing strangely with the solemnity of the moment. One by one, the family of the deceased settled into the front pews, their faces pale, their eyes hollow with loss.
Father Michael, now draped in his funeral vestments, lifted his arms in blessing. His voice rose steady, the cadence of prayer carrying into the rafters, mingling with the rain’s percussion against the glass. The ancient rituals began.
And in the shadows, where light faltered, he lingered still. Watching. Searching. His gaze combed the sea of faces, meticulous, restless, as though hunting for something he knew about. There was a reason he never stepped into the open, a reason why no one’s eyes could find him.
The reason would come. Whether rival or ruin, whether blessing or curse—it would come. And when it did, hell itself would remember the fury of his scorn.
Among the family gathered on the right-hand side of the nave, one face did not grieve. A heavy man sat rigid, lips curled faintly in a cruel half-smile. His eyes, cold as stone, fixed unblinking on the coffin.
At the altar, Father Michael raised his hands over the dead. “Amelia,” he intoned, “may the wings of the Holy Spirit guide you to the heavenly gates of Saint Peter...”
The man’s chest heaved. His tongue slipped across his lips. He mouthed her name—Amelia—with a hunger that had no place in prayer.
From the corner, the shadow stirred. It grew vast and deliberate, tendrils uncoiling like smoke made of knives. They crept across the rafters, whispering as they moved. One phrase, low as the grave, hissed directly into the man’s ear.
“Tell me your name.”
He jerked, startled, and turned to the mourner behind him. “You know my name. It’s David!”
The whisper slithered again, harsher now. “Idiot. I am above you, David.”
He lifted his gaze. His eyes widened. Before he could cry out, the tendrils struck—pouring into his mouth, his ears, his nostrils, invading him utterly. His body convulsed and rose, dangling several feet above the pews.
The funeral dissolved into chaos. Screams filled the nave, the priest himself crying out as the hymn cut short.
Then a new voice, one that was not David’s, thundered through his throat:
“Silence!”
The command froze every tongue, every breath. All eyes locked on the writhing figure.
“My name is David,” the voice rasped. “I am a killer. Amelia… she died by my hands. I wanted her—my own niece. She denied me… so no one else could have her.”
The confession broke in fragments, dripping with venom, before the sound of bone snapping filled the church. David’s head spun full around, the crack echoing like thunder.
The great doors swung open of their own accord. No wind followed. David’s body was hurled into the street like a rag doll, his lifeless shell discarded.
The tendrils withered back into shadow. And from the pews came the raw, keening cries of Amelia’s mother, carrying through the town until it seemed the whole night screamed with her.
The shadow moved with noiseless steps. No one could see him, yet all felt him. The air grew cold with each breath, vapours rising from the mourners as though their souls were visible in the chill.
Father Michael hurried to the grieving mother, her cries raking through the silence that followed David’s death. The others sat frozen, unable to move, unable to comprehend the horror that had just unfolded.
Then gasps rippled through the nave. By the great doors stood a silhouette—vast, dark, unmistakable. The shadow had taken form.
Through her sobs, the mother lifted her face and cried out. “Did you send him to hell?”
The figure paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Slowly, he raised his hand.
Outside, the sky churned black. A fork of lightning split the heavens, striking the discarded body. The ground shuddered, stone splitting open to swallow the corpse whole. In an instant the rain ceased, the storm silenced, and daylight pierced the clouds in narrow beams.
The figure lowered his hand. His voice was soft, but every soul heard it clearly.
“Gone… to hell.”
Then he stepped across the threshold. The great doors closed behind him with a soft, final thud, as though the church itself had exhaled.
At the insistence of Amelia’s mother, the funeral carried on. Her daughter would be laid to rest, and she would go to heaven.
Father Michael steadied himself, drew a deep breath, and resumed the service. The prayers wove on through trembling voices until the final words were spoken. At last, six coffin-bearers stepped forward—three on either side—and gently raised Amelia’s coffin, balancing it upon their shoulders.
The priest moved ahead, unlocking and pushing open the great doors. Outside, the car park lay blackened where David had been cast down. A scar in the earth, still smoking faintly. Michael shuddered but said nothing. The bearers followed him out, the procession winding into the streets.
