The church was old. Not as old as the standing stones, but certainly old enough.

  In the snow it looked like a Christmas postcard: the grey, authoritative tower jutting above the horizon, the cross lit up in gold on top just in case anyone suddenly forgot what it was for.

  Tristan had lost sight of Yesa two minutes ago. Somehow she’d vanished completely, though the current snow flurry helped. Then she was just… there. Standing beside him as if she’d been there all along. He flinched. “Bloody hell! Don't do that!”

  His nerves were already shot after the stone circle. The current suffocating effect of the snow wasn't really helping. It made him feel very vulnerable and alone.

  She ignored his discomfort, pointing at the tower. “The tracks head this way.” Her ears swivelled toward the church. “What is this for?”

  “It’s a place of worship. For a God.”

  “God? Of what?” She looked back at it with a snort of derision.

  “Erm, kind of… everything?” he shrugged.

  “A God of everything?” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “You make your gods too powerful. Better to make gods for small things—less powerful.”

  "I'll make sure to pop that in the church suggestion box. Do you have gods?” he asked.

  “Our gods failed us and ran away.” Her voice was flat. “So we cursed them and forgot their names."

  She didn’t take her eyes off the tower. “Do you come here to worship your God of everything?”

  “No. I’ve not been here in," he paused, “...some years.”

  “Has this God failed you?”

  “That’s... complex. If He exists, He’s made some really questionable choices.”

  She looked at him, searching his face, before turning back toward the church. “Will there be more of your people inside?”

  “I doubt it. With the snow, maybe Father Tross, he’s the… priest? Head God person for the village.”

  She started to head towards the church again, then stopped. “How many of you are there?”

  “What, people?

  “Yes.”

  “In the village? About, I don’t know, maybe a few hundred? In the winter, anyway. It’s busier in the summer.”

  Her ears seemed to droop slowly. “How many… outside the village?”

  “Oh, in total? Billions, I think.”

  She looked at him; it seemed she would say something, but then she just turned away and walked off without a word.

  "Good talk," Tristan muttered to himself. She was decidedly reluctant to give him information, or maybe she just didn't see the need. Either way, it was drawing a picture for him. The sort you'd put in the attic and cover with a sheet because it makes you nervous to look at.

  They continued toward the church. Yesa reached the wall separating the field from the churchyard and paused. "Your priest might already be dead." She vaulted over the wall into the church grounds.

  Tristan followed, but via the gate set into the wall. His track record with physical barriers had been tested enough for one day.

  The churchyard seemed deserted. The path had been cleared, which meant someone had been here. Something else had been here too — a trail cut straight across the snow between the graves, ignoring the path entirely, ending at the church door.

  Yesa moved to the porch, covering the entrance. Planks of ancient oak, painted a once-jaunty red, now faded and peeling, made up the solid-looking door. She rubbed her hands across it, then tapped a finger against a scratch in the surface as Tristan caught up.

  “It was here,” she told him.

  "The... vampire? They don’t tend to like churches."

  She stepped back and looked up at the church tower. “We should go inside.”

  “Well, it might be locked…” He tried the iron ring handle and found that despite his pessimism, it was open. The door was stiff, but with a shove of his shoulder, it started to give. With a final heave Tristan pushed the heavy door open—wood and iron groaning as if remembering the last time he’d been here, when it made the same sound.

  He suppressed the thought and held the door open for Yesa. Cold air rolled out to meet them. Somehow it was colder inside than outside. At least they would be safe from vampires in a church; that was probably one of the main reasons to go to church.

  Inside it was dark. Snow had piled against the windows, blocking most of the daylight. A few candles guttered in wall sconces, throwing long shadows across the stone floor. The flames didn’t move. No draft. Just… still.

  Tristan’s footsteps echoed too loudly on the terracotta tiles. The tatty carpet runner down the centre aisle was darker than he remembered—damp, maybe. Two rows of columns marched down the nave toward the altar. Wooden pews lined up like patient witnesses. An organ hunched in the corner, pipes reaching toward the vaulted ceiling. Everything smelt of old stone, candle wax, and something organic underneath. Rot, maybe.

  Yesa slipped past him, every movement deliberate. Her ears moved constantly, tracking sounds he couldn’t hear. Her hand rested on her blade.

