The bell tolled once. A low, bronze throb in the chest of the air.

Silas stood in the dark.

He was a man of few words. His hands were rough. They smelled of oak shavings and pine resin. He held a chisel. It was heavy. It was cold.

The room was small. It was a stone chamber. Deep beneath the abbey. The walls wept. A thin veil of moisture clung to the flagstones. Dust motes danced in the beam of a single tallow candle. The flame flickered. It was afraid.

Silas looked at the wall.

There was a niche. Carved into the rock. Inside the niche sat a figure. Stone. Pale. Its face was smooth. It had no eyes. It had no mouth. It was perfect. It was blank.

It waited for him.

The Abbot had sent him here. The task was simple. Give the saint a face. The Abbot wanted to see the divine. He wanted to look into the stone and see God. He wanted to know.

Silas did not want to look. He wanted to hide.

He picked up the chisel. His hand trembled. The stone was hard. It resisted. A small flake fell. It hit the floor with a sharp crack. The sound echoed. It felt like a bone breaking.

He struck again.

The stone gave way. A ridge appeared. A brow.

He stopped.

He breathed. His lungs burned. The air was thick. It tasted of old blood and damp earth. He looked at the ridge. It was not a brow. It was a scar.

He looked at the Abbot’s letter. It was rolled in his pocket. The ink was black. The words were sharp. *Make it beautiful. Make it true. Let us see the face of the Lord.*

Silas felt a nausea. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run up the stairs. He wanted to stand in the rain. He wanted to forget.

But he could not move. His legs were lead. The room was closing in. The shadows in the corners lengthened. They reached for him.

He struck the stone again.

This time, he carved a line. A curve. The beginning of an eye.

The candle flared. The shadow on the wall jumped. It looked at him.

Silas wiped his brow. Sweat stung his eyes. He was tired. His shoulders ached. The work was endless. The stone was infinite.

He thought of his father. His father had been a carver too. He had died in this very room. The priests said he had died of a fever. Silas knew better. His father’s hands had been black. His face had been hollow. He had looked at the stone and seen his own end.

Silas looked at the stone.

He saw his own face in the blankness. He saw the fear. He saw the greed. He saw the hunger for knowledge.

He struck the stone.

The chip flew. It hit the candle. The flame wavered. It died.

Darkness.

Total darkness.

Silas did not move. He held his breath. He listened.

There was a sound.

A scratch.

A slow, dragging sound.

It came from the niche.

Silas lit another candle. His hands shook so badly the match snapped. He tried again. The wick caught. The light returned.

The figure was gone.

The niche was empty.

The stone floor was stained. A dark, wet mark. It looked like a footprint. But it was too long. Too narrow.

Silas walked to the center of the room. He felt the floor. It was cold. It was wet.

He looked at the walls. There were carvings. Old ones. Faces. Screaming faces. Hands reaching out.

He realized then. The stone was not stone. It was bone. The wall was a ribcage. The room was a mouth.

He was inside.

He turned to leave. The door was gone.

Where the heavy oak door had been, there was only rock. Smooth. Seamless.

He pounded on it. He screamed. His voice was swallowed. The stone drank his sound.

He picked up the chisel. He began to dig.

He dug at the wall. The rock crumbled. It fell like ash. He dug faster. His nails bled. He did not care. He dug until his arms burned. He dug until the ceiling groaned.

Then he heard a voice.

It was his own voice. But it was not his. It was older. Deeper.

*You wanted to know. You wanted to see. Now you are seen.*

Silas stopped.

He looked at the niche.

The figure was there.

But it was not stone.

It was flesh.

It was pale. It was wet. It had eyes. They were his eyes. They were open. They were looking at him.

The figure raised a hand. It pointed at Silas.

Silas dropped the chisel. It clattered on the floor.

He fell to his knees. He vomited. The taste was metallic. Sour.

The figure spoke.

*The face is the door. The door is the eye. The eye is the trap.*

Silas crawled back. He hid in the corner. The shadows wrapped around him. He pulled his knees to his chest. He made himself small. He made himself nothing.

He waited for the end.

Hours passed. Or days. Time had no meaning. The candle burned down to a stub. The darkness returned.

In the dark, the figure moved.

Silas heard the wet sound. The dragging.

It came closer.

It stopped in front of him.

He could feel its breath. It was cold. It smelled of rot.

*Give me your face,* it whispered.

Silas closed his eyes. He did not speak. He did not move. He held his breath. He held his soul.

The hand touched his cheek. It was soft. It was warm.

Silas screamed.

The sound tore his throat. It echoed through the chamber. It bounced off the walls. It shattered the silence.

The hand withdrew.

The darkness lifted.

The candle was burning again. It was full. It was new.

Silas was on his knees. He was alive.

He looked at the niche.

The figure was there. It was stone again. It was blank. It was perfect.

But now it had a face.

It was Silas’s face.

It was carved in deep, jagged lines. The eyes were wide. The mouth was open in a silent scream.

Silas looked at his hands. They were clean. They were dry.

He looked at the chisel. It was on the floor. It was broken.

He stood up. His legs were steady. He felt empty. He felt light.

He walked to the door.

The door was there. It was open.

The stairs spiraled up. The light at the top was white. It was blinding.

Silas climbed.

He climbed past the first landing. He climbed past the second. His heart beat in his ears. It was a drum. It was a warning.

He reached the top.

The Abbey doors opened.

The rain was falling. It was warm. It smelled of earth.

The Abbot was waiting. He stood in the archway. He wore black robes. His face was pale. He held a gold chalice.

*You have done well,* the Abbot said. His voice was smooth. It was like silk.

Silas said nothing. He looked at the Abbot. He looked at the chalice.

The Abbot smiled. It was a thin smile. It did not reach his eyes.

*Show us,* the Abbot said. *Show us the face.*

Silas walked past him. He walked into the courtyard. The rain soaked his clothes. He did not care.

He walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, the sea crashed. The waves were white. They were angry.

He looked down.

He saw the water. He saw the rocks. He saw the dark depths.

He thought of the stone. He thought of the face. He thought of the voice.

*Knowledge is a curse.*

He knew it now. He had carried it. He had worn it. It was in his bones.

He could not keep it. It was too heavy. It would crush him.

He looked at the Abbot. The Abbot was watching. He was waiting.

Silas turned back.

He picked up a stone. It was large. It was smooth.

He threw it into the sea.

The splash was small. The water swallowed it.

Silas walked away. He walked into the town. He walked past the shops. He walked past the houses.

No one stopped him. No one looked at him.

He was invisible.

He was free.

He was dead.

He sat on a bench. The rain dripped from the eaves. It pattered on the cobblestones.

He closed his eyes.

He saw the niche. He saw the face. He saw the eyes.

They were his eyes.

They were open.

They were looking at him.

He opened his eyes.

The world was gray. The world was cold.

He breathed.

The air was thin.

He was alone.

He was safe.

He was cursed.

The bell tolled again.

Once.

A low, bronze throb.

Silas did not move.

He stayed on the bench.

The rain fell.

The stone waited.

The face smiled.

The end.