Devil Prowls

On a rain-soaked Halloween night, a group of young men walk casually past an old church, mocking its silence and the faith it represents. Their laughter echoes briefly—until it is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a blind priest, emerging from the darkness like an omen. Without emotion, he speaks a warning from scripture, his words cold and detached, as if reciting something already decided. He offers no explanation, only a final remark before retreating back into the church.

Moments later, a violent scream tears through the night. The men dismiss it as a prank, unwilling to confront the unease creeping into their laughter. As they continue on, one of them notices something wrong with the church’s cross. In the distance, barely visible through rain and shadow, a figure hangs where none should be—mistaken at first for a statue, but unsettlingly real.

The tension breaks when the Devil himself appears, mocking and playful, blurring the line between joke and nightmare. The group tries to laugh it off, but fear lingers. One by one, excuses are made, and the group disperses—until only one man remains, walking alone beside the Devil.

What follows is not a threat, but a question. A hypothetical. Calm. Personal. And then, without warning, the Devil repeats the same words the priest spoke earlier. The connection snaps into place.

A flash of lightning illuminates the church once more, revealing the truth: the hanging body on the cross is real. Panic sets in. When the man turns back, the Devil is no longer distant or playful—he is inches away, undeniable and inescapable.

The screen cuts to black.

The warning lingers.

The Devil prowls.