Through the town they walked, and the townsfolk stopped their errands, bowing their heads as the coffin passed. Grief hung heavy in the air, a weight shared silently among them.
At the cemetery, a faint breeze stirred, rustling the grass and coaxing a low sigh from the branches of the ancient willow. The family plot waited beneath it, roots tangled deep in the earth. The stereo was set beside the grave, and from it came The Fields of Athenry, the mournful ballad drifting thinly on the wind.
The coffin was lowered into the soil. One by one, the family stepped forward, scooping handfuls of earth and casting them down with trembling fingers. The breeze strengthened. The willow’s branches swayed harder, whispering against one another like restless spirits.
The mourners paused, eyes lifted to the tree as though it too grieved. When they looked back to the grave, they gasped.
A single white rose lay upon the coffin.
No one had placed it there.
Father Michael glanced quickly around, but the cemetery was empty save for the family. The rose gleamed against the dark wood, untouched, inexplicable.
From the sun-bleached steps of a mausoleum at the far edge of the cemetery, the shadow lingered. The sky was pale blue, the late morning sun casting sharp light across the gravestones. His voice was low, swallowed by the still air.
“An evil cast asunder, and a beautiful soul sent up above.”
Above him, from the mausoleum’s roof, a woman’s voice drifted down—soft, almost amused. “As grim as you are, why the white rose?”
He did not answer. Silence stretched. Birdsong faltered in the trees. The voice gave a groan of mock impatience.
“Where to now?” he asked, flat, as if this meeting were business and nothing more.
“You are needed,” she whispered. “Back at your home… England.”
He stilled. The word caught him, heavy with memory. “England…” he murmured.
Her voice curled with teasing delight. “And this time… you’ve been granted a gift. You’ve been granted an appearance.”
A sudden crack split the air—like wood snapping, like thunder without clouds. His form convulsed, twisting. He raised his hands and watched as bones grew into being, sheathed in tendons and sinew. Muscles coiled, nerves twined, and skin smoothed over it all with impossible speed. The daylight glared upon the grotesque process, but he felt no pain.
When it ended, he stood in the sun as flesh and blood. Crossing to a small fountain, he leaned above its clear surface. A reflection stared back: a man, short and dark-haired, with piercing blue eyes and rugged features. His frame was muscular, clad in a black suit that seemed to drink the light around it.
“Don’t forget to give yourself a name…” the female voice whispered, sly and playful. “I could think of a few…”
A flurry of whispers tickled his ear. "Victor. Amadeus. Cornelius. Bartholomew. Oooh, maybe Gabriel—no, too pretty for you. Perhaps Lucifer, considering how grim and boring you are…"
He turned from the fountain, the daylight harsh on his new face, and cast his eyes back toward the ancient willow swaying in the breeze. His voice was blunt, unyielding.
“Damien will be my name.”
The reply was a theatrical groan. “Damien? Really? Of all the names I gave you, you pick that?”
For the first time, he smiled. A small, private curl of the lips, knowing he’d annoyed her.
Something pressed against the inside of his breast pocket. He reached in and drew out a small blue book—its cover stamped with a gold coat of arms. A passport. Flipping through the crisp, blank pages, he stopped at the last one.
Damien Beckett. Born 4th March 1987. Manchester, England.
The name sat there in neat print, as though it had always been true.
“Hmm. Not too bad,” Damien murmured. Sliding the passport back into his pocket, he straightened his jacket.
“To England, I go.”
Dark shadows coiled around him, swallowing his form. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
In a spire of shadows, Damien reappeared. The world unfolded around him—the derelict Agecroft Mortuary Chapel in Salford, its stone ribs blackened with age, windows broken, air heavy with damp. He stood in the darkest corner, silent, taking in the ruin.
A sound reached him. Voices—mocking, cruel. At the far end of the chapel, three young men kicked at a battered tent. Inside, a homeless figure whimpered, too weak to resist. Fists and boots fell. Laughter echoed.
Anger stirred within Damien. It rose hot and sharp until the shadows bent to his will. He stepped forward, out of hiding, his form fully revealed. From his back unfurled tendrils of black, writhing like living smoke.
The bullies froze, terror splintering their bravado. The tendrils struck, curling around their waists, lifting them bodily from the ground. They screamed, flailing helplessly as their feet left the floor.
