I don’t know what I saw in that damn chapel. I don’t even know if it was real or not. I sure as hell hope not. So, I came here to tell my story. Maybe someone could help me. Maybe just telling it will make me feel better – help me sleep, stop the hallucinations. Well, at least that’s what my therapist thinks.

I was driving to the family reunion from New York City a couple of years ago. My sister was getting married soon. We decided to spend some time together in our family home in Bozeman, Montana. So, I packed my bags, hopped into my old green Ford pickup, and took off into the night. Long night drives were not that uncommon for me. I like them. Helps me think and talk to my inner self. Certainly beats the noise and rush of the city. Damn. Sometimes I miss the calm embrace of Montana. But this calm would be short-lived.

It was three days into my drive when I think it happened, somewhere around the border between South Dakota and Nebraska. I tried to look for it again. I did. But I couldn’t find the damn place. Maybe it’s for the better, come to think of it. There was some construction or an accident on the freeway. Felt like I wasn’t meant to keep going that way. I decided to take some back roads that my phone suggested instead and weave through empty golden and brown expanses of prairie. I thought that would be better than sitting in some cheap diner on the side of the road or even worse – doubling back.

Rural roads were still good and firm, even though ever since morning the clouds promised rain. However, the farther I went the darker the sky had gotten. It turned from ashen gray to heavy, dark lead. The rolling clouds churned and swirled as if some unseen hand washed its paintbrush in a glass. I was ripped from my daydreaming when I got to the crossroads and I noticed that both my GPS and cell service went down. Nothing but static and error messages. The sun had already vanished behind the clouds and the thick shadows consumed everything from one horizon to another. The only reminder of this being daylight was the soft spot of light high up in the sky. Then the lightning struck something in the distance.

Again and again. Closer and closer. Then my truck died. It just fucking turned off. Maybe it got scared. Maybe I did too. It was messed up. I tried to start it up again and again. And when I heard that sweet noise of my engine running, my radiator blew up almost instantaneously. I tried to fix it but I couldn’t without my tools. I was stuck at that damn crossroads. I tried to search for a local tow company but the cell service was still down. So, I decided to climb onto my truck and look around over the endless maze of corn, for someone or something. No cars, no people, no towns nearby. Only this one thing. Old, run-down, paint peeling off. Like a pale, long-forgotten, rotten corpse that surfaced in a sea of gold. And its low flickering light from the inside called to me like a beacon. It felt like it shouldn’t have been there. Yet, there it was. I still decided to take my chances, my bag, and my handgun, and look for some help there.

I almost got lost while trying to find my way to that chapel. The only sounds there were the rustling of corn, the crunch of dirt under my boots, and the creaking of the rotten wood that was my compass. No birds. No bugs. No other little critters. Nothing. But there was that smell. Sticky. Hot. Sweet and sour. Like from a compost dump or a roadkill. It came and went. Like a wave. I think I heard some rustling nearby but when I tried to stop and check for it – there was only silence.

When I came out of the corn maze I finally took a closer look at the place. It was certainly old as hell. Colonial maybe. Hinges rusted and some fell off. Some windows were shut and boarded up. A little light was peeking through broken stained glass. Wooden cross was broken halfway and missing the rest. But what captured my attention was a scarecrow. I think I didn’t see it from the roof of my truck. It was strung up nearby, high up, right on the edge of the cornfield. It wore a stained, ragged, patchwork coat and a torn, wide-brimmed hat that covered its face. It was put up kinda limp, unfinished, disproportionate. Its long, crooked limbs jutted out like they’d been broken and reset wrong. It looked like whoever built it gave up halfway through – like it was waiting to be finished. While it definitely felt off, I still decided to call for someone. The silence was my only answer once more. I breathed out, switched off the safety, and headed into the chapel.

I don’t like churches or chapels. The last time I was in one, it was my dad’s funeral. I hesitated at the threshold. My foot hovered just above the worn step. Something in me screamed not to go further – not yet. But I breathed in, and the air was thick, old, and it called to me. I stepped in, and the door moaned behind me. Shadows clung to every corner like old secrets too bitter to stay buried. The air was cold, but not empty. It pressed on my skin, like I’d slipped into a mouth that hadn’t closed in centuries. The chapel wasn’t abandoned. It was patient.

What little light was outside it shone through broken windows like dying suns. The wooden pews were rotted and covered in dust. There was no altar cloth. The altar itself was bare and crumbling. But in the center of the chapel, right where the altar should have been, there was a hole. A deep, black hole that seemed to descend far deeper than any cellar or basement should go. And from within it, came that smell. That sticky, hot, sweet and sour smell. Like something had been rotting down there for a very, very long time.

I don’t know what made me do it. Curiosity? Desperation? Something else? But I walked toward that hole. And as I got closer, I could hear something. A sound. Low, rhythmic. Like breathing. But not human. Something much, much bigger.