It's as he turns that the lighting changes, from warm and inviting to a cold, bleak, unearthly blue. The windows are shattered, the pews overturned, and a chill wind howls down through the dilapidated ceiling. The air smells like blood, metal, and ash. And on the altar, laid out like a feast for flies, is the beaten, bloody body of Harry Powell.

At least, it seems like just his body at first. He's being picked apart by what appear to be blue, slate-skinned imps, which are ravenously and gleefully stuffing chunks of him into their toothy maws. After a moment, a blue fire ignites behind his eyes, and he begins screaming, alive and awake but seemingly incapable of moving otherwise.