Ratt’s Writing Desk

The next thing you were aware of was sunlight streaming in through the window, the soft glow coaxing you to open your eyes. You were met with the vision of a rather scenic room: a beautiful metal grate on the window, stone walls that made you feel as though you were royalty from long, long ago, sleeping in your castle amongst rolling hills. Before your imagination can carry you too far away, you remember your circumstances, and are struck by a miraculous lack of pain in your abdomen. This lack of pain should have been relieving, should have brought you peace that your ordeal was over with so quickly. But that was precisely the issue… There was no way your ordeal should be over so quickly. You were paralyzed, not by pain this time, but by fear. Unable to believe you would be so lucky to be devoid of pain already, you were afraid that the second you moved, the pain would come shooting back through your body, that you would instantaneously find yourself right back where you were the night before. You stare at the ceiling, knowing that sooner or later you would have to get up. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that even if you did move, you weren’t sure where you would go.

The question was answered for you when the old lady from the night before entered your room. You turn your head to look at her as she approaches you. “Good morning.” she greets as she stands at your bedside. She’s feigning lightheartedness, but you can tell that something is eating at her in the way she shifts her gaze. You steel yourself, carefully lifting yourself up onto your elbows. And to your amazement you find… No pain. Nothing. Like nothing ever happened. A look of shock flashes on your face, something you aren’t able to shake before locking eyes with the old woman. That’s all it takes, in that moment it’s clear to you that only does she know, but she is not as relieved by the situation as you would hope. Quite the opposite, in fact. Her lips draw into a scowl. “Breakfast is ready. It will be down the stairs through the doorway on your right.” Without another word, she leaves you alone once more.

You slowly swing your legs over the side of the bed, slowly sitting up. The grotesquely large patch of blood on your clothing grabs your attention, and your stomach turns at the sight. The reality of your situation sets in as you consider that, as it stands, you do not have any other clothing. You decide to try your luck, weakly standing up so you can investigate the dresser. As you do, you’re hit with a sharp pang of hunger, your biological processes making their point that you cannot ignore them forever. The dresser provides you a single white linen nightgown. A bit thin for your tastes, but between that and the blood, you’ll take the linen.

As you begin to unbutton your clothes, the distinct feeling of being watched overcomes you yet again. You glance towards the door, nothing noteworthy catching your eye. You pause only for a moment, watching to make sure nothing is waiting just outside of the small grate on the door for you to turn your back. When you’ve satisfied your nerves to the best of your ability, you continue to remove your blood soaked shorts, underwear, and shirt. It doesn’t escape your notice that you were lucky enough to spare your bra, and thankfully you happened to be wearing a white one. You slip the linen nightgown over your head, your acute awareness of the particular draftiness towards the lower half of your body making your stomach churn. At least it would be just you and the old woman…

You take your time with the stairs, the stone they were comprised of cold even through your socks. The dining room, you knew, would bring its own litany of awkward encounters, so you felt it best to stretch this in between time for as long as you could. The tips of your fingers ghosted along the bricks beside you as you descended. You expected to hear only the sound of your own feet, and yet there was another noise coming from somewhere on the stairwell. Whether it was above or below you, you couldn’t tell. Stopping to hone in on the noise, you held your breath. Was it the old woman? After a moment, it becomes evident that the noise is some sort of chittering. A rodent, most likely. Based solely on the volume, probably a rat. Not considering a rat in a building as old as this particularly surprising, you continue down the stairs. You take note of it, however, as you certainly wouldn’t want to become more acquainted with him in the middle of the night be it that you find yourself in the position to do so.

When you finally reach the bottom of the stairs, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the interaction about to unfold. With the new morning came a sense of clarity that, in the midst of your emergency last night, you had previously lacked. Now you would have to really lay your story bare, at least to the degree you could bring yourself to do so. You straighten yourself, slowly pulling open the door. The first thing your eyes land on is the old woman, looking very tense as she cuts her breakfast. You quickly notice that next to her is a man, one you had not seen the previous night. He has relatively short brown hair and looks to be in his 30’s. As your eyes fall on him, a shiver runs down your spine. A shiver he definitely caught, as he is staring at you with an intensity you’ve never experienced before. After only a moment of this, the woman clears her throat. You break the eye contact sheepishly, but the man, unfazed, simply turns his gaze to his plate, cutting his food in a graceful but notably bored fashion. You take your seat in front of an already prepared plate of food, the only plate not already occupied on the table.

