Part One
***
Derry—a town that might have been a place people came to seek solace, but instead came to forget everything. St. Paul's Church stood on a hill, overlooking the residential district where houses sank into fog like ships stuck in a sea of memories, unable to break free. Father Donald Callahan had served here for eight years. Eight years—a stretch that could make a man a saint, or just make him tired. He was tired—so tired that no one noticed. He spoke the right words, delivered the right sermons; his voice was deep and calm as baptismal font water that never grew murky.
People trusted him. They came to confession and spoke things they never told their wives, husbands, children. He listened. He forgave. He granted absolution for sins that perhaps never existed. He was a good priest.
But every priest has a secret. Something he hides behind his cassock, his cross, his smile that says, "God loves you." Something he tells no one, not even God, because he fears that if he begins to speak, the voice won't stop and the whole world will hear who he truly is. Father Donald knew who he was.
He knew it every time he looked out the window of his room in the church basement and saw children playing in the wasteland. He knew it every time their parents brought them to service and he placed his hand on their heads to give a blessing. He knew it every time he was alone with himself and his desires, which were sinful but which he could not control. He corrupted children. Not physically—he was too cautious for that.
But mentally? In his dreams? In his prayers that weren't prayers but requests he didn't dare speak aloud? Yes. He was sinful. So sinful his sins could fill the entire church and spill out like pus from a wound that never healed.
But today he wasn't in his room. He stood in the church, before the altar, cleaning the golden crucifix that had been gifted by his predecessor. He cleaned it carefully, as if it were his own heart he was trying to make pure but which always remained filthy. The church door opened. He didn't turn around immediately. He thought it was a parishioner. Maybe Mrs. Carpenter, who came every day to talk to St. Christopher, whom she considered her personal protector. Maybe Mr. Nelson, who came to cry about his dead wife. But it wasn't Mr. Nelson.
"Father Callahan," said a voice. It was low, with a hoarseness that spoke of heavy smoking and little sleep.
Donald turned. In the doorway stood a policeman. Not just any policeman—a detective. Donald recognized him. It was Declan Murphy. He was the one who investigated all the strange cases in Derry that nobody considered strange. Because in Derry, strange was normal. Children disappeared. Adults died. Houses burned. And it was all just… Derry. But Declan was different. He didn't believe in "just Derry." He believed in reasons. In logic. That behind every crime stood a human. And he searched for those humans.
"Detective Murphy," Donald said, smiling. The smile was warm, practiced, like all priests who know how to comfort. "What brings you to the house of the Lord?"
"The Lord," Declan said, his lips twisting in a smirk that spoke not of humor but of distrust. "I think he's here less than I'd like."
He entered the church. His steps were heavy, as if walking through snow that never melts. Donald watched him and felt something tighten inside. It was a familiar feeling. Guilt. But not the kind you can confess. It was the guilt of someone who knows his secret might be revealed. That his mask might fall. That his life might end.
"What happened, detective?" Donald asked, setting down the crucifix.
"A child is missing," Declan said. He stopped in the middle of the church, looking around. His gaze was piercing, an arrow seeking its target. "Billy Reiman. Ten years old. Last seen yesterday after school. His mother says he often wanders in the woods, that he likes to play alone."
"This is a tragedy," Donald said. He took a step toward the detective, but Declan raised a hand. Stopped him.
"Let me look around the church," Declan said. It wasn't a request. It was a demand.
"Are you suspecting me?" Donald asked, his voice as calm as ever, but inside he felt panic rising like a wave threatening to wash him into the abyss.
"I suspect everyone," Declan replied. "But you—especially."
"Forgive me, detective, but that sounds like slander. I've served this town for eight years. Parishioners know me, trust me. You walk in here and…"
"And what?" Declan interrupted. He walked to a pew, sat, rubbed his palms on his knees. "And I ask questions. That's my job. Your job is to answer. They say you work with children often. Sunday school, youth meetings, teenager confessions. You spend a lot of time alone with them."
"It's part of the ministry," Donald said. He took a step toward the detective, but Declan raised a hand. Stopped him.
"Of course. Ministry." Declan smirked. "Don't you find that in this town, children disappear too often? Not just this boy. Billy Reiman. But before. Last year. The year before. Always. Someone takes them. Someone… like you."
Father Callahan shook his head, making a show of it being a heavy question that needed consideration.
"Detective, Derry isn't just a town. Here… children often run away. From homes where they're not loved. From schools where they're not seen. They run into the woods. Sometimes they return. Sometimes they don't. That's not a crime—it's a tragedy."
"Interesting perspective," Declan said. He stood, walked to the altar, looked at the crucifix.
"Interesting. You talk about children like birds that fly away. But birds leave feathers. Children leave blood. And your hands are covered in it."
Donald paled. But he held on. He held on because eight years of hypocrisy teach you how to hold on.
"You're crossing a line, detective," the priest said, his voice turning cold. "This is slander. And if you don't leave right now, I'll call your superiors."
"Call them," Declan nodded. "The boss is my uncle. He knows what I'm doing. He knows what I'm looking for. I know there are wolves in this town who dress in sheep's clothing. And some—in cassocks."
He moved toward the exit but stopped, turned back.
"I'll find proof. It's not a question of time. It's a question of your mistake. And you will make a mistake. Bastards always slip up."
He said the last word quietly, almost a whisper, but it echoed through the church as if the walls themselves shouted it. Donald paled. But he didn't answer. He just nodded. Because he knew there was nothing left to say. He knew he wasn't guilty. Not this time. This time someone else was guilty.
Something else. But he didn't know what. He didn't know that beneath the town, in the sewer pipes, sat what had been human and become evil. He didn't know that his secret was just a small wave in an ocean of sin that had only begun to rise.
Declan left. The door closed. Donald was alone. He looked at the crucifix he'd been cleaning and thought: "Lord, forgive me." But he didn't know what he was asking forgiveness for. For being who he was? For not having time? Or for the fact that the town he called home was just a cage for what had come to devour it from within?
He didn't know the answer. And at that moment, parts of Billy Reiman's body floated through the sewers, toward the light that had not yet risen over Derry.