Chapter 03

Chapter 03

The Refuge of the Cross

Sampson did not remember collapsing.

He remembered pain—white and burning—like his blood had turned into fire. He remembered the beast inside him recoiling, howling as though struck by lightning. Then there was only silence, deep and heavy, wrapping him like sleep.

When he awoke, he expected hunger.

Instead, he felt… still.

He lay on a narrow wooden bed in a small room that smelled of incense and old books. Sunlight crept through a single window, touching his skin without burning it. That alone told him something had changed.

Sampson sat up slowly.

Around his neck hung a rosary.

The beads were worn smooth by years of prayer, the wooden cross darkened with age. The moment his fingers brushed it, a warmth spread through his chest—steady, calming, human.

He gasped.

Footsteps approached. The door opened with a soft creak, and an old priest entered, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. His hair was white, his back slightly bent, but his eyes were sharp and kind.

“You’re awake,” the priest said gently. “Thank God.”

Sampson studied him like prey studies fire—wary, confused, uncertain whether to flee or kneel.

“You found me,” Sampson said. His voice sounded rough, unused.

The priest smiled faintly. “You nearly tore my door off when you entered. Collapsed right at the altar. I thought you were dying.”

Sampson almost laughed.

“I should be,” he said.

The priest set the bowl down and noticed Sampson’s trembling hands. “What is your name, my son?”

For centuries, Sampson had abandoned his name like a curse.

But something in the priest’s voice—soft, unafraid—made lying feel heavier than truth.

“Sampson,” he said. “Sampson Dotse.”

The priest nodded as if the name meant nothing special, and in that moment, Sampson felt an unexpected relief.

“I am Father Matthias,” the priest said. “This is a house of God. Whatever hunted you outside cannot cross that door freely.”

Sampson’s eyes flicked to the cross above the wall. “It hurts the darkness in me.”

Father Matthias did not flinch. “Then the darkness does not own you.”

That night, Sampson stayed.

He expected suspicion, fear, or exorcism. None came. Father Matthias asked no questions Sampson was not ready to answer. He fed him bread and water, which tasted strange but grounding. The hunger slept beneath the rosary, curled and subdued.

Days passed.

Sampson learned the rhythm of the church—the bells, the chants, the quiet moments between prayers. Each ritual pressed gently against the curse, not destroying it, but binding it.

The rosary became his anchor.

When he removed it, even for a moment, the beast stirred. When he wore it, his thoughts slowed, his breathing steadied, and the memories of blood faded into whispers.

“You wear it like a lifeline,” Father Matthias observed one evening.

“It is,” Sampson replied.

It was Matthias who first suggested the impossible.

“You do not fear the holy,” the priest said. “You seek it. That is not the mark of the damned.”

“I am cursed,” Sampson answered. “I was a king who mocked God.”

Matthias folded his hands. “Then perhaps your punishment is not to suffer… but to serve.”

The words struck Sampson harder than any blade.

Serve.

He stayed longer. Then longer still.

Years passed. Father Matthias aged. Sampson did not.

Questions arose, as they always did. So when whispers grew too loud, Sampson left—moving to another mission, another church, another name. He learned to disappear gracefully.

And then, one night, beneath candlelight and prayer, Sampson took vows.

Not because he believed himself worthy.

But because the Church gave him a rule, a purpose, and a restraint strong enough to hold the monster at bay.

Centuries blurred together.

Sampson Dotse became a priest of quiet presence—soft-spoken, disciplined, always moving. He buried the past beneath priestly robes and rituals. He learned theology, languages, history. He listened to confessions with a depth of patience only centuries of guilt could grant.

Yet the curse endured.

The hunger never vanished—it only waited.

One night, alone in prayer, Sampson felt something stir in the earth beneath the altar.

A pull.

A resonance.

He pressed his hand to the stone floor and gasped as recognition flooded him.

His heart.

Not the beast’s heart beating in his chest—but the true one. The stolen one. The undead thing that still lived somewhere below, calling to him across time.

Sampson staggered back, fear tightening his throat.

If it could call to him…

It could be found.

That night, he knelt before the altar until dawn, rosary clenched in his hands.

Because Sampson Dotse finally understood the cruel genius of the curse.

The Church did not save him.

It contained him.

And somewhere beneath sacred ground, his true heart waited patiently…

For the day restraint would no longer be enough.