Father Mancuso collapsed at the Little Flower church on a balmy spring morning at the age of sixty-four. He spent his final moments in prayer with friend and protege, Father Raymond. Cancer claimed his life, but many felt he lived on.

Father Ray prayed in silent worship before speaking at the funeral. “We’ll all miss him,” he said in a cracked voice, barely audible. “Please join me in prayer.”

As heads bowed, a hooded man approached the pulpit. He wore a wool robe, his face concealed. Glowing tentacles slithered out from his sleeves. The parishioners of Little Flower looked on in astonishment. The diminutive figure lifted the priest’s corpse from its casket and dropped it on the carpeted steps leading to the altar.

Father Ray raced to his mentor’s contorted body. “In the name of God!”

All eyes were on the figure, a pint-sized angel of death standing before them. It waited and watched with omniscient eyes, motionless and impassive. No one said a word. They were afraid — hypnotized by its presence.