79. The Nun
THE NUN
“Sister Agatha!”
A knock interrupts my evening prayers. I get up and open the door. Sister Mary gives me a tight nod.
“We have another one,” she says in a low voice.
“Have you called for the priest?”
“He sent word he is on his way.”
“Good. Let us make preparations then.”
I exit my room and expect her to follow me, but she doesn’t. She has a worried expression on her face.
“What is wrong?” I frown.
“This case . . . It is different,” she says warily.
“Different how?”
She swallows hard. “Fifteen-year-old girl. She’s dirty and covered in cuts and bruises. Her parents insist she is possessed, but I . . . I fear it might be a case of abuse.”
I click my tongue against my teeth as I consider her words.
It would not be the first time this has happened.
Our convent is known all over the thirteen colonies for dealing with possession cases, so over the years we’ve seen all types of individuals who claim to be possessed—or whose families claim they might be possessed.
When I first started at the convent, I did not know how to differentiate between them, but once you’ve seen enough cases, you get a better grasp of it.
I’ve been dealing with this for fifteen years now, and most times, the cases end up being either hoaxes or mental illness confused for possession.
The nuns are all trained to deal with such cases, too, and if Sister Mary suspects this might be a case of abuse rather than possession, then I trust her judgment; she’s experienced enough to tell them apart.
“The Father will know best,” I reply succinctly, and we proceed toward the room.
Father Benedict O’Roark is an Irish-born Jesuit priest who’s been serving in the colonies for over twenty-five years. Though his order was technically dissolved, he continues to serve as an exorcist, citing it as his divine calling.
We’ve been working with him for as long as I can remember, and though he is a firm believer in demonic possession, he is also skeptical of most cases.
Due to his caution, we have not had any casualty in a ritual, and that is the main reason why many people all along the coastline travel days, if not weeks, to come to us for help. And as is our duty, we do our best to help.
I light up a candle and walk down the dark corridor that leads to the quarters reserved for outsider guests.
Sister Mary shows me to the room in which the young girl has been placed. Inside, her family is with her, but they keep a cautious distance.
I place the candle on a desk and assess the situation.
“Why is she chained?” I demand.
“Her family asked for it,” Sister Mary whispers.
The father, a bald gentleman of about forty, steps forward.
“She’s been hurting herself,” he mentions. “We’ve been keeping her like this since she started exhibiting the symptoms.”
I nod and go to her side. “What is her name?”
“Claire.”
“Hello, Claire,” I say softly. She doesn’t react.
She’s wearing a dirty gown, once white but now a greyish hue. There are specks of blood all over. Her hair is flat and oily atop her head, as if she hasn’t washed it in weeks.
I move my gaze to her face. There are bruises under her eyes. Around her mouth, there are oozing sores that continue down her neck. She’s staring at the ceiling, her eyes dark, her pupils dilated.
I purse my lips. That is concerning.
Her arms are full of scratches. Long, deep lines that go from her shoulder to her wrist. They are a dark color, the skin around them red and swollen.
I grab her hand and look at her nails. They’re dark with dirt and caked blood as well as some pieces of flesh. She’s done this to herself.
“Has anyone cleaned her wounds?” I look at her family.
They shake their heads.
“Sister Mary, bring me a bowl of water and a clean cloth.”
She leaves the room and returns with what I asked. I pull a chair near the bed and start cleaning some of the girl’s wounds, though from what I can see, they’ve begun festering.
As I clean the deeper injuries around her wrists, she slowly turns her head toward me. Her eyes are empty . . . soulless.
Her lips slowly twist into a grin.
“Te exspectābam,” she says in a low, thick voice.
My lashes flutter at the sudden use of Latin.
Her parents gasp loudly and take a step back.
“Does Claire speak Latin?” I ask calmly.
“N-No. She barely knows how to read English,” her mother answers.
“I see.”
“Malelī ‘emi,” Claire growls and pushes against her chains to reach me.
I pull back. “I do not suppose she speaks Aramaic either.”
“N-no . . .”
“I see. Please step outside.” Turning to Sister Mary, I ask her to accompany them to another room and serve them supper.
The door closes behind them, and I am left alone with Claire . . . or the entity possessing her. I am still not certain it is a possession case. We once had a boy pretend to speak Latin, too. He’d found an old Bible and had memorized lines.
His parents had been sure he was possessed, but after a closer examination, it was clear he was just trying to gain their attention.
“We are alone now. I will talk to you, Claire.”
Father Benedict lives at the outskirts of the town. It shouldn’t take him more than twenty minutes to reach the convent via horseback. Until then, I can proceed with my assessment to give him the information he needs on how to proceed.
Claire stares at me for a moment before she starts laughing. It starts off as a chuckle that turns into a full-bodied mocking laugh.
“Is everything all right at home? How are your parents treating you?” I ask as I continue to clean her up. I avoid looking into her eyes. Even though this might prove not to be a possession case, there is something quite unsettling about her.
“I don’t want to talk about them,” she answers in a fluid, self-assured English. “I would much rather talk about you.” Her accent is odd.
Based on the appearance of her parents, I would think them low to middle class, and as such, I would expect the language to match that. From the brief interaction I had with them, I could tell they were not exactly learned people.
But the way Claire speaks? Completely different. Something you would expect to hear from a noble, not a teenage girl from the colonies.
“And why do you want to talk about me?” I smile.
“Plum misses you,” she says with a huge grin on her face.
My hand falters. My heart stops in my chest as I stare at her in shock. “W-What?”
