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Sermon of the departed ones

blindmice
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Synopsis
This is a novel of sermon of the departed ones. Real life hacks on how to sermon the dead and talk to them and ask for guidance and protection.
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Chapter 1 - The Bells of Eron Hill

The first time I heard the bells ring at midnight, I thought it was the wind.

Eron Hill was the kind of place where even the air carried whispers. The old church stood at the center of the village — abandoned, rotting, and cursed, or so the locals said. They called it The Chapel of the Departed, where sermons were once held for those who never left their graves.

I had no reason to believe in ghost stories.

Not until the night the bells tolled thirteen times.

My name is Boi, nineteen, and foolish enough to take a caretaker's job at the very place everyone avoided after dark. My father used to say courage was a man's greatest weapon; I'd soon learn that in Eron Hill, courage only made you an easier target.

The night began cold, the mist clinging to the graveyard like breath on glass. My flashlight flickered as I made my rounds between the tombstones. I could swear some of them had shifted since the morning. The names carved into the granite looked older than time—letters fading, dates impossible.

*1773. 1804. 1811.*

People long dead, yet their graves looked freshly disturbed.

At exactly midnight, the wind died. Not faded—*died.*

And then came the sound.

DONG.

The first bell.

DONG.

The second.

My breath caught on the third, because I remembered something the innkeeper had told me earlier that day:

"If you ever hear the thirteenth bell, boy, don't answer the voices. No matter what they promise."

The bells rang twelve times. Then silence.

And then thirteen.

My flashlight went out. In the darkness, something whispered behind me. A voice, low and dry, like soil shifting underfoot.

"You came to listen… didn't you, boy?"

I turned, heart pounding. The graves had opened—dozens of them. Pale figures stood among the stones, their faces veiled in shadow, hands clasped like worshippers. At their center was the church door, slowly creaking open, spilling out a dim red glow.

The whisper came again, now from inside my head.

"The sermon begins… join us."

I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move. The figures began chanting—soft at first, then rising into a ghastly chorus that shook the earth beneath me. Every word felt older than language itself.

The bell tower loomed above, its rusted iron cross gleaming in the moonlight. For a brief second, I saw something standing there—a figure in torn priest's robes, face wrapped in barbed wire, eyes glowing white.

He raised his hand, and the dead fell silent.

"Brothers," the priest rasped, voice echoing across the graveyard. "Tonight, we welcome the living."

To be continued 9