Chapter Four: The Feast of the Forgotten
The morning light at St. Mary's was not light at all. It was gray and sickly, seeping through the windows like smoke. The kind of light that made everything look like it was dying.
Tina sat up slowly, her body stiff from the cold basement floor. Her mind was hazy — the night before played back in pieces: whispers, crying walls, the voice of a child. We want you to remember.
Liam was still beside her, his head bowed as if in prayer. When he looked up, his eyes were hollow.
"You were talking in your sleep," he said softly. "You said their names."
Tina blinked. "Whose names?"
He hesitated. "All of them."
Something in her chest tightened. She didn't remember speaking. But now, faintly, she could hear those same names echoing behind her thoughts — dozens of children, whispering in unison, their voices overlapping in a chorus of need.
She stood. The air was colder now. The walls, pale and cracked, seemed to move slightly with each breath she took — like the entire building was alive, breathing with her, through her.
As she turned to leave, she saw the chalkboard again. The words had changed.
> "Feast Tonight. All Must Attend."
Her stomach twisted. "Liam," she whispered. "It's starting again."
---
The halls of St. Mary's had never been so silent.
Every door was closed. Every shadow lingered too long.
When they passed the chapel, the doors swung open by themselves. Inside, the candles were burning even though no one had lit them. The altar was draped in black cloth, and in place of the crucifix hung a photograph — old, faded — of the orphanage's children, standing in neat rows.
At the very center of the photo stood Christina Ward.
Tina felt dizzy. "She's me. She really is me."
Liam reached for her, but stopped. "Tina… look closer."
Her breath caught. In the photograph, the other children weren't smiling anymore. Their faces had changed — eyes hollow, mouths slightly open as if whispering her name.
Tina.
Tina.
Tina.
She stepped back, trembling. The air grew dense, thick like syrup. The candles flickered, but the flames bent toward her instead of upward.
The voices rose again — soft at first, then layered, pleading, hungry.
> "You promised us you'd come back."
"You were the first to wake."
"Now wake us all."
Tina fell to her knees. "I didn't promise! I don't remember!"
But she did. Somewhere deep in her bones, she did. A memory surfaced like a bruise breaking through skin: the orphanage burning, the smell of ash and salt, and her own small voice whispering through the smoke—
> I'll come back for you. I swear I will.
She had kept that promise. Just not the way she expected.
---
By dusk, the school began to change.
The walls bled rust. The floors groaned like something massive was shifting beneath them. Windows fogged with shapes — faces pressed against the glass from the inside.
Tina and Liam ran, but every corridor looped back to the same place: the dining hall.
It was no longer empty.
Dozens of chairs had been set around long wooden tables. Each place was marked with a rusted plate and a cup filled with dark, still liquid. The air smelled faintly of iron and candle wax.
At the far end of the room stood a woman in an old nurse's uniform, her eyes milk-white, her smile too wide.
"Welcome home, Christina," she said gently. "We've been waiting for the feast to begin."
Liam whispered, "Who is she?"
Tina's lips trembled. "That's Sister Agnes… she was the one who ran the Renewal Project."
The nurse stepped forward, and with every movement, her shadow dragged behind her like wet ink. "You left us before the ritual was complete. You walked away before they could finish your resurrection. But the others — oh, the others stayed."
Tina backed away. "You killed them."
Sister Agnes smiled sadly. "No, dear. You did."
---
The air shattered.
Screams — dozens, hundreds — rose from beneath the floor. Hands burst through the tiles, small and gray, reaching for her ankles.
Liam tried to pull her away, but the shadows had already wrapped around his legs, dragging him down. His voice broke into static as he shouted her name.
The children emerged — pale, translucent, their mouths sewn shut with black thread. Yet still, they whispered, the sound escaping from the seams like wind through a graveyard.
> "Feed with us."
"Bleed with us."
"Be one of us again."
Tina clutched her head. "Stop! Please—"
But the world tilted. The walls began to melt into each other — flesh and wood merging. She saw faces forming in the plaster, eyes opening inside the walls, teeth stretching across the ceiling beams.
This was not a haunting anymore.
This was consumption.
The building was feeding on memory, on grief, on the echoes of all who had died here — and Tina was its beating heart.
Sister Agnes reached out, her voice calm, motherly. "It's all right, child. You were never meant to leave. None of us were. The feast must continue, and you — you are the offering."
Tina screamed as the floor split beneath her. A roar of voices surged upward, deafening, endless. She saw the children's faces — not angry, not vengeful — but starving.
And in their eyes, she saw herself reflected a hundred times over.
She stopped fighting.
She stepped forward.
The air went silent.
And as she touched their hands, the walls began to calm. The crying ceased. The darkness folded inward, swallowing itself until there was nothing left but the sound of her heartbeat — slow, steady, eternal.
When Liam woke on the floor of the dining hall, it was morning again. The school was whole. Quiet.
But the chair at the head of the table was no longer empty.
Tina sat there, eyes open, skin pale as marble. She smiled faintly when she saw him.
"Breakfast," she said softly, her voice layered with others. "You're just in time for the feast