  “Other entrances?” she whispered.

  He pointed toward a door near the organ—the vestry, probably, or the priest’s office.

  She moved toward it, keeping to the side aisle and using the columns for cover, completely silent. He followed, trying to step quietly. His boots betrayed him, announcing their presence to the otherwise silent room.

  Yesa froze mid-step. Every line of her body went taut. Her ears locked forward, then pivoted left.

  Toward him.

  No—behind him, he realised. He stopped breathing.

  A door. Narrow. Old wood. Cupboard? Cleaning supplies?

  Yesa moved beside him, silent as the snow falling outside, blade drawn. She pointed at the door, then at him.

  His heart hammered against his ribs. She wanted him to open it. His hands were slick with sweat despite the cold. He reached for the handle. The metal was ice-cold under his fingers.

  Yesa shifted her weight, ready to spring.

  He pushed the handle down—the click sounded like a gunshot—and yanked the door open. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Tristan! My boy!”

  He opened one eye.

  Father Tross blinked up at him from inside the cupboard, sitting on a stack of hymn books. He had a clipboard balanced on his knees and a pen in hand.

  Yesa shifted from a combat stance to standing with one hand on her hip, sighing in a way that conveyed deep disappointment in the universe.

  “What are you doing here?” Father Tross asked. “You have to be careful… there is something in the churchyard!” He stopped, eyes finding Yesa. “Who is this?”

  “Father, this is… she’s a friend,” Tristan explained, helping him out of the cupboard.

  “Where is it? ” Yesa cut in.

  Father Tross looked her up and down. “The… thing?” He started, then noticed something. “Oh! I say, I like your ears!”

  “She’s here to help,” Tristan said quickly. “We’re… here to help.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Well, it’s lovely to see you. You’ve not been back since the funeral!” He patted Tristan’s arm warmly.

  Tristan managed a tight smile.

  “His mind has broken,” Yesa said, looking at Tristan.

  Tristan sighed. “No, this is normal. Father, please concentrate. The thing you saw…?”

  He took a deep breath. “Oh, right, right.” He paused. “I saw it moving through the graveyard. I thought it was Mrs Miggens at first, but she has fewer arms than that. At least the last time I saw her… although as an organist she’d be the first to tell you a few more might come in handy! Hah!”

  Father Tross looked between them. "No? Well, ah, it did remind me of a really large leech. I had to dash into the church when it spotted me! Luckily the old girl was up to the challenge!” He patted the old stone fondly.

  “Is that the… vampire?” Tristan looked to Yesa.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  Father Tross grabbed Tristan’s arm. “It was trying to get in—that’s why I decided to sit here. Best place! And I could do a bit of church admin while I was in there! Killing two birds with one stone!”

  “It’s okay, Father. We’ll deal with it.” Tristan looked at Yesa. “We can deal with it, right?" His voice climbed slightly on 'right'.

  She turned to scan the church, blade already in hand. “Yes. I can.”

  A crack echoed through the building—the sound of straining glass. Tristan and Yesa both turned, searching for the source. He followed her gaze toward a window. “Wh—” he started, but she was already moving, striding across the tops of the wooden pews with incredible agility as the stained-glass window at the far end shattered. Glass rained down.

  Something landed behind the altar with a wet thud.

  For a moment, nothing. Just the sound of glass settling.

  Then it rose.

  And rose.

  And kept rising.

  Eight feet tall. Maybe more. Its body was smooth and pale—not white, but translucent, like looking at something through frosted glass. Skin stretched too tight over elongated limbs.

  One limb. Two. Three.

  Christ, Tristan thought, how many arms did it have? They kept unfolding, spider-like, finding purchase on the stone floor.

  Six. Six arms.

  But no head. Just a central mass, and in the centre of that—oh God.

  A mouth.

  Circular. Ringed with concentric rows of teeth. Lamprey teeth. Hundreds of them, spiralling inward toward a black void of a throat.

  It grinned at them.

  Or maybe that’s just what its face looked like. It's hard to tell when something’s face is only teeth.

  Yesa was already there, springing from the front row and leaping down onto it, piling onto the thing and dragging both of them out of view.

  A second later she jumped back, and the thing reared up, swinging its long arms and body like a puppet being controlled by a drunk.