Damien’s voice was low, deliberate, each syllable heavy with weight.
“Gentlemen. One should not bully or harass those less fortunate than yourselves. One should help—out of respect, and courtesy.”
The tendrils flexed, then snapped outward. The three were hurled across the chapel, crashing into walls and pews. Groaning, they scrambled up, and without daring a backward glance, bolted out into the rain.
From the battered tent, the old man peered out, trembling. Damien caught his eye, then gave a soft wink.
“Shhh. I was never here.”
The man shakily drew his fingers across his lips in the old gesture: not a word.
Damien turned away, his black suit catching the faint light that filtered through the ruined glass. With calm steps, he left the chapel. The rain greeted him outside, brisk and cold—the air of rainy old England filling his lungs.
In the chapel of rest, where moonlight spilled through stained glass and painted the Virgin in spectral hues, a figure lingered in the shadows. He stood watch over the coffin of a young woman. Her skin, pale as winter porcelain, gleamed beneath the fractured beams of light. Dark hair framed her still face, straight as a raven’s wing, while her white Sunday dress lent her the illusion of an angel sleeping. The light kissed her features until she seemed half-ghost already, caught between heaven and earth.
Hidden, yet present, the watcher clung to the edges of existence—there, but not there. He fed on the strangeness of the hour, the quiet, the hush of stone and dust. Within him simmered a hunger, not of flesh but of spirit, a desire to meet her, the one, the special one he had yearned for across lifetimes.
The hush was broken by footsteps. Father Michael, the chapel’s weary guardian, made his way along the nave. His eyes caught the coffin, its lid ajar. He froze.
Careful. Cautious. He moved closer, eyes narrowing. His fingers traced the polished wood. No damage. No claw marks. No sign of intrusion. Only a lid left open to the air. His lips whispered a prayer as he made the sign of the cross. Then, gently, he closed it. The thud rang louder than it should have in the silence.
The priest’s gaze lingered on the shadows that pressed against the corners of the church. For a moment, he thought he saw something shift, something waiting. But he forced himself to turn away, locking the great doors behind him.
Father Michael crossed the car park with his robes clinging damp to his frame, the rain beating down in sheets. The moon tore its way through the ragged clouds, silver light glaring, cruel and cold. The streetlamps shuddered, their yellowing glow no match for the storm’s fury, sputtering as though the night itself wished them snuffed out.
From the bell tower came the automaton’s voice: eleven heavy dongs, each strike rolling over the stones like the judgement of some unseen hand. Michael stopped, lifting his gaze toward the tower’s looming silhouette. For a heartbeat he lingered, rain tracing cold fingers down his brow. Then, with a shiver, he pulled his hood tight and hurried across the slick ground, seeking the narrow comfort of his home adjoining the church.
The world muttered around him. Shadows darted with each flicker of light. The downpour hammered every surface like a relentless drumbeat. From the alleyways, cats shrieked and spat their protests, hissing curses at the rain.
And yet, within the chapel he had left behind, the silence remained absolute. The shadow in the corner did not stir. It waited, patient, steady, and present, as though time itself dared not move it.
Morning came, though the sky remained heavy and weeping. Rain battered the earth without pause. At the ninth toll of the bell, the church doors swung wide, groaning on their hinges, and the mourners filed in.
Clad in black, they entered quietly, the shuffle of feet and the hiss of wet coats filling the nave. A portable stereo crackled alive, carrying the plaintive tune of Highland Paddy, its notes clashing strangely with the solemnity of the moment. One by one, the family of the deceased settled into the front pews, their faces pale, their eyes hollow with loss.
Father Michael, now draped in his funeral vestments, lifted his arms in blessing. His voice rose steady, the cadence of prayer carrying into the rafters, mingling with the rain’s percussion against the glass. The ancient rituals began.
And in the shadows, where light faltered, he lingered still. Watching. Searching. His gaze combed the sea of faces, meticulous, restless, as though hunting for something he knew about. There was a reason he never stepped into the open, a reason why no one’s eyes could find him.
The reason would come. Whether rival or ruin, whether blessing or curse—it would come. And when it did, hell itself would remember the fury of his scorn.
