.⟡ ݁˖ my mind palace ˖ ݁⟡.

The dormitory smelled faintly of candle wax and old linen. Rain tapped softly against the high windows overhead, though the storm had weakened sometime during the night. Around her, the other sisters still slept beneath pale blankets, their breathing uneven and heavy with dreams.

Natasha envied them sometimes.

Not their faith.

Their ease.

The first bell rang.

Several sisters stirred immediately.

A groan sounded somewhere near the far wall.

“Oh, merciful Lord,” Sister Yelena muttered into her pillow, “if devotion requires consciousness before sunrise, I fear I shall never become holy.”

A few sleepy laughs spread through the room.

Natasha lowered her gaze to hide the smile threatening her mouth.

“You say this every morning,” Sister Marta whispered while tying back dark curls beneath her veil.

“And every morning I am correct.”

Yelena finally sat upright, glaring at the bell tower as if personally betrayed by it.

“You’re awake already?” she asked Natasha incredulously. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“A while.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“She doesn’t sleep,” Sister Marta said solemnly. “I’m convinced she simply powers down for an hour and waits for dawn.”

Natasha stood, smoothing her robes calmly. “Maybe God favours discipline.”

“Or maybe,” Yelena leaned in dramatically, “God fears you.”

More laughter.

Warmth flickered briefly through Natasha’s chest.

Small moments like this existed carefully within the monastery—quiet pockets of humanity hidden beneath ritual and restraint. Most outsiders imagined convent life as endless silence and prayer, but silence became unbearable without companionship to soften it.

Even Natasha understood that.

Sometimes.

The sisters dressed together beneath dim lantern light, exchanging murmured complaints about chores, weather, and aching knees from prayer.

Marta nearly walked into a bedpost while half asleep.

Sister Yelena snorted loudly enough to earn a warning glance from Sister Agnes.

Natasha watched all of it quietly while fastening the sleeves at her wrists.

She noticed things.

Always had.

The way Sister Marta rubbed at her shoulder when storms approached because old injuries ached in the cold.

The way Sister Yelena spoke more loudly whenever she felt uncertain.

The exhaustion beneath Sister Agnes’s eyes that prayer no longer seemed to fix.

Patterns comforted Natasha.

People became easier to understand when observed carefully enough.

“Sister Natasha.”

She glanced up.

Yelena tossed her an apple stolen from yesterday’s supper.

“You forgot breakfast again yesterday.”

“I was working.”

“You are always working.”

Natasha caught the apple easily. “Thank you.”

“See?” Marta whispered dramatically to Yelena. “Emotion. Gratitude. She does feel things.”

Natasha rolled her eyes faintly, which only encouraged them further.

By the time they entered the chapel together, dawn had barely begun staining the mountains beyond the stained glass windows.

Candles flickered across ancient stone.

The abbey was old enough that no one remembered who had first built it. Some parts dated back centuries further than recorded history, buried beneath newer walls and renovations like bones beneath skin.

Natasha loved those older places most.

The forgotten halls.

The sealed doors.

The silence hidden beneath the monastery’s daily rhythm.

Morning prayer began.

The sisters bowed their heads.

Natasha recited every verse perfectly from memory.

But midway through the litany, she became aware of something strange.

Not a sound.

A feeling.

As though someone stood directly behind her.

Watching.

Her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly.

“…deliver us from evil…”

The sensation deepened.

Cold prickled slowly across the back of her neck.

Natasha resisted the urge to turn around immediately. Instead, she listened first.

No footsteps.

No breathing.

Nothing except prayer echoing softly through the chapel.

Still—

Someone was there.

She looked.

The back of the chapel remained empty.

Only darkness gathered between the pillars.

Natasha frowned slightly before forcing herself to face forward again.

Fatigue, perhaps.

The storm had disrupted everyone’s sleep.

Yet even after prayer ended, unease lingered beneath her ribs.

As the sisters rose from the pews, Yelena bumped lightly into Natasha’s shoulder.

“You look haunted.”

“I’m fine.”

“That answer usually means the opposite.”

Natasha almost responded but stopped.

One of the candles near the altar had gone out.

Thin smoke curled upward into still air.

Mother Superior noticed it too.

Her expression tightened briefly before she crossed herself.

“Storm pressure,” Sister Agnes murmured.

No one argued.

But Natasha continued staring at the extinguished candle long after the others had moved on.

The monastery settled into routine as morning passed.

Laundry.

Scripture study.

Kitchen work.

Natasha spent most of the afternoon repairing damaged texts in the library alongside Marta, whose true calling in life seemed to be complaining softly while doing meticulous work anyway.

“This ink is older than civilization,” Marta muttered, squinting at faded lettering. “If I inhale enough dust today, tell them I died beautifully.”

“You say that every week.”

“And one week I shall be right.”

Natasha smiled faintly without looking up from her work.

Rain hammered against the tall windows harder now.

