The Black Heart Crypt

Father Abercrombie watched as Jack the Lantern hoisted the corroded strongbox out of the ground and pried the chest open.

“There you are, my pretties,” he said, removing the first of several cloth-wrapped bundles. Unfurling the sheathing, he revealed a gleaming pistol with a shiny brass barrel, ornate scrolling on the trigger, and a stock made of burnished wood.

“A fine-quality English flintlock pistol, handcrafted for me in 1740,” the monster sighed. He quickly unwrapped another pistol, a powder cask, and a leather bag full of bullets that clacked against each other like lead marbles.

He tucked the two pistols into his wide leather belt.

He reached into the open metal trunk one more time and pulled out the last weapon: a sinister-looking sword with rust stains splotching the blade.

As if he could read the priest’s mind, the demon in the tricornered hat looked up, the devil’s own grin slashed across his mask.

“That isn’t rust, Padre. It’s blood.”