  It seemed to have little coordination, but Tristan could see Yesa struggling to get close. The length of its arms gave it far more reach than the short sword she was using. White slime ran down its body from wounds Yesa had already managed to inflict.

  "Goodness, she's handy, isn't she!" Father Tross exclaimed, straightening some pamphlets on a nearby table into a neat fan arrangement as though he were watching a live performance.

  “Ah, yes,” Tristan managed, trying to keep track of how she was doing.

  “Where did you find her?” Father Tross asked, his eyes tracking her dodges and feints.

  “Oh… err, garden…” Tristan winced as the thing took a swipe that almost hit her.

  “Garden? Well, that’s nice. You young people and your apps. First it was Tinder, and, oh, what's that one Markus from the shop was telling me about the other day? Grinder, was it? He swears by it.”

  Tristan’s brow furrowed. “No, I mean I found her in my garden, outside my house.”

  “Oh…” Father Tross raised his eyebrows, then smiled. “Well, I’m just glad to see you getting yourself out there again, my boy. You do have a type, I must say.” He chuckled amiably.

  There was a sound like a wet slap that reverberated through the church. Yesa slammed into the pews several rows back from the altar—wood splintering on impact. She disappeared from view and didn’t rise.

  “Fuck!” Tristan yelled and rushed over.

  "Language!" Father Tross called mildly from behind him.

  The creature was gangly and uncertain; its strike had seemed random, lucky even. Now it was searching for its prey, the altar blocking its path.

  He found Yesa in a crumpled heap, groaning. “Are you okay?” He scanned her for obvious injuries—a cut lip, but otherwise she seemed surprisingly fine.

  She untangled herself with some effort, somehow still gripping her weapon.

  "We are fortunate," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her face, smearing blood over it. "It is cold. Sluggish. Uncoordinated."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Tristan glanced between her and the creature, which had finally noticed them and was crawling over the altar, its body flopping like a starfish advancing toward its next meal.

  "Distract it," she said, before leaping up and bounding over the pew toward it once again.

  "With what?!" he groaned.

  At that moment, Father Tross patted him on the arm. “This might help.” He hefted something heavy into Tristan’s hands.

  A long rod — brass and iron, wound with cracked red leather. The head was a wide hexagonal stone, or dull crystal, polished smooth, maybe a foot across. Tristan's arms dipped as it landed in his hands.

  “Is this… old?” Tristan asked carefully, weighing it in his hands.

  “Oh yes, certainly. Once blessed by one of the disciples—or maybe even Jesus himself… if you believe the stories anyway. I think he embellished them a bit personally.” Father Tross said, smiling. “But God grants weapons to the faithful!”

  “Don’t suppose it’s holy… or magical, is it?” Tristan asked hopefully.

  “Even better!” Father Tross leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s bloody heavy.”

  “Right. Distract it. I can do this,” Tristan told himself, hefting the sceptre and taking a few hesitant steps towards the creature.

  One of its arms immediately flicked him backward, sending him sprawling into the aisle. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only watch as the creature loomed over him, its mouth spiralling wider.

  A limb reached down toward him. Slow. Almost gentle.

  He wanted to scream and managed only a squeak.

  Then a blur—Yesa—slammed into the creature from the side. Her flying kick caught its central mass. The force sent the thing sprawling across three rows of pews.

  She hit the ground, landing lightly in a crouch beside him.

  “Good.” She wasn’t even breathing hard. Tristan was taking short, panicked gasps.

  “Good?!”

  “You distracted it. Beware of the mouths.”

  He groaned and picked himself up. “Dare I ask?”

  She looked up at him. “Do you like having blood?” She didn’t wait for an answer and was scurrying across another row of pews, using them as cover.

  “Yes, I do like having blood as a matter of fact,” he muttered to himself as he hefted the sceptre again.

  “Ooohhh, blood, sanguivore. Got it…” He did a double take. “Wait—mouths? Plural?" But she was gone.

  From somewhere behind him, Father Tross called out, “That’s the spirit, my boy!”

  At least the moral support was there, he mused.

  The leech-thing righted itself and lashed out at Yesa as she sprang off one of the granite supports. It missed her by a hair, instead hitting the pillar, the arm sticking to stone. It lashed back and forth, trying to pull free.

