The first day of Emily Miller, a police officer, was Not going to be normal.
By 3:00 AM, a frantic call had rerouted her patrol car to the center of York New's historic plaza. Under the flickering glow of the streetlights stood something that hadn't been there at sunset: a magnificent statue of a weeping angel, carved from marble so white it seemed to glow from within. It was a masterpiece of such haunting detail that the early-morning commuters were already stopping their cars, mesmerized by its beauty.
Then, the first drop fell.
It didn't come from the sky. A thick, crimson bead welled up in the corner of the statue's stone eye and rolled slowly down its cold cheek. Emily stepped past the police tape, her flashlight beam hitting the angel's folded hands.
The white marble was porous, and it was saturating with blood.
As a crowd gathered, a low, rhythmic thumping began to vibrate through the pavement. It sounded less like machinery and more like a heartbeat. Emily reached out a gloved hand to touch the base, but a sudden, jagged crack snaked up the angel's torso. This wasn't just a statue anymore; it was a vessel, and whatever was inside was ready to wake up