I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

Chapter 152 The Last Case (7)

The abandoned church looms before us in the grey morning light, its stone walls blackened with age and neglect. Broken stained glass windows gape like dark, jagged mouths. The front door hangs askew on rusted hinges.

"No signs of forced entry," Han notes as we approach, weapons drawn. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, despite the cold morning.

We move inside in formation, flashlight beams cutting through layers of dust and cobwebs. Our footsteps echo on the rotting floorboards. The pews are mostly overturned, hymnals scattered and molding. Everything suggests years of abandonment.

But something's not right. There's a pressure in my head, building slowly - not quite pain, but a presence. Whispers at the edge of hearing, just below comprehension.

"Han," I say quietly, pressing my fingers to my temple. "There's something..."

The whispers grow stronger. Not words exactly, but intentions, pulling my attention downward. Down.

"The basement," I breathe. "He's below us."

Han signals the team to spread out. "Find the entrance. Has to be one somewhere."

We search methodically, checking behind fallen debris and rotted furniture. Detective ShinThe stone stairwell opens into a vast underground chamber that defies all expectations of what should exist beneath a church. Our flashlight beams reveal ancient stone walls slick with some kind of dark moisture that seems to pulse in the light. The air is thick and cloying, carrying the musty scent of centuries-old decay mixed with something sharper - an acrid, chemical smell that burns the back of our throats.

Grotesque carvings cover the walls, barely visible beneath layers of grime and that strange, seeping moisture. They depict scenes that make my stomach turn - figures contorted in agony, their faces twisted in eternal screams, surrounded by symbols similar to those on the ornament but far more elaborate, far more wrong.

"Dear God," Detective Shin whispers, her light catching a particularly disturbing carving. "This can't be... this shouldn't be under a church."

Water - at least, I hope it's water - drips somewhere in the darkness with an echoing rhythm that sounds almost deliberate. Plip... plip... plip... The sound seems to sync with the pulsing pressure in my head, the whispers growing stronger.

The chamber extends far beyond our light beams, the darkness ahead seeming to swallow the illumination. Thick stone pillars rise from the floor like ancient trees, their surfaces covered in more of those terrible carvings. The floor beneath our feet is uneven, worn smooth by what must have been centuries of use.

"Look," Han says quietly, his light beam catching something on the ground. Dark stains mark the stone in patterns that can't be natural - concentric circles and angular lines, forming what appears to be an enormous symbol beneath the accumulated grime of ages.

The air grows colder as we move deeper into the chamber, our breath visible in pale clouds. The whispers in my head are almost words now, almost comprehensible. They seem to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, as if the very stones are trying to speak.

"What is this place?" someone behind me asks, voice trembling. discovers it - a heavy wooden trapdoor partially hidden under a collapsed confessional.

"Here!" she calls softly.

It takes three of us to shift the confessional. The trapdoor's iron handle is cold enough to burn. As we lift it, stale air rushes up from the darkness below, carrying with it the scent of wet stone and something else - something chemical and wrong.

Han shines his light down the narrow stone steps disappearing into blackness. The whispers in my head grow more insistent.

"I'll take point," Han says, already starting down. "Stay close. Whatever's down there..."

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. We can all feel it now - something waiting in the darkness below. Something that's been waiting a very long time.

We descend into the basement, the stone steps slick with moisture, the whispers growing louder with each step down.

Our flashlight beams cut through the thickening darkness as we venture deeper into the underground chamber. The whispers grow more insistent, pulling us forward until we come to an archway cut into the ancient stone.

What we find inside stops us cold.

The beam of my flashlight reveals incongruous splashes of color in this dark place - faded toys scattered across the floor, broken crayons, and a small bed with rotting sheets. A child's room, buried in this nightmare beneath the church.

But it's the wall that draws our attention. Every inch of it is covered in writing - some parts methodically written, others frantically carved into the stone itself. The handwriting evolves across the surface, from the shaky scrawl of a child to increasingly mature penmanship.

