The church on the hill was less a house of God and more a fortress against Him.
The windows were boarded up with planks engraved with silver runes. The crucifix on the roof was bent, as if something heavy had perched on it. Inside, it smelled of incense, stale whiskey, and gun oil.
Father Jericho bolted the heavy oak door behind them. He slid three separate locks into place.
"Welcome to the rectory," Jericho said, limping toward the altar, which was covered in poker chips and strange, glowing vials. "Don't touch the holy water. It's mostly vodka."
Silas leaned his shovel against a pew. The adrenaline of the fight was fading, replaced by the deep, hollow cold of his condition.
"You said you had answers, Priest. Start talking."
Jericho poured two glasses. He slid one across the dusty altar.
"You're a Corpse Collector, son. Sequence 9 of the Death Pathway. You likely drank a potion made from the pituitary gland of a Ghoul and Grave-Moss."
Jericho took a sip.
"In this world, power comes from one place: The Tar. It's the blood of dead gods buried beneath the earth. We drink it, we gain power. But the Tar wants to go back to the source. It wants to make you a monster."
Silas looked at his pale hands. "So I'm infected."
"We all are," Jericho flipped a gold coin. It landed on its edge. "The trick is to keep your mind while your body rots. That's why we have jobs. I gamble to focus my chaotic luck. You... well, you deal with the dead."
[The Restless Earth]
Jericho grabbed a lantern and a heavy, iron-bound bible.
"Speaking of which, we have work to do. Bring your shovel."
They went out the back door, into the church's private cemetery.
It was small, overgrown with black thorns.
But one grave stood out.
The earth above it was churning. Not much—just a subtle vibration, like water boiling under a lid. The grass around it had turned grey and died.
A headstone read: Barnaby "Black-Lung" Tate. 1840-1888.
"Barnaby died yesterday in the mines," Jericho whispered, keeping his distance. "Crushed by a rockfall. But he saw something down there before he died. Something that followed him home."
"He's trying to dig himself out," Silas noted. His Spirit Vision showed him a dark, crimson aura seeping through the dirt.
"He's trying to hatch," Jericho corrected. "The Tar in his veins is reanimating the body. If he breaks the surface, he becomes a Ghoul. A hungry, mindless beast. We need to put him back to sleep before that happens."
[The Dig]
"Dig," Jericho ordered, holding the lantern high. "I'll keep the perimeter sealed."
Silas stepped onto the grave. The ground felt feverishly hot under his boots, contrasting with his own icy body.
He drove the shovel into the soil.
Thud.
The dirt didn't crumble; it oozed. A thick, black ichor bled from the ground.
Silas dug. His inhuman endurance made the work easy. Within minutes, he hit wood.
The coffin lid was shaking violently.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Something inside was hammering to get out.
"Open it," Jericho said, his hand hovering over his pistol. "We have to salt the body."
Silas pried the lid open with the shovel blade.
CRACK.
[The Wraith]
The lid flew off.
Barnaby Tate sat up.
But he wasn't just a corpse. His jaw was unhinged, hanging loosely against his chest. His eyes were burning with Red Tar-Fire.
And hovering above his body was a translucent, screaming phantom—his soul, twisted by the corruption.
SCREEEEEEE!
The sound wasn't audible. It was a psychic shriek.
Jericho covered his ears, stumbling back. "Spirit Scream! It attacks the sanity!"
Silas didn't cover his ears. His mind was already half-dead, numb to the psychic terror.
He stared at the wraith. To him, it didn't look scary. It looked... solid.
"Quiet," Silas whispered.
The corpse lunged.
Barnaby's claws swiped at Silas's throat.
Silas didn't dodge. He swung the shovel.
Corpse Collector Ability: Touch of the Grave.
He channeled his own cold energy into the iron blade.
CLANG.
The shovel hit the corpse's head. It didn't just break bone; it froze the flesh on impact. The black ichor turned to ice.
The Spirit detached from the body, flying at Silas. It passed through the shovel.
It tried to possess him.
It flew right into Silas's chest.
Silas gasped. He felt a freezing intrusion in his heart.
But he was an Undertaker. His body was a vessel for death.
He grabbed his own chest. He willed his aura to consume the intruder.
"I said... quiet."
Inside his soul, a grey vortex opened. It grabbed the red phantom.
The phantom shrieked in confusion—it had tried to possess a house that was already occupied by a void.
Silas clamped his hand over the corpse's heart.
He drained the warmth. He drained the Tar-fire.
The red light in Barnaby's eyes faded.
The spirit dissipated, shredded by Silas's aura.
Barnaby Tate fell back into the coffin, just a dead body once more.
[The Payment]
Silas stood in the open grave, panting.
He felt... fuller.
The cold in his bones was less biting. He had absorbed a fraction of the spirit's energy.
Is this how I grow? Silas wondered. By eating the dead?
Jericho peered over the edge of the grave. The priest looked pale.
"Lord have mercy," Jericho whispered. "You didn't just salt him. You... you ate his haunt."
Silas climbed out. He wiped the black ichor from his shovel.
"He's quiet now. Pay me."
Jericho tossed him a heavy pouch. Coins clinked.
"You're a dangerous man, Silas Vane," Jericho said, eyeing him warily. "Most Undertakers just suppress the spirits. You... you metabolized it."
"I'm hungry," Silas said simply.
He looked down at the peaceful corpse.
"What did he see in the mines, Jericho? What turned him into that?"
Jericho stopped smiling. He looked toward the dark mountains looming over the town.
"He saw the Mother Lode," Jericho whispered. "Deep in Shaft 4. The miners say they broke into a chamber that wasn't made of rock. A chamber made of flesh."
Silas looked at the mountain. He felt a pull. A hunger.
"Flesh," Silas repeated.
[The Interruption]
Suddenly, a bell rang in the distance.
Not a church bell.
A Fog Bell.
The thick smog from the refinery was rolling down the hill, swallowing the town.
But this fog was different. It was moving against the wind. And inside the fog, Silas saw shapes. Tall, spindly shapes walking on stilts.
"Get inside," Jericho hissed, extinguishing the lantern. "The Fog-Walkers are hunting tonight. If they see you, they don't just kill you. They wipe your name from history."
They retreated into the church, barring the door.
Silas watched through a crack in the wood.
Outside, in the swirling grey mist, a creature twenty feet tall, with legs like spider silk and a lantern for a head, walked silently past the graveyard gate.
It paused. It shone its light on Silas's empty grave.
Then it moved on, toward the town.
"Welcome to Blackwater Creek," Jericho poured another drink, his hands shaking. "Try not to get eaten before breakfast."