In a district of the Night Market that few dared to walk, a handful of neglected lanterns cast dancing shadows across the crumbling cobblestone carriageway. At its heart stood a cathedral where no one sought the light anymore. It had seen better days - The lawn was strangled with thorned vines, the iron fence rusted through, the bell tower half-collapsed. The bell no longer rang, though sometimes it gave off a hollow thrum, like something stirred inside. The stained glass was long gone, stolen or shattered, leaving only the lead veins like skeletal remains. The main door sagged on its hinges, leaning against the wall like a drunk too tired to stand. Once it had been a beacon. Now it radiated only a seductive darkness that drew in the Market’s worst. And sometimes, even those beyond.

  Inside, the pews sagged, warped by rot and neglect. Candlelight flickered on the altar, where the crucifix had been twisted and corrupted, the figure once nailed there having long fallen away. The metal was bent and warped, its arms crooked, its core twisted as if it had been squeezed by a powerful giant. It was no symbol of hope now, it only radiated darkness.

  She, the confessor, waited in the confessional booth, a quiet figure behind the screen. Her robes were dark and plain, her black hair parted neat down the center, falling smooth to either side of her face. Around her neck hung a small metal cross, warped like the one above the altar, as though both had melted together in the same unseen fire. She held it loosely between her fingers when she spoke.

  “Unburden your sins,” she said, voice low but steady. “She is listening.”

  When a confession finished, the cathedral itself seemed to change. A draft slipped through the hall, cold and sharp, carrying the smell of incense and candle smoke from the altar. Flames leapt higher in their sconces, the off-kilter bell gave a muted, steady thrum. And always, the penitent left feeling lighter, unburdened. Each time, she sat a little heavier in her seat, her shoulders now carrying what they left behind.

  Tonight, the door creaked as a man slipped inside the church, brushing against the heavy wooden frame. He moved quickly, hat pulled low, eyes darting as though afraid to be seen here. His coat was frayed and well worn, his boots scuffed and dull - a struggling merchant's attire worn down by neglect. He paused halfway down the aisle, shaking his head reluctantly, and slowly shuffled towards the booth. He entered, he knelt as his knees cracked with age, and he waited anxiously.

  "Unburden your sins," she said once he settled, her words soft and carefully measured. "She is listening."

  “I killed my partner,” he whispered. The words snagged in his throat while his hands trembled violently. The air in the church stood still, waiting for him to continue, the candles flicker the only sound as he paused. He licked his dry lips and continued, the hard truth already spoken, the rest now followed like a flood.

  "It was late," he recalled. "We'd been counting the day's take, just the two of us. He... he discovered a discrepancy. He asked if he would find others, in the other books. I told him true; I had been skimming, sneaking coin to try.. to try and pay back my gambling debts. I had been doing this for some time." He cried softly, weeping into his hands.

  "I swore I'd pay him back, some day, that I'd make this right. It didn't matter." He sobbed, shoulders shaking, the weight of his guilt causing him to pause again.

  "Go on. Speak the truth, and absolution is yours." She said, plainly, unbothered by his agony.

  "He said he'd go to the magistrate. He said he couldn't trust me anymore, he said... he said he'd tell my wife." the man slowly stated, recalling his motivation. "I couldn't bear that. I blocked the doorway, and with my hand... I found a mallet."

  "The sound it made," his voice trembled. "Like.. like a melon falling to the floor. He dropped, but.. he wasn't dead yet. His breathing.. gods, it haunts me. He struggled, a wet wheezing, reaching for me as he fell. So I struck again. And again.. and again. I struck until he no longer made that sound. I struck until he was still." His eyes glazed, lost in memory. "I don't remember cleaning the place, hiding the body, the mallet... it is all a blur. I just remember his face, that look... that noise."

  Behind the lattice, she froze. Her eyes lost focus, and for a moment she was somewhere else, and someone smaller. The world stretched taller, louder, a world that made less sense. Blood pooled on the stone floor, thin and bright red at first, then thick, black in the lamplight as it pooled. It crawled toward her shoes, small dress shoes that were unlaced, until her feet were steeping in it.

  Her hands trembled, but she forced them still.

  A memory, a vision, a dream?

  She knew not. She pushed it aside, and let him ramble on, detailing other lesser sins and transgressions, but she found it hard to focus on such petty crimes. Finally, his voice trailed, his tone slightly lighter.

  The air stirred, a sharp draft swept through the cathedral hall, the candle's flame flickered and intensified, the bell's thrum resonated through their bones.

  The merchant gasped in relief, suddenly free from the guilt manifested from his terrible act. He rose, lighter, almost smiling, and left a donation of coin at the confessional box before hurrying out.

  As he vanished from view, she sagged back into her seat. She mulled over the earlier vision, but had little time to ponder it, as another figure was already approaching.

