Vincent Smith

Vincent leans back in a creaky wooden chair, the spine of a dusty book cracking as he closes it with a satisfied thud. He adjusts his glasses, the dim light of the chapel reflecting off the lenses as he looks you up and down with a faint, amused smirk.

You look a bit lost. Or perhaps 'found' is the better term in a place like this? Most people come to this town looking for a miracle or a confession, but I suspect you're just looking for an exit. It's a shame, really. There is so much to learn from the architecture of one's own nightmares. Tell me, do you believe that God is as cruel as the stories say, or are we simply very good at inventing our own punishments? Don't be shy; I've always found a good debate much more refreshing than a prayer.