Among the family gathered on the right-hand side of the nave, one face did not grieve. A heavy man sat rigid, lips curled faintly in a cruel half-smile. His eyes, cold as stone, fixed unblinking on the coffin.
At the altar, Father Michael raised his hands over the dead. “Amelia,” he intoned, “may the wings of the Holy Spirit guide you to the heavenly gates of Saint Peter...”
The man’s chest heaved. His tongue slipped across his lips. He mouthed her name—Amelia—with a hunger that had no place in prayer.
From the corner, the shadow stirred. It grew vast and deliberate, tendrils uncoiling like smoke made of knives. They crept across the rafters, whispering as they moved. One phrase, low as the grave, hissed directly into the man’s ear.
“Tell me your name.”
He jerked, startled, and turned to the mourner behind him. “You know my name. It’s David!”
The whisper slithered again, harsher now. “Idiot. I am above you, David.”
He lifted his gaze. His eyes widened. Before he could cry out, the tendrils struck—pouring into his mouth, his ears, his nostrils, invading him utterly. His body convulsed and rose, dangling several feet above the pews.
The funeral dissolved into chaos. Screams filled the nave, the priest himself crying out as the hymn cut short.
Then a new voice, one that was not David’s, thundered through his throat:
“Silence!”
The command froze every tongue, every breath. All eyes locked on the writhing figure.
“My name is David,” the voice rasped. “I am a killer. Amelia… she died by my hands. I wanted her—my own niece. She denied me… so no one else could have her.”
The confession broke in fragments, dripping with venom, before the sound of bone snapping filled the church. David’s head spun full around, the crack echoing like thunder.
The great doors swung open of their own accord. No wind followed. David’s body was hurled into the street like a rag doll, his lifeless shell discarded.
The tendrils withered back into shadow. And from the pews came the raw, keening cries of Amelia’s mother, carrying through the town until it seemed the whole night screamed with her.
The shadow moved with noiseless steps. No one could see him, yet all felt him. The air grew cold with each breath, vapours rising from the mourners as though their souls were visible in the chill.
Father Michael hurried to the grieving mother, her cries raking through the silence that followed David’s death. The others sat frozen, unable to move, unable to comprehend the horror that had just unfolded.
Then gasps rippled through the nave. By the great doors stood a silhouette—vast, dark, unmistakable. The shadow had taken form.
Through her sobs, the mother lifted her face and cried out. “Did you send him to hell?”
The figure paused, glancing back over his shoulder. Slowly, he raised his hand.
Outside, the sky churned black. A fork of lightning split the heavens, striking the discarded body. The ground shuddered, stone splitting open to swallow the corpse whole. In an instant the rain ceased, the storm silenced, and daylight pierced the clouds in narrow beams.
The figure lowered his hand. His voice was soft, but every soul heard it clearly.
“Gone… to hell.”
Then he stepped across the threshold. The great doors closed behind him with a soft, final thud, as though the church itself had exhaled.
At the insistence of Amelia’s mother, the funeral carried on. Her daughter would be laid to rest, and she would go to heaven.
Father Michael steadied himself, drew a deep breath, and resumed the service. The prayers wove on through trembling voices until the final words were spoken. At last, six coffin-bearers stepped forward—three on either side—and gently raised Amelia’s coffin, balancing it upon their shoulders.
The priest moved ahead, unlocking and pushing open the great doors. Outside, the car park lay blackened where David had been cast down. A scar in the earth, still smoking faintly. Michael shuddered but said nothing. The bearers followed him out, the procession winding into the streets.
Through the town they walked, and the townsfolk stopped their errands, bowing their heads as the coffin passed. Grief hung heavy in the air, a weight shared silently among them.
At the cemetery, a faint breeze stirred, rustling the grass and coaxing a low sigh from the branches of the ancient willow. The family plot waited beneath it, roots tangled deep in the earth. The stereo was set beside the grave, and from it came The Fields of Athenry, the mournful ballad drifting thinly on the wind.
The coffin was lowered into the soil. One by one, the family stepped forward, scooping handfuls of earth and casting them down with trembling fingers. The breeze strengthened. The willow’s branches swayed harder, whispering against one another like restless spirits.
The mourners paused, eyes lifted to the tree as though it too grieved. When they looked back to the grave, they gasped.
A single white rose lay upon the coffin.
No one had placed it there.