  Seeing his chance, Tristan swung the sceptre and slammed the creature's arm into the granite. The impact jarred up his arms, sending shocks through his shoulders, but he heard bone—or whatever it had—crack.

  It screeched—the sound intensifying when Yesa appeared behind it and rammed her blade through the base of one of its arms. Lumpy, creamy ichor sprayed across the wall. She savagely tore the blade sideways, and the arm flopped uselessly, now only half-connected to the body.

  The creature swung at her in retaliation, but she leapt backward and disappeared into the shadows.

  Unable to see her, it drunkenly swung at Tristan instead.

  He dived into the cover of a row of nearby pews. The creature's limb writhed inches above him.

  That's when he saw them. Hundreds of little mouths on the underside. Each one a miniature of that horrible lamprey maw—circular, ringed with tiny teeth.

  They opened and closed in waves, not quite synchronised. Like they were breathing. Or tasting the air. Pink tongues—worm-like, segmented—extended from each mouth, writhing, reaching for him.

  They made wet, sucking sounds. Little gasps. The smell hit him: copper, rot, and something chemical that burnt the back of his throat.

  He pressed himself flat against the pew, paralysed. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but his body wouldn't move.

  One brushed his coat.

  He screamed, or at least tried to. The sound he actually made was akin to something small and furry being kicked into overhead power cables.

  The arm retracted, much to his eternal relief, and after a second, he heard the creature screech once more.

  Grabbing the back of the pew in front of him, he dragged himself up. The creature was down on one… leg? Whatever it was. Yesa crouched low, knife raised, swinging at another of its flailing limbs.

  One tentacle-like arm had already collapsed to the floor and was weakly writhing around. She looked as if she was trying to disarm it, literally.

  It was down to four functional limbs. A fifth hung by stringy tissue, flapping uselessly. Despite the damage, the creature seemed horrifyingly unbothered—still lashing out with the same mindless aggression.

  Father Tross shouted, “Unto the heavens, God’s wrath!… Up, dear boy. Look up!”

  Tristan glanced up and saw the huge cast-iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling—he’d always thought it looked like a mediaeval torture device. Heavy, with brutal-looking spikes jutting from the underside.

  A single rope that had absolutely no right to be the only thing restraining that much weight held it aloft from careening to the ground.

  It also happened to be right above the creature.

  He followed the rope down to the end of the church, where it was tied to a chunky iron hoop built into the indomitable stone of the building.

  “Yesa! The rope!” he shouted, pointing at it.

  Yesa was already on it, racing towards it with the blade ready.

  “Hold it!” she yelled as she leapt past him.

  “How?!”

  No response; the thing was regaining its bearings and started after her.

  He hefted the sceptre and charged toward the creature, every instinct screaming at him to run. It might have less manoeuvrability thanks to its damaged arms, but it still had a long reach, not to mention more bloody arms.

  A limb lashed out at him. He tried to parry. Too close. Too fast. It missed, just barely.

  He swung at the creature’s central mass.

  Something wrapped around his calf. Cold. Wet. The texture of a slug, wet and slick, but with the strength of a steel cable.

  “What—” he whimpered as it yanked his leg. He crashed onto the stone floor, onto his back. Pain lanced through him, white-hot.

  The grip tightened. Pulling. Dragging him backward across the tiles.

  He desperately clawed at the floor. His fingernails scraped the stone and found nothing to grab.

  The creature loomed over him. That mouth spiralling open wider. Wider. How far did it go? All the way through?

  The limb around his leg was covered in those mouths. He could feel them. Hundreds of tiny teeth biting—not deep, just testing. Tasting.

  Sharp little pinpricks of pain ran up his calf. The tongues were worse, worming under his trousers. Cold. Wet. Invasive.

  “Yesa!”

  His voice broke. He didn’t care.

  The pulley screamed. Metal on metal, high and piercing.

  The chandelier fell.

  It slammed down with a sound like a building collapsing. Metal shrieked against stone. Something crunched—wet and organic. Missing him by inches.

  The creature’s limb spasmed around his leg, then went slack.

  He scrambled backward immediately. Just away. Get away.