“He says hello.”
I back away, bumping into the bowl of water. It crashes onto the floor with a thud. “How do you know that?”
No one knows that. No one.
Plum was the nickname I’d given to my stillborn child. He’d been born dead, his face purple like a plum. He’d looked so beautiful, so peaceful. And although I’d already been at the convent, I had not been allowed to get him baptized.
Some of the sisters who helped me give birth know about him, but they do not know the nickname I gave him.
“I know a lot more.” She laughs. “Just as I know your beloved Elroy is in hell.”
“W-what?” I whisper.
“They’re both in hell. Waiting for you. And I will be the one to personally drag you there.”
I keep backing away. Her chains jiggle as Claire strains against them. Her face becomes mottled with anger as she screams at me.
When she sees how spooked I am, she bursts out in laughter again.
I reach for the door, scrambling to open it and get out.
“Run! Run! RUN!” she yells at me as I hurry into the hall.
Sister Mary meets me outside. “I heard—”
“We need to wait for Father Benedict. No one is to go inside until he comes here.”
“But—”
“No one, Sister Mary. Not even her parents.”
“All right.”
I go into the main hallway, pacing around restlessly as I replay her words in my head.
Every morning, I wake up thinking of Plum and Elroy. And every day, I fight against the urge to end it all and join them.
Now, though? I feel as if my chest is being split open, and someone is squeezing my heart in their fist.
Good God . . . Elroy in hell? No, I cannot let her words get to my head. This is what demons do, they lie and cheat, trying to get under your skin until they can manipulate you with your fears.
And yet . . .
A sob escapes me as I bury my face in my hands, the tears flowing freely.
My dear Elroy, how I miss you. If only you hadn’t left me. If only you had not died . . . Perhaps Plum would have survived, too.
We’d be together and . . .
The door to the convent opens, and Father Benedict steps inside. He has a worn leather bag slung over one shoulder.
“I got your message,” he states matter-of-factly. But as he notices my red nose and tear-stained eyes, his expression turns to one of concern. “What happened?”
“The girl . . . she speaks in tongues, and she . . . knows things.”
He purses his lips. “Show me the way.”
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for another encounter with her—with that demon.
As we get to the chamber, Father Benedict enters first. I follow, as is the custom.
Claire takes one look at him and guffaws.
“Fools! All of you! You are fools if you think you can win against me.”
More rattling of chains as she pulls forward, straining to reach Father Benedict.
He doesn’t pay her any mind. Instead, he opens his bag and starts lining up his items: a wooden crucifix, the Rituale Romanum, Saint Benedict medal, a bottle of holy water, chrism oil, and lastly, his purple stole.
He places the purple stole around his shoulders, and as he gets ready to begin the ritual, a strange sound erupts in the room.
It’s a low screech that becomes louder and louder with each passing second. The whites of Claire’s eyes become black, and as she opens her mouth, she reveals a bloody tongue as she spits out a handful of teeth.
“We shall begin,” Father Benedict speaks. I nod, though a shudder wracks through my body.
We both kneel around the bed and make the sign of the cross before chanting the Litany of the Saints.
Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis
Sancte Michael Archangele, ora pro nobis
Omnes sancti et sanctae Dei, orate pro nobis
Claire begins writhing in pain, spasms taking over her body.
Father Benedict rises and goes to her side. Making the sign of the cross over her, he begins chanting.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.
He sprinkles holy water on top of her, and the liquid burns her skin. Steam rises from her flesh before the entire surface becomes a deep red. She opens her mouth and screams so loud, the walls of the building start shaking.
Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor; lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
More screams. But this time, the feet of the bed tremble, slowly rising off the ground. My eyes widen. I . . . I’ve never seen anything like this before.
Father Benedict appears concerned, too.
“You whore! I know all your secrets!” Claire shouts, and with Herculean strength, she breaks one of the chains.
“Sister Agatha, leave us, please.”
“But—”
“It is not safe for you.”
I blink. I’ve always assisted Father Benedict in his exorcisms before. Yet I also cannot lie and say I am not relieved that I can sit this one out.
There is something about Claire that terrifies me.
“All right. Call if you need anything.”
“Whore!” Her shouts follow me as I exit the room.
Three other sisters are in the hallway, their faces marred with worry.
“We felt the tremors. It is dire, is it not?” Sister Theresa asks.
I nod grimly. “Father Benedict will handle it. All we can do is pray.”
From outside, I can hear Father Benedict’s voice as he continues the ritual. Just as loud, Claire screams at him, calling him all sorts of names and baiting him to stop the chanting. Every time Father Benedict invokes the Lord’s name, I can hear Claire’s cry of pain.
At some point, though, silence envelops the convent. The sisters all look at each other in concern.
“Father Benedict?” I ask tentatively as I get closer to the door.
Nothing. No reply.
“Father Benedict?” I repeat.
He doesn’t answer.
Taking a deep breath, I push the door open.
A gasp flies past my lips as I see the body of Father Benedict lying in the middle of the floor, all his limbs contorted in different directions, his neck snapped.
Claire is no longer chained to the bed. She’s nowhere in sight. Except . . .
I slowly look up, horror taking hold of me.
She’s on the ceiling, watching me with a manic smile on her face.
“You cannot get rid of me!” she sneers.
I quickly close the door and fumble through my pockets for the key, locking it.
“What happened?” the sisters ask me in horror.
I turn to them, white as a sheet of paper.
“Father Benedict . . . he’s . . . dead. The demon . . . killed him.”