Father Michael glanced quickly around, but the cemetery was empty save for the family. The rose gleamed against the dark wood, untouched, inexplicable.
From the sun-bleached steps of a mausoleum at the far edge of the cemetery, the shadow lingered. The sky was pale blue, the late morning sun casting sharp light across the gravestones. His voice was low, swallowed by the still air.
“An evil cast asunder, and a beautiful soul sent up above.”
Above him, from the mausoleum’s roof, a woman’s voice drifted down—soft, almost amused. “As grim as you are, why the white rose?”
He did not answer. Silence stretched. Birdsong faltered in the trees. The voice gave a groan of mock impatience.
“Where to now?” he asked, flat, as if this meeting were business and nothing more.
“You are needed,” she whispered. “Back at your home… England.”
He stilled. The word caught him, heavy with memory. “England…” he murmured.
Her voice curled with teasing delight. “And this time… you’ve been granted a gift. You’ve been granted an appearance.”
A sudden crack split the air—like wood snapping, like thunder without clouds. His form convulsed, twisting. He raised his hands and watched as bones grew into being, sheathed in tendons and sinew. Muscles coiled, nerves twined, and skin smoothed over it all with impossible speed. The daylight glared upon the grotesque process, but he felt no pain.
When it ended, he stood in the sun as flesh and blood. Crossing to a small fountain, he leaned above its clear surface. A reflection stared back: a man, short and dark-haired, with piercing blue eyes and rugged features. His frame was muscular, clad in a black suit that seemed to drink the light around it.
“Don’t forget to give yourself a name…” the female voice whispered, sly and playful. “I could think of a few…”
A flurry of whispers tickled his ear. "Victor. Amadeus. Cornelius. Bartholomew. Oooh, maybe Gabriel—no, too pretty for you. Perhaps Lucifer, considering how grim and boring you are…"
He turned from the fountain, the daylight harsh on his new face, and cast his eyes back toward the ancient willow swaying in the breeze. His voice was blunt, unyielding.
“Damien will be my name.”
The reply was a theatrical groan. “Damien? Really? Of all the names I gave you, you pick that?”
For the first time, he smiled. A small, private curl of the lips, knowing he’d annoyed her.
Something pressed against the inside of his breast pocket. He reached in and drew out a small blue book—its cover stamped with a gold coat of arms. A passport. Flipping through the crisp, blank pages, he stopped at the last one.
Damien Beckett. Born 4th March 1987. Manchester, England.
The name sat there in neat print, as though it had always been true.
“Hmm. Not too bad,” Damien murmured. Sliding the passport back into his pocket, he straightened his jacket.
“To England, I go.”
Dark shadows coiled around him, swallowing his form. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
In a spire of shadows, Damien reappeared. The world unfolded around him—the derelict Agecroft Mortuary Chapel in Salford, its stone ribs blackened with age, windows broken, air heavy with damp. He stood in the darkest corner, silent, taking in the ruin.
A sound reached him. Voices—mocking, cruel. At the far end of the chapel, three young men kicked at a battered tent. Inside, a homeless figure whimpered, too weak to resist. Fists and boots fell. Laughter echoed.
Anger stirred within Damien. It rose hot and sharp until the shadows bent to his will. He stepped forward, out of hiding, his form fully revealed. From his back unfurled tendrils of black, writhing like living smoke.
The bullies froze, terror splintering their bravado. The tendrils struck, curling around their waists, lifting them bodily from the ground. They screamed, flailing helplessly as their feet left the floor.
Damien’s voice was low, deliberate, each syllable heavy with weight.
“Gentlemen. One should not bully or harass those less fortunate than yourselves. One should help—out of respect, and courtesy.”
The tendrils flexed, then snapped outward. The three were hurled across the chapel, crashing into walls and pews. Groaning, they scrambled up, and without daring a backward glance, bolted out into the rain.
From the battered tent, the old man peered out, trembling. Damien caught his eye, then gave a soft wink.
“Shhh. I was never here.”
The man shakily drew his fingers across his lips in the old gesture: not a word.
Damien turned away, his black suit catching the faint light that filtered through the ruined glass. With calm steps, he left the chapel. The rain greeted him outside, brisk and cold—the air of rainy old England filling his lungs.