  The chandelier had the creature pinned. One spike had gone straight through its central mass—through that horrible mouth. White blood pooled around it, spreading across the terracotta tiles in a slow, syrupy wave.

  But it was still moving. Limbs twitching. That mouth working, teeth grinding against iron.

  Yesa landed on top of the chandelier in a crouch. She studied the creature beneath her like a scientist examining a specimen.

  She cocked her head, considering. Then she raised her blade and brought it down—precise, surgical—into the base of one of its limbs.

  The creature shrieked. The remaining limbs spasmed once.

  Then nothing.

  Silence, except for Tristan’s ragged breathing and blood dripping onto stone.

  Tristan sat against the wall, legs pulled up to his chest because they wouldn’t straighten. He couldn’t stop shaking.

  His calf burnt where those mouths had been. He didn’t want to look but failed to stop himself.

  The trouser leg was shredded. Beneath—dozens of circular marks. Red and raised. Some were bleeding sluggishly.

  He felt sick.

  He was still breathing heavily, shaking breaths as Yesa crouched on her haunches next to him. “Good. Next time do not let it grab you. That is unwise.”

  Sweat beaded on her brow. She stayed crouched longer than she needed to, one hand braced on the floor.

  A weak “Uh huh” was all Tristan could manage.

  Father Tross clapped his hands once from somewhere behind them. “Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it? Who would like a nice cup of tea to celebrate?”

  “What is tea?” Yesa asked. Tristan noticed her straightening wasn’t in one smooth motion.

  “Leaf juice…” Tristan mumbled. Still gazing flatly ahead at nothing.

  “Yes, tea.”

  “Capital!” the old priest said. "And you, my boy?”

  “Yes, please…” Tristan’s voice was high-pitched and sing-song.

  “You have honey?” Yesa asked, walking away with Father Tross, leaving Tristan still on the ground.

  “I’m sure I have some, yes,” Father Tross said as they walked. “Where are you from, my dear? Your accent is very familiar…”

  “A world filled with creatures like that one,” she replied.

  “Ah yes, now I have a sister who lives in Australia… a similar thing, maybe?"

  Their voices grew more distant as they left the main church towards the back, leaving Tristan in the dark, with the creature still leaking across the stone floor.

  After a moment, Tristan decided that staying in the dark with a dead monster seemed worse than standing on shaking legs.

  He managed to use the sceptre to lever himself up. His hands wouldn’t grip properly and kept slipping. Eventually he got vertical through sheer stubbornness and spite.

  His heart was still trying to punch its way out of his chest, and his hands trembled against the brass and iron. The leather wrap felt slick—blood, whose, he wasn’t sure.

  He didn’t look down.

  The church felt different now. Smaller. The shadows were deeper. The candles guttered lower.

  That thing’s blood was spreading across the floor; it looked like lumpy yoghurt, lighter than the terracotta, pooling in the grout between tiles. The smell was worse—rot and ammonia and something sweet and wrong.

  He desperately needed to not be here.

  He stumbled toward the back of the church, using the sceptre as a walking stick. Each step felt like a confused negotiation between brain and legs.

  In different languages.

  Via semaphore.

  Voices drifted from the vestry. Father Tross and Yesa. Discussing something. Tea, probably. Or honey.

  The absolute mundanity of it made him want to laugh.

  Tristan found them in Father Tross's office at the back of the church. It was chaos—cabinets overflowing, papers stacked on the floor, some yellowed with age. Archaeologists would have wept with joy and started up the JCB.

  Father Tross was chatting away amiably from behind a desk that was an island of clarity amid the maelstrom of mess. Yesa sat in an armchair to the side of the desk; she’d decided to forego the tea and instead was in the process of squeezing an entire bottle of honey into her mouth.

  A steaming mug of tea waited in front of the other, unoccupied chair.

  Tristan stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, and leaned the sceptre against the wall.

  The moment he let go, it slid sideways and clattered to the floor. Tristan winced.

  Yesa's ears twitched. No one said anything. He slumped into the armchair with a loud sigh.

  Every muscle ached. His shoulders throbbed where the sceptre's impact had jarred through them. He could still feel the hundreds of little mouths where the creature had grabbed his leg.

  "Oh, Tristan, you're here. Two sweeteners, isn't it?" Father Tross asked.

