Sanctuary doors clicked shut behind me, reducing the definition of worship songs. Boredom and the desperate need for a cigarette drove me from the Wednesday night "deep study" service. Week to week, I was the only teenager there. Everything I knew about modern Biblical translations from Greek and Hebrew texts I learned against my will. I wandered down a side hallway past vacant classrooms and offices, towards what I understood to be the basement. I couldn't smoke in the parking lot anymore, having been caught a few times already. The stairwell door, despite being slightly ajar, still needed to be pried open.

I pulled it open and stared down a concrete staircase plunging into thick, cool darkness. The basement didn’t look like any standard church storage area I had ever seen. Then again, this was a converted warehouse deep in the industrial district of my hometown, not an actual church building. There were no dusty Nativity scene plastic molds or stacks of spare hymnals. Mostly just rows of shelving, old sound equipment and extra furniture, at first. Then I realized something.

The stairwell was at the edge of the building. Once downstairs, if you take an immediate left, you should be facing a wall. Instead, there was a long, dark hallway. I fumbled around, looking for light switches or anything I could find to give me greater visibility. Eventually, I found a dusty flashlight in a box full of supplies from the tech team. Its soft yellow beam flickered randomly until finally staying lit.

I started down the hallway, trying to consider where in the parking lot I would be by comparison. I eventually encountered two deep crimson wooden doors. So dark, I originally thought they were black, or maybe I'd reached a dead end. Upon tentatively gripping the door knob, I jerked my hand back in shock. It was like gripping a cast-iron skillet without an oven mitt. Using the sleeve of my hoodie, I managed to get the doors open and wander inside. My heart hammered against my ribs.

As I panned my light around, the beam landed on large, hand-painted symbols marking the walls at regular intervals. I couldn't tell what they were. Facing me from the far wall was a low, altar-like table draped in heavy black cloth, flanked by iron candle holders caked in thick, dark wax. Once again, hoping for a light switch, I found nothing. There weren't even fluorescent light panes on the ceiling. This place was like a bunker. Further into the room, past rows of metal folding chairs arranged in perfect semi-circles, I found a stack of cardboard boxes. I approached them cautiously and peeled back the taped lid of the top box. It was filled to the brim with black plastic bricks: VHS tapes.

Each tape had a handwritten white label with dates spanning multiple decades. Some had cryptic titles like "Cleansing Mass," "First Revelation," "Open Vessels." The flashlight temporarily shut off, stranding me in the pitch darkness. Meanwhile, I could hear something stirring elsewhere in the room. The ground felt like it was sinking, like I was taking an elevator down several floors. I beat the flashlight against my knee until it finally woke up, its beam landing on the hallway I just came from. Time to leave.

Panicking, I grabbed three random tapes from the box, shoved them into the bottom of my backpack, zipped it up, and bolted towards the basement. Soon as I reached the stairs, I could hear the faint, echoing roar of worship songs and a congregation singing along. The sermon was going to start soon. I put the flashlight back where I found it and turned to run upstairs, only to notice the hallway was gone. Nervous vomit began to rise, reaching my collar bone as I hauled ass back to the sanctuary. I slipped into the back pew just as the teaching pastor starting walking across the stage, my hands shaking.

That night, alone in my bedroom while my parents slept down the hall, the anticipation to watch those tapes boiled within me. I slid the first tape in, labeled "Exalted Eucharist" and pressed play.

The screen flickered with heavy tracking lines before resolving into a grainy, low-quality video feed. It was the very room I found that evening, though it looked cleaner and new. The candles were lit, casting a dancing light across dozens of young faces sitting semi-circle in rows. A teenager, looking no older than I was, sat in the center. Surrounding him were figures in dark robes. The hoods hung low enough to obscure their faces, all of which were clean shaven.

One of them smiled with a terrifying, serene benevolence. He began to speak in tongues, leading a call and response from the congregation. The rhythmic, guttural chanting began to evolve and distort as the footage struggled through walls of glitchy degradation and warped audio. I watched, paralyzed in horror as the teenager began to contort in ways that defied human anatomy, his jaw unhinging impossibly wide while a thick, tar-like black substance began to pour from his eyes and mouth. Everything blurred due to atmospheric refraction as heat rose from the floor. The robed figures didn't flinch; they began to lean in closer, holding up ornate chalices to collect the dark liquid. They each drank from their cups and passed them around the room. Everyone in frame took communion.

I scrambled backward on my bed, hunting blindly for the remote. I punched the stop button, plunging the room into a deafening, ringing silence.

The static on the screen reflected in my wide, terrified eyes. I looked at my backpack on the floor, knowing there were still two more tapes inside, and realized with absolute certainty that it was entirely possible that sooner or later I'd be next.