The night pressed against the stained-glass windows of the church, the dim glow of candlelight casting flickering shapes along the walls. Amos sat in his study, the crumpled letter smoothed before him, the words burned into his mind.
A knock at the door.
Soft, deliberate.
His breath caught in his throat. No one came to the church this late.
He rose slowly, his hand hovering over the drawer where his revolver lay nestled beneath sermon notes. Steadying himself, he crossed the room and opened the door.
Nothing.
No one.
Just the hush of the town, the whisper of wind through the trees.
And then he saw it.
Nailed to the door at eye level, a scrap of paper, fluttering in the night breeze. The same handwriting as before.
One word.
Repent.
A shudder ran through him. This was no prank. This was no idle threat.
The Watchman had marked him.
And somewhere in the darkness, unseen but ever-present, the Watchman watched and waited.