The storm had returned by midday with unnatural force. Wind bent the trees beyond the cliffs violently enough that several younger sisters began whispering about divine warnings again.

The abbey disliked storms.

It became restless during them.

Doors creaked without wind.

Floors groaned at strange hours.

The older sisters crossed themselves more often.

By evening, even Mother Superior seemed unsettled.

“The western halls are to remain locked tonight,” she instructed during supper. “No one is to wander after prayer.”

Yelena leaned toward Natasha immediately.

“The western halls,” she whispered ominously. “Where ghosts and ancient sins reside.”

“Or storage.”

“That is far less interesting.”

“The answer is usually the less interesting option.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “One day your practicality will ruin my appreciation for drama.”

Natasha took another bite of bread.

But quietly she thought about the feeling from the chapel again.

Watching.

Waiting.

When evening prayer ended, Mother Superior stopped Natasha near the chapel doors.

“The keys,” she said softly, holding up the pair between them gracefully.

“You trust me too much.”

Natasha accepted them.

“I trust your discipline.”

Not the same thing.

The western corridor lay beneath the oldest section of the monastery.

Few sisters liked going there after dark.

Natasha had never minded it before.

Lantern in hand, she descended the narrow stone staircase alone while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the mountains.

The air grew colder underground.

Older.

The corridor stretched ahead beneath low arches blackened by time.

Ancient paintings lined the walls, saints fading slowly into shadow until their faces became impossible to distinguish from the dark surrounding them.

Natasha locked the first door carefully.

Then the second.

Rain battered the monastery above her.

Another step.

Another lock.

Then—

silence.

Complete silence.

Natasha stopped instantly.

The storm had vanished.

No thunder.

No rain.

No lantern crackling in her hand.

Nothing.

A sharp chill slid slowly down her spine.

Her breathing sounded suddenly too loud.

The corridor behind her remained empty.

But every instinct inside her screamed that she was no longer alone.

Natasha’s grip tightened around the lantern.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Then the lantern dimmed.

Not flickered.

Dimmed.

As though darkness itself pressed against the flame.

Fear struck hard and immediately this time.

Real fear.

The kind that hollowed the stomach.

Natasha stepped backward instinctively.

Something moved at the far end of the corridor.

Not fully visible.

A shape.

Too large.

For one impossible second, she thought she saw the outline of horns emerging from the dark.

Then the shadow moved again—

closer.

Natasha’s breath caught sharply.

Every survival instinct she possessed surged violently to life.

Run.

The thought hit with terrifying clarity.

Run now.

And for the first time in years—

Natasha panicked.

She turned immediately, lantern shaking in her grip as she hurried back down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed too loudly against stone, breath quickening despite every attempt to steady it.

Behind her—

nothing.

No footsteps.

No pursuit.

That somehow frightened her more.

The staircase appeared ahead.

Natasha climbed it quickly, nearly missing a step before forcing herself to slow down. By the time she reached the upper halls again, her pulse hammered painfully against her throat.

Warm candlelight greeted her.

Voices.

Safety.

Several sisters still lingered near the kitchens preparing tea before bed.

Sister Yelena looked up first.

“There you are,” she said. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

Marta frowned immediately. “Sister.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Too sharp.

The room fell quiet.

Natasha lowered her eyes a moment later, regaining control.

“…I apologize.”

Yelena stood slowly. “Did something happen downstairs?”

Natasha almost answered immediately.

Yes.

Something is down there.

Something was watching me.

But the words stopped before reaching her mouth.

Because even thinking them sounded insane.

Instead, she shook her head once.

“Just tired.”

The sisters exchanged uncertain glances.

Natasha rarely lost composure.

That frightened them more than if she had screamed.

“I’ll bring you tea,” Marta said softly.

Natasha nodded absently.

But even surrounded by candlelight and familiar voices, she could still feel it.

Watching.

Patient.

-///-

Natasha said nothing that night.

And not during breakfast the next day, nor morning prayers.

Not while Sister Marta complained bitterly over burned porridge or while Yelena attempted to steal dried figs from the kitchens and nearly got caught by Sister Agnes in the process.

Natasha moved through the day exactly as she always did.

Measured.

Calm.

Controlled.

Only the slightest shadows beneath her eyes suggested otherwise.

Several times, she caught herself listening too carefully whenever corridors fell quiet.

Once, while shelving texts in the library, she turned abruptly after sensing movement behind her, only to find empty space.

The feeling remained.

Not constant.

Intermittent.

Awareness without presence.

As though something had noticed her specifically.

And was waiting.

By evening, the storm returned again.

Harder this time.

Rain struck the monastery windows violently enough to rattle the glass. Wind moaned through ancient stone like something grieving beneath the mountain.

The sisters crossed themselves more often.

Even supper felt subdued.

“The livestock outside the eastern village were found dead this morning,” Sister Agnes murmured quietly near the end of the meal.

Yelena frowned. “From the storm?”