Breakfast drags on, moving like a fish against the current through time so it feels. You keep expecting some sort of explanation, an introduction, or even a demand for you to present an explanation of your own, but such conversations never come. The three of you sit in silence, and you force down as much of the food as you can stomach. The tension in the air seems to suck all of the flavor out of your food, provided it ever really had any to begin with. A place like this likely isn’t very focused on culinary mastery. You choke it down, though, as you are certainly in no position to bite the hand that feeds.

As you finish your plate, the woman stands up, not bothering to finish her own food as she starts to collect the dishes. The man didn’t finish his food either. In fact, it almost looks like he was simply moving the food around the plate rather than eating it. Your focus on his plate draws his intense gaze back in your direction, so you quickly look back to the woman. “You may stay for as long as you need, child. You’d do well to consider this time an opportunity to right your relationship with the Lord.” She says. You don’t think you’ve heard such a stern tone in quite a long time. Not since you were a child. The thought of your childhood, of your parents, makes your stomach drop. You shake the thought away, your gaze happening once again upon the man, and you happen to catch what appears to be a smirk on his lips.

You spend the rest of the day walking aimlessly around the priory. The decision to leave you with a complete lack of direction or entertainment of any kind seems to be a deliberate one, as though your host intended for your only source of reprieve from your boredom to be combing through the various pious texts the priory had to offer. You do not make good on that notion, at least not for the better half of your day. You meander the halls, through the library, out into the gardens, up and down the various staircases. The bulk of your encounters are with locked doors. At no point does the pain that ailed you the night before return, and you’ve reached the point now where you hardly remember that it happened. In fact, you hardly find yourself considering why you’re in the priory at all, and certainly not anything outside of it. Unfortunately, the wishes of your host catch up to you, and you find yourself in the library, running your fingers along the spines of books. You pull out one of the many, many copies of the New Testament. You flip haphazardly through the pages, deciding that this would likely be the only thing available to you to pass your time. You tuck it under your arm, making your way back towards the room you’re staying in.

You lay on the bed, opening the book to a random page. You had never taken much interest in religion, not particularly appreciating the absurd things people say and do in the name of it. In that regard, you had no real interest in reading the entire Bible either, be it the Old or New Testament. You were simply flitting around, seeing what you noticed. It reminded you of the divination technique that some people use, gleaning their messages from the random words and passages from books. An interesting idea to be sure, but not your intent. As you leafed through the pages, a particular small paragraph seemed to jump off the page at you. Looking closer, your eyes skimmed the words.

“Every priest stands day after day ministering and offering the same sacrifices time after time which can never take away sins. But this man, after offering one sacrifice for sins forever, sat down at the right hand of God.”

The words sent shivers down your spine. The imagery the words evoked… Sacrifice, sin… Sitting at the right hand of God… It was such intense wording. It took a moment to right yourself, the feeling of unease the words gave you lingering. Religion had always made you uncomfortable, for nearly as long as you could remember. The one time you had been to church, the ritual with the bread and the wine being the blood and flesh of Christ had thoroughly rattled you as child. Likewise, most religious texts and writings have always given you a similar feeling. You put it out of your mind to the best of your ability, turning to the window to look at the sunset out the window. You watch as the sky blooms into beautiful shades of gold and pink and purple, realizing with the slowly incoming darkness that it must be getting close to another meal time, if it hasn’t already passed.

When you enter the dining room, you are intrigued to find that, unlike breakfast, there is only one plate. A note text to it indicates that it is for you, simply saying ‘Help yourself, child.’ Child. The old woman keeps calling you that. This whole time she hasn’t even asked for your name. Evidently you’re just as bad, though, as it occurs to you in that moment that you hadn’t asked for hers either. And the man… Who is that man? Of course, he appears to be a priest. But what an odd combination, a man much younger being the only inhabitant besides the old lady. You wonder to yourself what could possibly be the circumstances that lead to an entire priory having only two occupants, and those two occupants being a young priest and an old woman…

You have your dinner in your room, flipping carelessly through the copy of the New Testament you had taken from the library as you eat. Nothing in particular stands out to you this time. In fact, you find it rather difficult to focus on the book at all. You eat most of your meal in silence, watching as the food on your plate slowly dwindles. The sudden, slight sound of scratching alarms you, but as you look around the room you don’t see anything. Must be the rats, you think. As you continue to eat, the sound grows louder and louder, scratching like a demon up from hell, reaching a fever pitch that physically hurts your ears. You cover your ears with your hands, standing up so quickly that your empty plate clatters to the ground and you let out an agonized yell in your desperation to block out the noise. It feels like whatever is scratching is doing it directly on your eardrums. You quickly move to the door, but the horrid scratching noise is brought to an abrupt stop when the door opens before you can grab it. Your eyes, wild with agony and confusion still, meet blue eyes so piercing they send you stumbling back. A hand catches your wrist, and the rest of the face surrounding those blue eyes comes into focus. It’s the young man from breakfast.