  "Mmmm," Tristan managed as the father pushed the cup towards him. He could take the cup, but he wasn't sure his hand was steady enough to hold it at the moment.

  Yesa stared wistfully at the now empty bottle in her hand.

  She’d been slammed into the pews, Tristan thought, which were not soft by any stretch of the imagination, hard enough to break them. By all rights she should be dead or at the very least have broken multiple bones.

  She had the cut lip and had blood smeared across her face but otherwise seemed unharmed. “Are… you ok?" he asked.

  She glanced in his direction. "Yes."

  He took a deep breath. “Ok, fine, well, what about all the… blood and the mess?" He was still staring at the cup that had been proffered to him.

  "No bother!" Father Tross said, "We have a bucket of sawdust somewhere, and Mrs Wolcott comes in on a Thursday to do the flowers and spruce up the place."

  "Although we might need a few bake sales to replace the window…" He added, "But it was fortunate you arrived when you did! I was praying for salvation, and He was listening!"

  "Who was listening?" Yesa said suspiciously.

  "God, apparently," Tristan muttered, eyes still fixed on the steaming cup.

  Yesa relaxed. "No. We hunted it. Following tracks." ?Not wanting to let God get any undeserved accolades.

  "Oh? You followed that… thing here?" Father Tross asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where did it come from? I’ve never seen anything like it."

  “The stone circle down the hill, we think…” Tristan said, frowning; he sounded like he was going mad.

  “Is there one?” Father Tross asked, looking confused.

  "Apparently" was the only thing Tristan could think to say.

  A strange look crossed the father's face. “Oh, oh yes. I… something about…”

  Father Tross ?pulled a drawer open and started tearing papers out. "It was here..."

  He gave up on the drawer, slamming it closed, and looked around the room. “I was sure… I’ll have to look for it. It was a book that old Merd Gwyls gave to me for safekeeping."

  The blank looks Tristan and Yesa gave him made him continue.

  “Merdhyn? No? Before your time, perhaps. He knew a lot about local mythology? Anyway, he went missing – oh goodness… years ago now. Think he might have gone on a walk and fallen off the cliffs; that’s what people say anyway. He gave me a book just before he disappeared. One he’d done himself, about the stone circles around the village…”

  "There are more circles?” Yesa cut across him.

  "Oh yes! Several… I think I'm having trouble remembering the details; they're all a little fuzzy." He said, tapping his forehead.

  "Yes, strange that," Tristan said quietly. "Very strange."

  “He said I’d know who to give it to!” the father went on, checking under a pile of paper.

  “... Who? God?” Tristan asked.

  “Hmmm? Oh no, Merd. Very explicit on that. He said I’d know who to give it to, and then off he went. I remember he seemed in very good spirits, which made it all the more sad when he suddenly just… vanished.”

  Yesa turned to Tristan. “We must check the other doorways.”

  “You think there are more?” Tristan said warily.

  “More stone circles, more doorways.”

  Tristan looked around the room, eyeing up the mess. “That book could be anywhere…”

  “Well, after he disappeared, his widow opened up a museum of all the little bits he’d collected over the years. You never know; maybe you might find something about the stone circles there? It's just across from the clock tower on the seafront; you can't miss it.” Father Tross said.

  Tristan closed his eyes and sighed inwardly. This morning he'd told himself he'd help just enough to ease his conscience—get her somewhere safe, then wash his hands of it.

  But he'd seen actual monsters now. Horrors from another dimension. He shuddered involuntarily. Were there more? Did he want to know?

  He glanced across to Yesa.

  This was purely just pragmatic. She needed somewhere to stay; he needed someone who could stop him from being eaten by things with too many mouths. A fair trade. Quid pro quo.

  “Ok… fine.” Tristan sighed.

  “If I spot anything strange, I’ll let you know. And I’ll have a look for that book," Father Tross said.

  Well, Tristan thought, that was something. Father Tross was one of those people referred to as a pillar of the community, so if anyone knew what people in the village were up to, it was him. Of course, in a village like this, everyone knew what everyone else was up to pretty much all the time. Other people's dealings were the most interesting thing going on.

  “Tomorrow. Find the Doorways. Close them," Yesa said, almost to herself.

  First, though, they had to deal with the corpse bleeding all over the church floor.