Chapter 6: Beneath the Church’s Hollow Veil
Where the Holy Facade Cracks & Your Shadow Waits to Rise
You follow the winding trail around the back of Halden’s Grove’s ancient church. Trees lean too close here, their branches gnarled like fingers trying to snatch secrets from your skin. Cracked tombstones peek out from the grass like broken teeth, and the angel statues guarding the lot have long since lost their eyes, their faces worn blank by time and sorrow.
But it’s not the graveyard that stops you.
It’s the confessional.
It shouldn’t be here. You remember it from inside the chapel, tucked near the organ pipes and smelling of cedar and old incense. But here it is—alone, half-swallowed by ivy and weeds, the dark wood slick with moss like something alive. You don’t know why, but you’re drawn to it like gravity to a falling star.
You reach out. The moment your hand touches the door, a tingling jolt shoots up your arm, like the feeling of waking from a nightmare too fast or stepping barefoot onto ice. It doesn't hurt—but it does something worse. It remembers.
You step inside.
The air is stale, sacred. It tastes of dust, decay, and forgotten sins. The scent hits your memory like a blade: incense smoke, old sweat, and the faint iron sting of guilt. The moment the door creaks shut behind you, the floor disappears beneath your feet.
And you fall.
You Wake in the Place Where Mirrors Go to Lie
You wake with the copper tang of blood in your mouth and a headache that doesn’t feel entirely physical—more like your soul got bruised on the way down. Your fingers twitch. Something cold brushes your cheek.
Everything around you is reflection.
You’re inside a hall of broken mirrors. Glass shards line the walls, floor, even the ceiling above. They shimmer like a serpent’s skin, shifting with every breath you take. Most show twisted versions of the forest—the well in the woods, surrounded by mist. Others flash glimpses of you, versions of you. Some are too tall. Some too wide. One grins as you frown. Another blinks when you don’t. And one? One just weeps.
From somewhere deep inside of the dark corridors ahead, you hear your father’s voice.
“I’m right here…”
“Come home…”
“Don’t forget your name…”
He’s humming, too.
The same haunting lullaby from the wheelchair. The same tune the busker played on Main Street. It curls through the mirrors like smoke through a crypt, distorting the air around it. The notes make the glass pulse—like the whole maze is breathing. Watching. Waiting.
Your hands tremble. Your breath fogs the glass, but your reflection doesn’t. It stares back, eyes full of something that isn’t pity. Isn’t fear. It’s hunger.
You move forward.
And behind you? The maze of mirrors rearranges.
The Loft’s Hollow Eyes Follow You
Just behind you and the the shifting maze of mirrors, a narrow staircase coils upward like a black serpent—ancient iron, slick with cold that bites through your skin. The moment your foot touches the first step, a low groan rises from the shadows below, like the bones of something long forgotten stirring awake in the dark.
At the top, a dusty choir loft yawns open. The space overlooks a rotted altar below, where candles have long since melted into bone-colored puddles. A faint hum buzzes through the air—like something electric and wrong is vibrating through the wood. The windows are stained with symbols that shift when you look too long. Latin, maybe. Or something older.
And standing at the altar... is you.
Your chest tightens. Because you’re here—watching. But so is that, thing.
The figure below slowly tilts its head. Then it looks up.
No eyes. No mouth. No face. Just smooth, perfect reflection—like someone polished a mirror into the shape of you. It radiates familiarity like a virus you forgot you had.
It raises one hand and waves.
Then it starts climbing the stairs.
You stumble back—until a glimmer in the corner of your eye catches your attention. One of the mirror shards near the stairs pulses softly, like it’s trying to breathe. It glows faintly, humming in rhythm with your heartbeat.
Inside it… is a woman. No. A guide.
Suddenly you hear a woman’s voice inside of your head,
“Mirror Walker.”
She’s ethereal. Otherworldly. Blonde golden locks or hair draped like bouncy silk down her back, her green eyes sparkling like embedded gemstones. Her face is kind, but her expression is urgent. She raises one finger, curls it, and beckons you to come back down.
Not toward the double.
Toward her.
She mouths something through the glass. You can’t hear it. But you understand.
"Choose quickly."
Option 1: Confront the Double
Face it. Whatever it is, whatever it represents—it’s coming for you. Maybe it's time you went straight through your own reflection.
Option 2: Join the Mirror Walker
Something tells you she’s been waiting for you. You step toward the mirror’s glow—and the path into the unknown.
The mirror glimmers again. The double’s foot echoes on the first step. Its faceless head never turns away from you.
And your breath is the only thing still your own.