“I heard you yell.” He explains, relieving you of the burden of questioning in your confused state. You give a nod, still trying to catch your breath as he steadies you on your feet. “Are you alright?” He continues, his voice smooth and comforting, especially compared to what your ears were just subjected to moments ago.

“I think so…” You stammer, taking a deep breath. “I think maybe a bat got in? I heard this scratching noise, and it got so loud…” As you speak, you look up towards the high ceiling, checking for any bats. “Ah.” He says coolly, “Yes, the rats. We have a bit of an issue with those. We’ve got a cat roaming around here somewhere whose job it is to tend to those, but I’m afraid she’s awfully lazy.” You know when he blames it on rats that it can’t be true, that the sound you heard was way too loud to be rats. His voice is so soothing, though, that you can’t help but believe him. Logistically he has to be right, what else could have possibly been scratching anyway?

“My name is Jonathan, by the way.” That soothing voice cuts through your thoughts like butter, and your eyes flicker back up to his. You respond in kind with your own name, and he gives a warm smile. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. You gave us quite a fright last night.” His words give you pause. You look up with him with slightly furrowed brows. “You saw me last night? I don’t remember seeing anyone but… Forgive me, I don’t know her name, but that lady…” You say, perplexed. “Margaret. And yes, I did indeed see you. I had thought I caught your eye in the chapel, but of course you were wounded, so perhaps you don’t quite remember.” You’re so bewildered by his words that you don’t even notice that his smile is growing, even in light of your complete befuddlement. You almost retort with the fact that all you saw was a shadow, a dark, looking shadow, but thankfully your tact remains with you enough to prevent yourself from looking insane at the moment, and you simply respond with, “I don’t remember, I apologize… I had lost a lot of blood.”

“No need for apologies.” He hushes, still standing so close to you that you can practically feel his warmth. “I hope you don’t mind, I paid you a visit last night. I wanted to pray over you, to ask the Lord for your quick healing. It looks as though my prayers were answered.” At this, you feel your heart rate pick up. Once again, you had no recollection of seeing him in your room last night, only that shadow… And how could he know that your pain is completely gone? Is that what did it? Did his prayer truly rid you of pain? So many thoughts are racing through your head right now. The shadow in the chapel, the shadow in your room, that bible verse, ‘sat at the right hand of God…’

You quickly try to recover, stammering out a quick, “That’s alright. I appreciate it.” He lets out a soft, pleased hum at this. “How rude of us to have left our guest to eat dinner alone tonight. Allow me to rectify that. Would you like to take dinner with me tomorrow night?” He asks, his gaze intense as it meets yours. You find yourself nodding before any words leave your lips. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” You say, wondering to yourself what the implications of his offer are. Surely they must simply be polite…

“I’ll take your plate back downstairs for you.” He offers. “Oh, I can do it, thank you—“ You attempt, but he waves your insistence away with a graceful hand. “It would be my pleasure. Besides, you need your rest.” Your first instinct is to retort, to correct his notion that you’re still ill. “But I’m feeling better. Really, there’s no pain at all.” His smile widens at this, a glint to it that you don’t understand. “So you are.”

With that, he makes no further conversation. He walks to where your plate lies on the floor, making no comment on its whereabouts as he picks it up along with your fork. “I look forward to our dinner.” He says with a charming, gentle smile. You feel your heart flutter in your chest and your face start to burn. “Me too.” Is all you manage. He lets out a soft chuckle, saying nothing more as he exits your quarters, letting the door shut behind him. You kick yourself at your awkwardness, running your face over your hands. You can’t even remember the last time anybody has had this effect on you…

As you lay in bed that night, you have visions of Jonathan coming to you. Of his hands on your face, his breath on your neck. There’s no rhyme or reason to the dream, only a feeling. A deep, intense feeling. You hear his voice so clearly, calling out to you with the reverence of a man praying for redemption, like only you can grant it for him. You wake up in the morning with a deep, burning ache and covered in sweat.

You tried to get your mind off it, deciding to see what you could do about your blood soaked clothing. Gathering them up in your hands, you carried them in a messy heap down the stairs. On one of your previous adventures around the grounds, you had passed by a washbasin and scrubbing board. Not ideal, but you’d have to make do. It was near a little hand cranking pump in the ground, and you figured that must be for the water.

