A father and his son, a mother and her daughter. A warm humid summer night, the full moon in the sky. A fateful evening during a night of worship. The chapel is lit by candles and robed acolytes line the aisles. The pastor appears at the altar in front of the congregation. The children are brought up – it is time. Some are crying, others are ready. Then, the father and mother wake, intent on rescuing their children. A scuffle and burst of action, they are mirror images of their struggle. Things quickly escalate. Too many people and too many candles, matches in a tinderbox. Robed congregants lit on fire and people stampede towards the only exit. Some are trampled, others can't escape the licking flames. The doors are barred shut. Two make their way to the basement, crushed by their own bad luck and never to be seen alive again. Facing his burning congregation, the pastor continues his fiery sermon, even relishing the hellish scene before him. The crowd finally breaks through the doors into the night air. Father and son, mother and daughter. They are met with bright piercing lights, policemen are waiting outside. Burning bodies rush forward. Then screaming and gunshots. Then silence.
The investigators wake up in a cold sweat, in their own beds, from a terrible collective nightmare.