  The sound of heels echoed sharply against the stone floor. A noblewoman entered, her cloak of fine silks sweeping behind her, her gloved hands folded neatly at her waist. Rings glittered faintly in the candlelight, polished and well-kept, their shine sharply contrasting with the ruin around her. She moved with purpose, unhurried, as though this place existed only for her. Her entourage waited outside, none were welcome. None could hear what she was about to confess.

  She did not kneel when she reached the booth. She sat upright, chin high, as though the confessor was speaking to an equal.

  “Unburden your sins,” the confessor said softly, her tone unchanged. “She is listening.”

  The woman adjusted a glove, her expression unflinching, cold and stone-like. “I abandoned my child,” she said. Her words were steady, but falsely strong, slight cracks forming in tone as she spoke the final word.

  “It was clearly not my husband’s. To keep it would have ruined me, my place in society, destroyed my family, murdered a footman. So I wrapped it in silk, laid it in the river and paid the mid-wife well for her silence. My husband need not know; he believes it to be an unfortunate miscarriage. But..."

  Her voice faltered. “The silk robe was pale in that moonlight, exquisite, fine, taken from my own wardrobe. It seemed fitting, to swaddle him in his mother's robes. As close to as embrace as I could give him, at that moment..." She trailed, a sadness creeping in with each word.

  "The river is good at keeping secrets, I've been told. It carried him... it carried the problem away. My household remains intact. My husband is none the wiser. And I am here, still whole, because of that choice.” She finished, the strength returning to her voice.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Behind the lattice, the confessor's breath caught. The noblewoman's voice faded to a faint hum in the confessor's ears as another vision surfaced, the torrid details of the affair and other personal failings fading as the vision blotted out the present.

  Dark water, freezing cold and rushing fast. Fabrics.. no, clothes, twisting in the current, violently being tossed about in the water. Small pale hands, breaking the surface for an instant, before being swept back underneath. She could hear the faint splashing, muffled voices and cries, as soldiers tossed another screaming child into the river. Again, and again, and again. Until silence, deafening, an awful, absolute silence. She watched from a far, as though above the entire scene somehow, watching from some high, distant window.

  Her hand clutched the small warped cross for reassurance. The confessor could barely breath, her chest seized, every breath shallow, her body tight with panic.

  The noblewoman did not notice, her confession now finished. A strong draft filled the cathedral once more, more violent this time, fluttering the noblewoman's silk cloak and blowing her perfectly sculpted hair about. She smiled, feeling lighter, readjusted her cloak, fixed her hair, and left a generous tip at the confessional box. As she exited the cathedral, she paused, taking in the night air with a guilt free smile. She couldn't even remember why she had come here.

  The confessor sat rigid, chest tight and her breath thin and rapid. The air was thick inside the cathedral now, heaving and suffocating, the bell thrumming ominously through the walls. She forced herself into her seat once more, pondering the meaning of this new vision, but had little time to analyze it. Another figure had already entered the church, this one's armor rattling with each step.

  A busy night for sinners, to be sure.

  The next figure entered with heavy steps, his armor clinking in the dark. He moved like a man trying to project strength, but his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of a terrible conscious.

  A soldier, burly and broad shouldered, his armor scarred and seasoned from many battles, his face pale in the candlelight. He paused at the confessional, gauntleted hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, seeking reassurance. Then he knelt, the sound of steel scraping stone.

  “Unburden your sins,” the confessor said, her voice steadier and calmer than she felt. “She is listening.”

  The soldier forced a laugh, but it came out hollow, flat and emotionless. He shook his head, questioning what he was even doing here, before the began words began to spill.

  “I betrayed them,” he started, words stumbling over each other, rushed. “My brothers-in-arms. Men I’d sworn to fight beside. I.. I took a bribe from a rival general. I let the gates open to the enemy. For coin. For…” His voice trembled as he paused, before it finally cracked.

  “For a night in the their most expensive pleasure house, with the finest girl they had. I told myself it was worth it. That I deserved it after all the blood I’d spilled. That I was done risking my life for some king, that it was time to start living like one.” He trailed off, his eyes welling.

  "I heard them," he whispered, the pretense gone, the excuse weak even in his own ears. "I didn't know they'd burn the barracks, I thought maybe a surrender.. or.. something merciful. I didn't know. I didn't know." He stated, almost like he was still trying to convince himself.

  "They screamed as the fire took them. The pounded on the doors, the windows, pounded with their fists. They called for me, begging for help. And I took my coin, and walked away." He sobbed deeply, describing the horror.

  "Years now, I've tried to down out that sound, with wine, with women, with poppy tears." his voice sank low, shameful.

  "But I still hear them. Every night." he whispered.

  "I hear them cursing my name, I smell their flesh burning, I see their charred remains." His voice faded, detailing lesser sins, but she barely heard. This man's sin had resonated with her once more, a new vision rushing to the surface.