You busied yourself doing that completely disgusting and grueling task for most of the afternoon. It wasn’t necessarily on just the basis that it was blood that the task disgusted you, but more so the sheer volume of it. The water itself quickly began to resemble the blood, and seeing that amount of one of the most integral ingredients to human life, knowing that it came from yourself, filling the water so much that it turned ever so slightly more opaque made your stomach turn. You weren’t sure what the proper method of disposing of blood contaminated water was, so you took it to a corner of the property and dumped it out under a shrub. You felt the surprising and alien need to cross yourself, to let God take the reins with the potential outcome of that decision, and had to shake the feeling off before you actually did it.

It required the same treatment a couple of times. When you finally got the water clean, you hung your clothes on a nearby line. With how the sun was shining, you could only hope the clothes would be dry by the time you had dinner with Jonathan. You could, of course, as the old woman— Margaret. That’s her name. You could ask her for more clothes, but what would she have to give you? And besides, you didn’t want to overstep more than you already had or lead her to believe you were truly setting up shop here. In reality, you really ought to go home soon. You were feeling better, and you had no real intention of connecting with the lord. But something about Jonathan lured you in, made you want to stay until some of that mystery had faded…

When it came time to get ready for your dinner with Jonathan, you were relieved to find that your clothes had in fact dried. It felt nice to put them on, like you were stepping back into yourself after wearing what felt like a bedsheet for the last day and a half. You made sure you looked presentable and took a deep breath, preparing yourself to go down to the dining room to meet him. To your surprise, you were greeted with him the second you opened your door to your room.

“Ah, hello.” He says in that velvety smooth voice, making you have to suppress a shudder. “I had come up to see if you were ready to join me for dinner.”

“I was just about to come down to the dining room.” You respond with a soft smile.

“Oh, we won’t be eating in the dining room. I’ve arranged something else for us, something better. I hope you don’t mind.” Everything about him is so charming and put together, he’s almost ethereal.

“Oh, of course not. Thank you.” You say, allowing him to lead you down to this special arrangement. He moves with such grace as he walks down the stairs, and you wonder how a man learns that type of grace. Boarding school? A prestigious college? It almost seems like a grace that is beyond any other person you’ve ever met, almost beyond human. You mentally slap yourself for that thought. Being attracted to someone is one thing, believing them to be so attractive that they are beyond human is another. A significantly weirder and unhealthy thing. You opt to look away from him, not trusting yourself with the thoughts looking at him was giving you.

He ultimately leads you out into the same little courtyard style area outside that you washed your clothes in earlier. Though, in one of the other corners, he has set up a small table, surrounded by so many lit candles that it resembled the chapel. Your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest, and your stomach was doing somersaults so intense you felt like you might puke on the spot. The gesture was so blatantly romantic, so much more forward than anything you were used to. Your eyes bounced between the table and Jonathan, unable to find your words.

“I hope the ambience is to your liking.” He quips, that charming little smile playing on his lips with a subtle mischief that was almost imperceptible. Almost. You weren’t sure whether that was endearing or an omen. “Yes.” You finally breathe, your eyes finally settling on Jonathan’s. His gaze makes an intense heat rise to your cheeks, and after a moment that feels like an eternity, he holds his hand out for you to take. Still just staring at him like something had shot your voice box, you put your hand in his.

He leads you to the table, pulling out your chair. On the table are two plates he had the care to cover, seemingly having places them just before going up to your room to get you. After he seats you, he lifts up the cover on your plate, revealing a slab of some sort of meat laying in a bed of various, delicious looking vegetables that appeared to be very substantially seasoned. The aroma coming from the plate certainly solidified the assumption your eyes had given you. “Lamb.” He said with a smile as he pulled out his own chair, sitting across from you as he uncovered his own plate. You had never had lamb before, the mental image of a meat deliberately taken from the youngest, most innocent form of an animal had always been one that had troubled you, so you never had interest in trying it. Regardless, as enthralled as you were by Jonathan, you wouldn’t have dreamed of refusing it.

“Did you make this?” You ask, hardly able to contain the awe in your voice as you looked up at him. He nods slightly in the affirmative as he uncorks a bottle of wine. “I’ve always had a taste for the finer tastes in life. I must admit, I’m a bit of a glutton.” He pours the wine in the goblets he had set out that almost appeared crystalline in nature. “Hopefully the blood of our savior will wash me clean.”

Something about Jonathan, a pious man, admitting to sin sent a shiver down your spine. Right as you reached for your fork, he sat his hands with his palms up on the table. “Will you pray with me?” He asks, his voice low, his gaze enticing you to say yes. You hesitantly set your hands in him, almost able to feel an electric current flowing between the two of you. You felt so unbelievably connected to him in that moment, the vulnerability laying you bare for him to peer right into you, to read you like a book.

