The Cobalt Figure

In the autumn of 2016, I was a recent college graduate working as a janitor at St. Aldric’s, a small, aging church nestled in the hills of upstate New York. The church was known for its beautiful stained glass windows and a crypt that had been sealed for decades. One evening, after the last service, I was tasked with cleaning the sanctuary. As I swept the aisles, I noticed a faint, blue-white glow emanating from behind the altar. Curiosity overcame my better judgment, and I approached.

Behind the altar, I saw a figure, roughly six feet tall, composed entirely of that soft, blue-white light. It had a human shape but lacked distinct features, just a glowing silhouette. I froze, my heart pounding. The figure seemed to be facing the altar, as if in prayer. After a moment, it began to move, gliding toward the sacristy door. I followed, my steps muffled by the thick carpet.

The figure passed through the sacristy wall, and I stumbled after it, but found myself in a narrow corridor I had never seen before. The walls were old stone, wet with condensation, and the air was cold and musty. I realized I was in the forgotten crypt. The glow illuminated faded frescoes depicting saints and sinners, their faces twisted in agony. The figure stopped at a small, iron door, then dissolved, leaving me alone in the darkness.

I tried the door, but it was locked. I returned the next night with a crowbar, convinced I had to know what lay beyond. After prying the door open, I discovered a small chamber. Inside, on a stone pedestal, lay a leather-bound journal and a silver chalice. The journal was dated 1887, and its pages were filled with frantic entries written by a priest named Father Aurelius.

I read accounts of a ritual intended to bridge the gap between the living and the dead, performed to allow the congregation to feel the presence of their departed loved ones. The ritual required the recitation of a specific prayer while holding the chalice. The last entry warned, ‘The blue light is not a blessing, but a collector of souls. Do not speak to it. Do not follow it.’

Despite the warning, I felt an inexplicable pull to try the ritual. The next Sunday, after the congregation left, I returned to the crypt, chalice in hand, and recited the prayer. The blue figure appeared again, this time more defined, its head turning toward me. I saw my grandmother’s face superimposed on its own, her lips moving silently. I stepped back, clutching the chalice, and whispered, ‘Grandma?’

The figure lunged, and I felt a cold hand grip my shoulder. A torrent of voices filled my ears—the cries of the dead, desperate and angry. I dropped the chalice, and it clattered to the floor. The figure recoiled, and I fled, slamming the iron door shut behind me.

I never returned to the crypt. I resigned from my janitorial position and moved to a city far away. But sometimes, at night, I still see that blue glow in the corner of my eye, and I feel a cold breath on my neck. The figure still waits, patient, for those who are foolish enough to cross the threshold between worlds. I’ve learned that in that church, we were never in Heaven with our loved ones—we were in a purgatory of their making, and they are always hungry for the living.