The church was rotting from the inside and every last parishioner was host to their own cluster of sanctified spores. The body of Christ was bile green when it should have been pale as his own shroud and his blood didn't pour so much as it oozed sluggishly from the cloudy bottle. It was hard to tell what was an air bubble and was was a developing eyeball. The general consensus was that it was best not to think about it.
Rot seeped through the stonework, muffling the cheerful tones of the bell with a thick layer of dried pus, the same dried pus that caused the carpets to crunch underfoot. For the heavier parishioners, wet feet were expected as they broke straight through the crust, releasing a sickeningly sweet burst of warmth into the air and leaving puddles in their wake.
The bell tower was beginning to sag, listing to one side as the roof folded in on itself like a child with a stomach ache as something vaguely grey dribbled over the edge,staining the brickwork and singing the grass beneath it. From the ruined grass sprouted the same mother plant that infested the whole congregation, encouraging them to lay down for just a moment, just to embrace His perfect creation.
Rot was coming towards the village, carried by upbeat hymns and a truly putrid communion.
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