The Bones They Buried
The diocesan archive was a tomb of its own. Tucked behind a forgotten wing of the city cathedral, it smelled of paper rot, mildew, and memory. Dust motes caught in the slant of morning light as Mara stepped inside, her breath ghosting in the chill. The walls were lined with endless filing cabinets and leather-bound ledgers, many of them cracked at the spines or bandaged with twine.
Julian stood by a microfilm machine, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, hair more disheveled than usual. His eyes were red-rimmed from a sleepless night, a stack of file boxes at his feet.
"You look like hell," Mara said.
“I feel like it,” he muttered. “But I found something.”
He gestured to a document spread across the table—an original intake ledger from Saint Eustace, dated 1986. The ink was faded, but legible. Names, dates, admission causes, family contact numbers. All scrubbed clean after 1987.
“This entire facility was a ghost house,” Julian said. “Kids brought in for ‘behavioral adjustment,’ most of them transferred from St. Jude’s or other church-run shelters. No contact allowed. Parents who asked questions were told their children were ‘safely relocated.’”
Mara’s eyes moved down the page. “Numbered entries. No names. Just alphanumerics. Like ‘9B.’”
Julian nodded grimly. “Nine-B, Seven-F, Eleven-A… it goes on. Some names are redacted. Others were never recorded. The last known records date to late ’87 — after that, it’s like the place vanished.”
He flipped open another folder — this one containing a faded floor plan of Saint Eustace. "Look here. Sublevel three. Restricted access. Records list it as 'Detention and Special Therapy.'"
Mara’s jaw tensed. “Torture. Let’s call it what it was.”
Julian didn’t argue. He handed her a photo — this one from a private investigator’s archive. It was black and white, taken at night. The fence surrounding the old facility was visible, as were the words 'Saint Eustace Correctional Facility' etched in stone.
A second photo showed the same structure engulfed in fire.
“Facility was torched in ’89,” Julian said. “The official story is electrical fault. But that’s bullshit. No survivors, no fire report, no insurance records. Nothing.”
Mara tapped the edge of the photograph. “So who covered it up?”
He looked at her, eyes steady. “I think the Saints were born there. Not as a police unit — as a doctrine. A ritual.”
Her stomach turned. “Religious vigilantes.”
Julian nodded. “Children groomed to be enforcers. Sanctified through punishment. Forged through silence. Some of them likely survived the fire and grew up with a warped sense of justice. They infiltrated the force, maybe even the DA’s office. You’ve seen how the records vanish.”
Mara was silent. A scream built in her throat and settled into something colder. Determination.
She leaned over the table. “I want access to what’s left of Saint Eustace.”
Julian arched a brow. “It’s condemned. You’d need to go in illegally.”
“That’s never stopped me.”
He hesitated. Then reached beneath the table and handed her something wrapped in cloth — the key from St. Jude’s. “This fits the lower chapel gate at Eustace. I think you’re meant to find what’s still there.”
Mara tucked the key into her coat pocket.
\---
The drive out to where Saint Eustace once stood was a study in abandonment. As she passed the outskirts of the city, civilization gave way to skeletal trees and silent fields. The road narrowed, cracked by roots and time, and finally ended at a rusted gate flanked by two stone angels. Their wings were eroded, and their eyes wept moss.
She parked and climbed over the broken fence.
The facility was a husk — three floors collapsed inward, stone and wood fused together by fire and weather. Yet parts of it remained intact. The northern wing still held a portion of its roof, and beneath it, a gaping archway led to what was once a chapel.
The air shifted as she stepped inside. Colder. Thicker.
She found the gate Julian had mentioned — iron, locked, with the words "Non Est Veritas Sine Poena" etched above.
There is no truth without punishment.
She inserted the key. It turned with a satisfying click.
The gate creaked open, revealing a staircase that spiraled downward, deep into the earth.
Mara descended, phone light cutting through the dark like a scalpel. The walls were stone, damp, marked with numbers. 1… 2… 3…
When she reached sublevel three, the hallway opened into a chamber — square, windowless, and lined with iron doors. Each door had a viewing slit. She opened the first.
Inside was a child’s room. Bed nailed to the floor. Chains bolted to the wall. A desk. And on it, a composition book. She opened it.
Inside: entries in careful, terrified handwriting.
> “Today they made me kneel on rice again. Sister says pain teaches us to love.”
“Brother C says I’m almost ready. He wears a mask. His breath smells like copper.”
“They say I will see the Saint soon. That she’ll mark me with fire.”
Mara’s hand shook as she flipped the pages.
The last entry was smudged, as if written in haste.
> “We are the sword of heaven. We are His justice. We are the fire.”
She opened the second door.
Same structure. Same chains. But this one had a mirror instead of a window. Cracked.
She peered into it and nearly gasped.
For a moment — just a flash — the reflection behind her shifted. Her face… changed. Or someone else's face wore her shape. Hollowed eyes. A burnt sigil across the cheek.
She stumbled back.
Behind her, a voice.
“Do you remember now?”
Mara turned. Nothing. Just the dark.
But she remembered the figure in the window. The white-clad child at St. Jude’s. The rocking chair in the attic. A string connected them all, and it was tightening around her throat.
She opened the final door.
The room was different. No bed. No chains. Just an altar. Candles melted into the shape of wings. And on the back wall — a mural.
Seven children, standing in a line.
Each one was faceless, features scrubbed with red strokes. Above them, a robed figure with a brand in each hand, the mark of the Saint glowing in his chest.
In the corner of the mural was a number. 9B.
Mara approached it, heart hammering. There, hidden beneath the paint, was a signature etched with a nail.
C. VEX.
She staggered back.
Her brother. Colton had been here.
He hadn’t vanished because of some rogue cop. He’d been taken. Indoctrinated.
Marked.
Mara stepped back into the hallway, air thinning. Her chest ached. Her mind spun.
A sound echoed down the hall — slow footsteps.
She pressed herself against the wall and waited.
A figure emerged from the dark.
Not a Saint. Not a cop.
A girl.
Wearing white.
Eyes blank.
Lips whispering something too low to hear.
Mara reached for her gun.
But the girl raised a hand — not in threat, but in silence.
Her lips parted. And this time, Mara heard her.
“He’s st
ill down here.”
Then the girl turned and walked into the dark.
Mara followed.
Because now she wasn’t hunting ghosts anymore.
She was hunting family.