Chapter 7
The wooden mallet swung in a deadly, horizontal arc, catching Deacon Miller square in the shoulder and sending him crashing hard against the metal filing cabinets. The heavy steel drawers rattled violently, spilling folders and loose paper across the concrete floor in a chaotic white flurry. Miller gasped, the breath knocked entirely out of his lungs, his hand losing its grip on the concealed firearm as it clattered away into the shadows beneath a shelf.
"Run!" Father Thomas yelled, grabbing Clara’s arm and hauling her toward the rear service corridor of the archive room.
Leo didn't hesitate. He pulled back his arm, making sure Miller was disoriented, then sprinted after them. "This way! Through the old coal chute!"
The group plunged deeper into the subterranean maze, leaving the main archive vault behind them. The air grew rapidly colder and damper as they navigated the labyrinthine stone tunnels that predated the modern church by centuries. These catacombs had served as storage during the prohibition era and before that as a hiding place for refugees during the early settlement days.
Behind them, Miller’s angry shout echoed down the stone corridor, followed rapidly by the heavy sound of his boots hitting the pavement as he recovered his footing and gave chase. "You can't escape the parish grounds! The gates are locked!"
Father Thomas led the frantic dash, his black suit coat flapping wildly behind him as he ducked beneath a low-hanging stone archway. "Keep moving! There’s an emergency exit near the old boiler room that leads directly out to the perimeter fence!"
Clara’s bare feet in thick socks slipped occasionally on the damp moss coating the uneven stone floor, but Leo kept a firm, unyielding grip on her hand, pulling her forward through the gloom. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird, a terrifying echo of the hours spent pounding against the inside of the white coffin lid. The psychological weight of her premature burial threatened to pull her under, but the fierce determination of her son kept her moving foot after agonizing foot.
They rounded a sharp corner, plunging into a narrower, unlit passage where the only illumination came from the erratic beam of Leo’s metal flashlight. Cobwebs brushed across their faces, and the smell of sulfur and ancient dust grew increasingly pungent.
"Father, look out!" Leo shouted, yanking the priest to the left just as a heavy iron pipe swung down from the ceiling—a rusted utility line snapping loose from its corroded brackets. The pipe crashed heavily onto the stone floor exactly where Father Thomas had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.
The priest stumbled, catching himself against the damp limestone wall, his breathing ragged and shallow. "Thank you, my boy. My legs... I'm not as young as I used to be."
"No time to rest," Clara urged, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. "I hear him. He’s right behind us."
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Sure enough, the sound of Miller’s rapid footsteps echoed clearly off the stone walls of the narrow tunnel, drawing closer with every passing second. The deacon’s flashlight beam danced erratically against the damp ceiling ahead of them, casting long, monstrous shadows that twisted and writhed with every turn of the corridor.
***
