Father Ben handed me a silver stake, its weight reassuring in my hand, though the cool metal stung faintly against my skin. I wondered if it was a side effect of whatever weirdness was going on inside me. He offered a few words of caution as we hurried up toward the surface, my hand resting on his shoulder for guidance. By now, we’d gotten a rhythm down, and despite the urgency of the moment, I felt strangely steady.

“Many things you may have read or seen about the strengths and weaknesses of the undead are based, at least in part, on truths,” Father Ben began, his voice measured despite the rising tension.

“Like super strength, super speed, and all that jazz?” I asked.

“Indeed,” he replied, “but not all breeds are created equal. There is as much variety among the undead as there are species of cat or dog. Some are vastly more powerful than their brethren.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So we might be up against undead Pomeranians -or undead tigers.”

“Precisely,” he said, unperturbed.

“And how exactly are we supposed to defend against them?” I asked, gripping the stake tighter. “In case you forgot, I’m blind. And maybe there’s something you’re not telling me, but you’re human.”

“There are many things I am not telling you,” he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. “And while I may be human, do not let that lead you astray. I have been doing this for a very long time and have picked up a trick or two.”

“Awesome for you. But me? Still blind,” I said, tapping my temple for emphasis.

Father Ben didn’t answer, his silence saying more than words could. We climbed the final set of stairs, emerging into the cooler, more open space of the church’s main hallway. Here, the air shifted subtly, carrying with it the faint tang of wood polish and incense.

As we reached the surface, a new scent hit me - a sharp, acrid stench like rotting meat mixed with old blood. It was faint but unmistakable. I wrinkled my nose, my heightened senses making the smell almost unbearable.

“Father,” I said cautiously, “I can smell them. There’s more than a few, isn’t there?”

Father Ben led me toward a window, pausing to peer outside. I couldn’t see what he saw, but his sharp intake of breath told me everything I needed to know.

“Oh my,” he said, his voice grim. “That is troubling.”

“There’s a lot, isn’t there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Oh yes,” he said, stepping away from the window. “Far more than I originally estimated. It would appear we are vastly outnumbered.”

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“Awesome. So what now? Is there anyone else here who can help? A secret stash of holy grenades, maybe? You said you had tricks - got one for this?”

Father Ben didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I heard the faint metallic clink of a flask being unscrewed, followed by the distinct smell of spiced rum. He took a long swig, the sound of his throat working almost comical in the moment, then offered the flask to me. I took a sip, the warmth spreading through my chest and cutting through the chill of dread.

“Do you hear that?” he asked suddenly.

“Hear what?” I said, straining to focus. At first, I caught nothing but the faint creak of the church settling around us. But then, as I sharpened my attention, I caught it - a distant voice, faint but growing louder. Someone was shouting outside, their words blurred by the heavy doors and thick walls.

“It sounds like someone’s talking,” I said. The voice prickled at the edges of my memory, familiar but frustratingly elusive. “Lead me to the door.”

Father Ben hesitated but finally took my hand and guided me. My foot hit the edge of a pew, and I hissed a curse under my breath, but I kept moving. As we approached the door, the voice grew clearer.

“We know you’re in there,” it called, smooth and mocking. “We just want to talk. Come out, and let’s have a little chat, shall we?”

The familiarity of the voice hit me like a jolt of electricity. I knew that voice. But from where? Fragments of memory stirred, but nothing solid came into focus.

“They’re saying they just want to talk,” I relayed to Ben, “but the voice sounds familiar. I know I’ve heard it before.”

“You can’t trust them,” Ben said sharply. “They will say and do anything to get what they want.”

“Figured as much,” I muttered. “But if they’re so eager, why haven’t they just busted in already?”

“I have wards in place to prevent such an occurrence,” Ben said. “They cannot enter unless invited - or unless the wards fail.”

“Oh, nifty,” I said. “So if we just sit tight, we’ll be fine?”

“Theoretically,” Ben said, and I didn’t like the hesitation in his voice.

“Theoretically?” I repeated. “Not loving that. What’s the catch?”

Ben sighed. “Remember when I said there are many species of vampire and undead? Some may prove more resistant to the warding and could bypass it altogether. Like you.”

“Wait, what?” I said, turning toward him. “You’re saying the wards should’ve stopped me? But they didn’t. So if there’s someone out there like me...”

“We may be in trouble,” Ben finished grimly.

“Great,” I muttered. “So, what? We just wait here until something worse happens?”

“Patience, my boy,” Ben said, his tone softening. “We need to think this through.”

I tapped my fingers against the stake in my hand, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Or,” I said, “we could just open the door and talk.”

Ben’s sharp intake of breath told me what he thought of that idea. “I beg your pardon? That could be suicide.”

“Hey, you just said we might be sitting ducks anyway,” I shot back. “Might as well see what they want. Maybe we’ll learn something useful.”

Ben was quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching. Finally, he patted my hand on his shoulder. “At the first sign of trouble, I will shut the door and reactivate the ward. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

System Notification

Quest Unlocked: Talk Amongst the Dead

Objective: Confront the vampires outside the church and determine their intent.

Reward: +XP; Unlock Negotiation Proficiency Skill.

Failure: Wards may fail, and you risk death—or worse.

Ben placed his hand on the latch, his movements deliberate. The faint creak of the door opening sent a wave of cold air rushing inside, carrying with it the sharp, acrid scent of blood and decay. My grip tightened on the silver stake as I stepped forward, my senses straining to pick up every detail.

“Alright,” I said, my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my chest. “Let’s chat.”