The CHRONICLES of CHAD RYKER: SUPERNATURAL JUSTICE

Preview of Shadows of St. Ignatius by R. E. Chard The path to the main building took Chad past the abandoned chapel at the edge of campus. It was a building Chad had always tried to ignore, its crumbling stone walls and shattered stained-glass windows exuding an air of neglect and mystery. Officially, it had been abandoned after an earthquake rendered it unsafe. Unofficially, the students whispered darker reasons—a priest who had gone mad, an exorcism gone wrong, or a ritual that had summoned something that could not be sent back. As he hurried past, a chill unrelated to the morning air settled over him. It was the kind of sensation that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, a prickling awareness that he wasn’t alone. Chad paused, his breath visible in the cool air. He turned slowly, his eyes scanning the dark silhouette of the chapel. The structure was quiet, its jagged roofline cutting a stark shape against the pale light of the sky. But as he stared, Chad thought he saw something—a flicker of movement in one of the shattered windows. His heart skipped, and he took an instinctive step back. A faint sound reached his ears, carried on the wind. It was barely more than a whisper, like the rustle of dry leaves or the soft hum of faraway voices. He strained to listen, but the sound was gone as quickly as it had come. Chad shook his head, trying to dispel the unease that gripped him. “It’s just my imagination,” he muttered, forcing himself to walk away. But as he turned, he caught a fleeting shadow in the corner of his eye, darting just beyond the edges of his vision. His pulse quickened. This wasn’t his imagination. The shadows glided across the ground, not cast by any light but moving independently, like living things. They shifted and twisted, their edges rippling like smoke. Chad froze, his breath caught in his throat. The figures seemed cloaked, their forms barely discernible in the darkness, but there was something unmistakably human—or inhuman—about their movements. The figures gathered near the chapel’s entrance, forming a loose circle. One of them raised an arm, holding what looked like a lantern. The dim, flickering light cast an orange glow on the ground, illuminating a strange symbol etched into the dirt. It looked like a compass rose, but with additional lines and curves that made it feel almost alive. Chad’s hands clenched at his sides as he watched the group. Low voices reached his ears, a rhythmic chanting in a language he couldn’t understand. The sound was guttural and otherworldly, sending a chill racing down his spine. He wanted to look away, to run, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. His rational mind tried to offer explanations. Maybe it was a prank, something the seniors had cooked up to scare the freshmen. But deep down, Chad knew better. There was an intensity to the chanting, a weight to the air that couldn’t be faked. Suddenly, one of the figures turned its head in his direction. Chad’s heart lurched as he realized he’d been spotted. The figure raised a hand, and the shadows seemed to surge toward him, their movements swift and predatory. Panic seized him, and he turned on his heel, sprinting toward the main gates. His footsteps pounded against the cobblestones, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel the shadows closing in, their cold presence brushing against his back like a physical force. The acrid smell of burnt wood filled his nostrils, stinging his eyes. By the time he reached the gates, the shadows had stopped. He didn’t dare turn around to look. His father’s car was parked just beyond the gates, its headlights cutting through the dark. Chad threw his bike into the back and climbed into the passenger seat, his hands trembling. Jonathan glanced at him. “You okay, sport? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Chad forced a laugh, his voice shaky. “Just tired, Dad. Long day.” That night, Chad lay awake in his room, the events replaying in his mind. He tried to convince himself that it was all a coincidence, that there was a logical explanation. But the chanting, the symbols, the shadows—they were too vivid, too real to ignore. He couldn’t escape the feeling that something dark was stirring at St. Ignatius. And for reasons he couldn’t yet understand, it seemed to be watching him.