Rotted

He lived in a boarded up church, subsisting off of fungus, kept company by the walls. Every day, he wandered up and down the steps, listening to the wood and the squirming within. Step by step, his hands stroking the moldering wallpaper, he slid through his domain. Each wing and room had its own rhythm. The beings in the minister's old office had a brisk air to their nibbling, whereas the bell tower seemed more lackadaisical about the whole business. He no longer needed his eyes. Occasionally, a beam of light would cross his path. Blinking, he would open and close his shriveled lips over yellowed teeth, humming and mumbling his distress and confusion, until the automated steps carried him past the glow of day. After his fourth year there, one of the familiar stairs creaked, cracked, and spilled him in a long locked closet below. His neck twisted almost enough for him to taste the floor he lay supine on. His old friends explored him before returning to their wood.