“No marks on them.”

Marta immediately muttered a prayer beneath her breath.

Mother Superior silenced further discussion with a single glance.

But unease spread anyway.

Natasha kept her eyes lowered toward her untouched bread.

No marks.

The words settled unpleasantly in her chest.

That night, the western halls remained locked.

Mother Superior assigned Sister Beatrice to check the lower storage rooms before compline.

Beatrice was older than most of the sisters, practical and sharp-tongued enough that even Yelena feared her disapproval slightly.

If anyone could walk those corridors without trembling, it would be her.

Natasha watched Beatrice take the lantern and keys without complaint.

Something cold tightened slowly beneath her ribs.

“Mother,” Natasha said carefully, “perhaps I should go instead.”

Mother Superior looked surprised. “Why?”

Natasha hesitated too long.

“Because I know the corridors better.”

Beatrice snorted softly. “And I know how to lock a door without getting lost in thought.”

A few sisters smiled faintly.

Natasha did not.

Mother Superior shook her head once. “It will not take long.”

Beatrice disappeared down the staircase alone.

The monastery settled into evening prayer.

Rain battered the chapel roof overhead.

Minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Natasha became increasingly aware of every sound around her.

Candles flickering.

Pages turning.

Yelena whispering softly beside Marta.

Her pulse began climbing slowly.

Mother Superior noticed first.

“Sister Natasha?”

Before she could answer—

a scream tore violently through the monastery.

Every sister froze.

The sound came from below.

Another scream followed immediately.

Frantic.

Broken.

Several younger sisters gasped in terror.

Mother Superior stood instantly. “Stay here.”

But Natasha was already moving.

She reached the staircase first, lantern clutched tightly in one hand as she descended into darkness two steps at a time.

“Sister Beatrice!”

No answer.

Only ragged sobbing echoed faintly through the corridor below.

Natasha rounded the corner sharply and nearly collided with Sister Beatrice stumbling toward her.

The older woman looked unrecognizable.

Her face had gone completely bloodless. Tears streaked wildly down her cheeks beneath a look of absolute animal terror.

The lantern had vanished.

“Sister—”

“Don’t let it touch me,” Beatice choked out immediately.

Natasha grabbed her shoulders before she collapsed outright.

“What happened?”

Beatrice’s hands shook violently against Natasha’s sleeves.

“There’s something down there.”

The words came out barely coherent.

“In the dark—I saw—I saw—”

Her breathing hitched painfully.

Natasha felt her own pulse spike hard beneath her skin.

“What did you see?” she asked quietly.

Beatrice stared directly into her eyes.

And whispered:

“Horns.”

The corridor suddenly felt much colder.

Behind them, Mother Superior and several sisters reached the staircase landing.

Beatrice broke immediately upon seeing them.

“It looked at me,” she cried. “God forgive me, it looked right at me—”

Mother Superior crossed herself sharply. “Bring her upstairs. Now.”

The sisters hurried Beatrice away carefully while she continued sobbing prayers under her breath.

Natasha remained still in the corridor.

Watching the darkness beyond the lantern light.

Watching it watch her back.

Because now she knew.

She had not imagined it.

-///-

Fear spread quickly through the monastery after that.

No one slept properly.

Natasha noticed something important.

No one asked exactly what Beatrice had seen.

They were afraid to know.

The younger sisters whispered prayers long after. Several demanded the western halls be sealed entirely. Some suggesting they moved further from the halls. Sister Agnes insisted they request a priest from the nearest village by morning.

Mother Superior agreed and gathered the sisters after supper.

“Until Father Victor arrives,” she said calmly, “the lower halls will remain under supervision. No one is to go there alone.”

Silence followed.

Then Natasha spoke.

“I’ll go.”

Several heads turned immediately.

Mother Superior frowned. ‘’Sister—’’

“I know the corridors best.”

“That is not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

The question came too quickly.

Too directly.

Mother Superior studied her carefully.

Natasha kept her expression neutral despite feeling every eye in the room settle onto her.

Finally, Mother Superior sighed quietly.

“You will not go alone.”

“I don’t need—”

“You will go with Sister Agnes.”

Argument rose instinctively inside Natasha before she forced it down.

“…Yes, Mother.”

Sister Agnes looked far from pleased.

The following night, they descended together carrying lanterns and scripture.

Natasha remained acutely aware of Agnes beside her the entire time.

Every footstep.

Every nervous prayer.

Every trembling breath.

Nothing happened.

The corridor remained silent.

Empty.

The doors locked normally. The shadows stayed motionless against stone walls.

No extinguished flames.

No presence.

No horns waiting in darkness.

Sister Agnes nearly laughed in relief by the time they returned upstairs.

“You see?” she said shakily. “Storm nerves. Fear spreads easily.”

Natasha said nothing.

Because the entire time they had walked below, she had felt it.

Watching from somewhere deeper in the dark.

Waiting patiently until she returned alone.

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