She scowled, laughed, and then shook her head, “Geez, I’m losing it!” Sheila smirked, which felt a little more genuine. If Horse ever gave up the tow business she mused, he could be a late night horror film host. Like that little, mutant zombie, or that redneck, she thought, though failed to recall the names of the shows. “Tales from the Grave,” she shook her head, “or was it the Creeper?” Her shoulders rose and then fell, “Whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

Into the basement she stepped, though slowed. The stone stairs had been cut into the rock. Every wall gleamed and glistened, iridescent yet faintly luminous. A spicy smell of old meat crept about the room, which appeared to have been blasted. No rats clawed at the walls, yet a faint wind whispered through the dark. It almost formed a word, or it was word given form, though one unfamiliar. Across the stonework of pillars and floor was the same symbol. Like a skewered eyes on a three tine fork, it watched her in solemn contemplation. Sheila studied the arcane iconography, but it was alien, unsettled the eye and stomach. She felt strangeness upon her, which judged. Among the bookshelves, alchemical devices, and religious accoutrements, the shadows drifted over the skin like decayed parchment. At the room’s center was a giant metal relief of the order’s or god’s symbol, made to level out the floor, so it would no longer dip.

“They’re too superstitious to look round down here,” she said, though a tremor crept through her voice.

She held up her phone, and its meager light did little to reveal its secrets. Sheila turned to candles, which burned though never lowered. Who lit them? The question hung in her mid. About the room she moved the light. She listened, but even the dull roar of the storm outside was unable to penetrate the basement library. Sheila looked around the candles, but the layer of dust was undisturbed.

“Okay,” she said, and swallowed, but no answer came. “Yeah, I’m done,” Sheila declared to the darkness.

Whatever they done, she thought, I don’t care. I want nothing to do with the backwards locals. I especially don’t want to find out what a bunch of redneck cultists were doing.

She glanced about. A podium overlooked the symbol of their alien god. Sheila stepped over to it, careful to not touch its dark wood. The box set atop a book, which felt like desiccated skin. Her lip curled, and she withdrew the hand, wiped it on her pants.

The sound of scrabbling claws, gnawing teeth, and thumping returned, though much louder. A rusty whine sawed the air, as unseen stones shifted. Shadows moved, and the uneasy light from candles recoiled. The slow, ponderous steps were heavy, even on the stone floor. Each delivered resonate booms, as if some belligerent giant rapped at a colossal door. Sheila’s face paled, bile rose, and her eyes searched the darkness. She moved towards the podium to retrieve the box, but a figure drew closer, tall and broad.

“Barnett!” she cried, fell back a step, and glanced at the box of paper. That little psycho must have sent him. Sheila whirled.

Through the aisles of bookshelves she ran. She snatched glances back, as the hulking figure moved in slow though fluid step. The sound of rats, large ones, returned anew with manic fervor. A neon clover-green light burned over the iridescent walls. The stench of rotted meat, left to molder for untold years, thickened the air. Acid rose in her stomach. A dark made alive slithered into the black stones of Black Priory. Between her lips a low moan slipped, lost in the pound of footfalls.

Up the stairs she flew. Sheila whirled, slammed the door, but it refused to close. The silhouette moved below, silent as the wind, and the strange green light followed. Nowhere to hide! She rushed out the door, and the dark figure filled the basement doorway.

The ice storm still battered the Black Priory. Lightning lit the secluded community. More figures staggered along the road and tree line. Sheila clapped a hand over her mouth to hold in the scream, but busted her lip. She stopped; feet flew out from under her. Her breath whooshed out, and she sucked in air. Icy rain beat against her face. Another flash, its brilliance filled the world for a moment. They moved towards the monastery. Instead of a scream, a hot spray of bile shot from her mouth. She managed to stand, despite the slick ground.

A house peeked at her with windows, which caught the flash of light. Sheila recalled a whole community moldered in the forest. She crept into the trees. The shadowy figures moved, silent and slow. Her breath hung on the air, though was beat down by the rain. Even the thick coat began to dampen. Icy, rotted brush broke under her boots with brittle snaps like bone. The neon clover-green light burned in their eyes, all blazed at once. Sheila staggered, mind babbled half numb, and she collided with a tree. The figures turned.

She crawled, frozen earth jabbed her knees. The flash of lightning turned the world to glass. Brilliance shimmered through the trees. Sheila saw the house, still half hidden. Among briars and brambles it slept, though windows watched. Each bolt of brilliance brought further revelations, that shocked the eyes; yet left it dazzled. Although it faded, pin pricks of neon clover-green sway back and forth in the questing, dark figures. Sheila recoiled from the alien gazes of eldritch flame.

Into the house, she moved, though managed to open the door slowly. Sheila closed it, and prayed old hinges would be silent. She frowned at the butcher’s cleaver stuck deep in a post. For a moment, she rested her head against the cold door, listened, and her stomach revolted. Bile rose, yet lowered after a few moments. The sounds of her heart resounded in her ears, but it faded.