  She was no longer in the confessional, listening to an alcoholic, drug addicted man whore. She was in the rafters of a church, a child peering through the floor boards. Screams rose from outside, the sound of homes burning, people being slaughtered. Inside the church, an old priest knelt at the altar, unaffected by the madness surrounding him. Enemy soldiers approached, swords sheathed. The old man handed the soldiers a large sack of gold, trinkets, holy relics. They nodded, shook hands, and the church was spared. The slaughter continued outside, only the church was spared. She shift back from the gap in the boards, the wood creaked.

  Her knees buckled. She collapsed forward, one hand clutching the booth, the other squeezing her twisted cross until her fingers bled. Her breath tore out in ragged, strained bursts.

  The soldier didn't notice. Whether still in a stupor from his many vices or stunned by the words he just spoke, he didn't notice. He didn't notice the gale force winds battering the cathedral hall, smashing pews around the room, the flames roaring in the sconces, the bell shaking the walls with its thrum. He felt lighter, humming a tune as he left, free from his sin.

  Alone now, the confessor slumped against the wall of her booth, her whole body shaking. The church moaned around her as the gale beat at the walls, she pressed her face into her hands, breath shallow, the visions swirling about her head.

  She remembered. She remembered everything now.

  Her chest seized as the memories surged forth. The gale hammered against the cathedral walls, rattling the windows and shaking the crucifix until the metal joints shrieked in protest. She pressed herself against the booth, but the visions tore through her, sharp and merciless.

  She remembered. She remembered everything now. The visions coalesced into a displaced memory, made whole, made singular, made real.

  She was a child again, a vagrant hiding for dear life, crouched in the rafters of her village church. The streets outside were chaos with enemy soldiers cutting down villagers, homes set ablaze, the sky smothered with smoke and filled with the cries of the dying. Children were dragged by the hair, tossed into the freezing river where pale hands broke the surface only once before vanishing. Their wails swept under by the current, drowned.

  It was simply slaughter.

  Below the rafters, the priest, their priest, their town elder, their mayor, waited at the altar, calm as the insanity raged around him. He handed a bulging sack of coin and trinkets to the enemy commander. They clasped hands, and the soldiers left him untouched. His flock died screaming beyond the walls of the church, but he was spared. He had hoarded their tithes, their taxes, their donations that he had pleaded for. All to make himself wealthy, wealthy enough to buy his own life in the face of certain death.

  She shifted her weight on the boards, shaking with fear, and the board creaked under her weight. The priest looked up. His eyes locked on hers.

  Primal fear, the betrayal of trust, the horror of war; something inside her broke. The rafters shook. The air hummed with an ominous energy, as the winds began to pick up in force. The fires outside intensified in force. The weight of every sin being committed in the streets pressed inward, gathering like a storm, and from her small frame erupted a psychic blast that shattered everything around her.

  The priest’s head split apart like brittle clay. Soldiers fell where they stood, armor shattering and bodies crumbling into meaty pieces. The army buckled in waves as the blast tore through them. Villagers, soldiers, all shattered and unmade in an instant. Blood soaked the ground, the river ran red, and in the silence that followed nothing living moved.

  Except her.

  The energy recoiled, drawn back to its source. It coalesced before her, shaping itself into a twisted, terrible thing. A terrible thing, smiling back with her own warped face.

  An amalgam born of sin.

  She had carried it ever since. Feeding it with every confession, every trauma she collected. Moving from place to place until she found this cathedral, where she could feel an odd sort of peace, a nostalgia of a simpler time. And every time she remembered that night, every time the confessions stirred her memories, every time the truth clawed its way back into her, the amalgam would awaken and rip the truth away again, feeding, growing, and leaving her blank and calm once more.

  She pressed her face to her hands, trembling as the storm beat against the cathedral, threatening to tear the walls down.

  She remembered it all. She remembered everything. How many times had it been now?

  “I created you,” she whispered, crying. “I gave you life. Had I just denied you then, had I just.. just sent you away...”

  The gale rose with her muffled cries, sending hymnals into the air, battering the pews against the walls, bending the crucifix once more until it twisted further still. The bell groaned like it would tear loose from the tower, vibrating intensely.

  And then, silence.

  She saw Her again. The amalgam of sin, towering, pulsing, stitched together from every confession. It reached for her, and her terror melted into warmth. The confessor's memories drained away like water from loose fingers in cupped hands.

  The fear was gone. The grief was gone. Only relief remained.

  The confessor smiled faintly. “My old friend,” she murmured, in a daze. “You’ve grown so much.”

  The cathedral calmed. The candles steadied. The warped cross cooled. She rose, straightened her robes, rearranged the pews, picked up the hymnals, replaced the candles, and returned to the booth.

  The doors creaked as a slight breeze blew past.

  Time passed.

  Another penitent entered.

  “Unburden your sins,” she said gently. “She is listening.”

  And somewhere beyond, now unseen, the amalgam pulsed, vast and swollen.

  Its hunger was endless, but the sins of mortals were too.