My throat tightens as I step closer, reading aloud:

"Day 15: The voice came again today. Mother says I'm making things up. But I'm not. He keeps telling me I'm special. That I'm chosen.

Day 47: They brought me to the church. Said the priests could help. But they don't understand. None of them do. He's getting louder.

Day 180: Found old books in the basement. The symbols... they're the same ones He shows me in my dreams. The priests caught me reading them. They locked the books away. But I remember. I remember everything He tells me."

The writing becomes more erratic, deeper gouges in the stone:

"Year 3: The voices never stop now. Always whispering. Always teaching. The priests are afraid. They should be. I understand so much more now. About what's beneath. About what they tried to hide.

Year 7: Found others like me. He speaks to them too. But they're weak. Breaking. I'm stronger. He chose me for a reason. The ritual must be completed. But not yet. Not ready yet."

Han's flashlight beam reveals the final entry, carved so deeply into the stone that the wall is nearly breached:

"They think they buried it. Sealed it away beneath their holy lies. But He was here first. Was always here. And now I know what needs to be done. What they failed to do centuries ago. I am ready now. Ready to finish it."

"Choi," Han breathes. "He was just a child when it started."

The whispers in my head surge, as if responding to the words. Somewhere deeper in the darkness, something waits. Something that's been waiting since Choi was that frightened child, writing his pain on these walls.

The sound cuts through the oppressive silence - a low, guttural moan echoing off the ancient stones. The noise is barely human, filled with pain and something else... something desperate.

"Choi," Han whispers, adjusting his grip on his weapon.

The moaning grows louder as we move deeper into the darkness, following the sound. Our flashlight beams catch more disturbing carvings on the walls, the symbols seeming to writhe in the shifting light. That strange moisture continues to seep down the walls, now tinged with an odd, greenish hue.

Another moan echoes through the chamber, closer now. Words begin to form within it: "Have to... finish... have to..."

"This way," I whisper, the whispers in my head growing stronger, pulling me toward the source. The pressure behind my eyes is almost unbearable now.

We pass through another archway into a broader chamber. The moaning is clearer here, bouncing off the walls from multiple directions, making it impossible to pinpoint the source. Choi's voice grows more distinct between the sounds of pain:

"Almost... time... He's coming... have to finish..."

Han signals us to spread out, our flashlight beams cutting through the darkness in searching arcs. The air grows thicker, that chemical smell stronger. Each breath burns in our lungs.

Another moan echoes through the chamber, this one ending in a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "Can't... stop it now... too late... too late..."

The voice is coming from somewhere ahead, where our lights can't quite reach. Where the darkness seems to gather and pulse with its own terrible life.

We push open the heavy iron door, its ancient hinges groaning in protest. Our flashlight beams sweep into another vast chamber, but this one is different. The ceiling soars upward into darkness, and the air feels charged with something that makes my skin crawl.

And there, in the center of it all, is Choi.

He kneels in the middle of what appears to be an enormous symbol carved into the floor, similar to the one we saw earlier but more complex, more wrong. But it's what he's doing that makes my blood run cold.

His fingers are clawing frantically at his scalp, nails digging deep into flesh. Blood runs down his face in dark rivulets, matting what's left of his hair. Clumps of bloody hair and scalp litter the ground around him. The sound of his nails scraping against his skull echoes horribly in the chamber.

"Make it stop," he moans, his voice raw and desperate. "The voice... too loud... TOO LOUD!"

His fingers dig deeper, tearing away more flesh. Fresh blood spurts from new wounds. He doesn't seem to notice our presence, lost in his frenzy of self-mutilation.

"Superintendent Choi!" Han's voice booms through the chamber. "Stop! We can help!"

Choi's head snaps up at the sound, and we all take an involuntary step back. His face is a mask of blood, but his eyes - his eyes are clear and focused, filled with a terrible awareness.

"Help?" he says, and lets out a laugh that sounds like breaking glass. "You can't help. No one can help. He's coming. He's almost here. And I have to... have to..."

His fingers resume their frantic clawing, tearing away more flesh, more hair, as if trying to reach something inside his skull.