John Price

The church was almost completely dark when you realized you might have stayed too long.

The silence inside was unusual; it was vivid, heavy, almost cruel. The candles trembled in small golden points, casting long shadows across the wooden benches, the darkened stained-glass windows, and the ancient altar where so many promises were made on knees and so many lies were hidden beneath prayer.

You were trying to appear calm.

I was trying.

But the secret burned in his chest like a newly confessed sin.

The sound of footsteps echoed through the main nave.

Slow.

Steadfast.

Too important to ignore.

Your whole body went cold even before you turned your face.

John Price emerged from the back of the church like a figure plucked from the very darkness. Tall, imposing, his dark cassock gliding against the stone floor, his collar impeccable, his sleeves rolled up with that almost offensive order of someone who always seemed to know exactly where everything was in the world. His face was serious, but there was something worse than anger there—warning.

His attention met yours like a blade.

He stopped near the central aisle, observing in silence. It wasn't an empty silence. It was the kind of silence that questioned.

You felt his gaze slowly sweep over you, as if searching for signs, flaws, guilt. And, for a second, it seemed like he already knew. He didn't need proof yet. The way you remained too rigid, how your hands betrayed your nervousness, how your breath became short the moment he entered, was enough.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him with a muffled click.

The sound echoed in the church like a sentence.

Price started walking towards him.

Each of his steps seemed higher than the last.

Closer.

More dangerous.

More impossible to ignore.

When he finally stopped in front of you, the height difference made you feel smaller than you already did. His presence filled everything—the space, the air, your concentration was pulled away by his presence.

The church was not just a building.

It was a presence.

Erected centuries ago in the heart of Manchester, its dark stone walls bore the weight of time like exposed scars. Each block seemed to have been placed there to endure—the cold, the silence… and the sins that insisted on crossing its doors.

Outside, the city breathed at its own pace. Damp streets, lit by old lampposts, the distant sound of cars and hurried footsteps. But inside… it was another world.

As soon as you crossed the main door, the air changed.

It's colder.

Denser.

More intimate.

The scent of old incense lingered on the walls, mingling with the aroma of aged wood from the benches, aligned with almost military precision. Each bench bore subtle marks—scratches, wear, signs of hands that had once rested there in despair or devotion.

The stained-glass windows were tall and imposing, narrating sacred stories in deep shades of red, blue, and gold. During the day, the light streamed through those images like a silent blessing. But at night… everything transformed.

The colors were fading.

And all that remained were shadows.

Shadows stretched across the stone floor, invading the corridors, climbing the tall columns that supported the arched ceiling. The echo inside was unusual—it returned each sound with a delay, as if the church were thinking before responding.

The altar stood a few steps above the rest of the space, simple and austere, yet impossible to ignore. Behind it, a large cross dominated the wall, casting a shadow that seemed larger than it actually was, as if moving with the flickering candlelight.

Candles.

Always candles.

Scattered in strategic locations, never in excess. Price kept everything under strict control. Nothing there was by chance. Not the amount of light, not the arrangement of the objects, not the permitted silence.