“Blessed is our Lord that allows us such divine sustenance, who gifts us such rich and ample pleasures in wake of His sacrifice. Who allows us respite of our sin through Him, and who paves the way to our path into heaven, though sinners we may be. Blessed are we to be saved. Amen.” At the end of his words, you murmur your own little ‘amen,’ feeling as uncomfortable as praying before a meal has always made you. His gaze, which had felt so enticing and warm before, now felt like it was burning a hole through you. He squeezes your hands gently before letting go. “Let’s dine.” He says, his eyes almost glimmering.

As you eat, you notice that the first thing Jonathan reached for was his wine rather than the food. “Have a taste.” He encourages, motioning to your goblet. You take a sip, the taste of the wine washing over your tongue. At first the wine is perfectly sweet, a rich sweetness that speaks to several notes of different fruits all mingling on your tongue. As it retreats down your throat, it leaves a bitter, dry taste in your mouth, one so intense that it almost dissuades you from taking another sip. Seeking that decadent sweetness, however, you continue to take sip after sip.

“I hope you can forgive my candor, but I must ask what has brought you to our place of worship. You were in such distress when you arrived, but Margaret wouldn’t tell me anything.” He asks, cutting up his lamb. Without a moment’s consideration, your honest answer slips past your lips and out into the open. “I gave myself an abortion.” The words escape you so bluntly that when they reverberate through your head it almost gags you, your eyes nearly bulging out of your head. What possessed you to phrase it that way, you may never know. You cringe, looking up at Jonathan in anticipation of a gasp, a grimace, any sort of disgusted response you knew you were in for, but it never came. Only a slight nod of acknowledgment.

“Ah. Yet another pure soul tainted by lust.” He tuts, and the shame that courses through your veins burns in its intensity. “A common occurrence in young women. Luckily for you, little lamb, God forgives all sins through confession and repentance. If you’d like to properly confess, I’d be happy to lend an ear.” His words, little lamb, make your heart pick up speed once again. Were they in jest? Was it simply a slip of the tongue? Surely he couldn’t feel such affection for you so quickly…

“I would appreciate that.” You murmur. He smiles, taking a bite of his lamb. “What a gift it is from our Lord that you were healed so quickly. A miracle before our own eyes.” He says passively, so passively that he’s not even looking at you as he says it. It gives you pause as you remember the shadow standing over you, him mentioning that he had prayed over you in the night… A miracle before our own eyes…

You take another drink of your wine, emptying the goblet. You hadn’t realized you had taken enough sips to have finished it, you were only halfway through your dinner. You set the goblet back down, determined to try to finish your food to hopefully offset the effects of the wine. Effects that, now that you thought of it, you were already feeling. His hand, which rests on the table, grazes your goblet, a movement you barely notice. “It may bring you comfort to know that I, too, have fallen victim to the allure of lust. How blessed we are to have such a forgiving God. And how blessed I am to not be a carrier of the physical ramifications of my sins.” He states, his eyes roaming over you like the more appealing meal at the table is you.

Shifting a little nervously, you reach for your goblet again, remembering only once the wine hits your lips that you had just finished your glass of wine. You take a small sip, setting it back down with a slightly unnerved glance towards it. He must have somehow filled it at some point. With the tipsiness you feel, it wasn’t entirely unlikely that it could happen. He must have filled it while he spoke, and his words unnerved you to the point that you didn’t see him.

You don’t remember much of what was said after that, or finishing your food at all. You don’t remember taking more sips from the goblet, or that you finished your second glass as well. All you really remember are his eyes. His beautiful blue eyes with that dark gaze, it simultaneously thrilled you and unnerved you. He helps you up from your seat, and had you been a little more sober, you may have noticed his hand on your lower back, or the fact that all he ate was his lamb.

He walks you back up to your room, and for several hours you toss and turn, thinking hazy, half formed thoughts about his assertion that you should confess to your sins. The memory of the pain of it, of the blood, the grueling scene before you as you did it fills your mind. The chapel and the shadows, how your uneasiness must be that of a sinner not yet repented. You stumble out of your bed, painstakingly finding your way down into the chapel. You practically throw open the door to the confession booth, stumbling inside as you pull it closed behind you. In the dark, a familiar, yet slightly sinister sounding voice rings out.

The stone arches of Exham Priory loomed over you, so high into the sky from your own perspective that the bell tower stood like an eye of God looking down on you. You and all of your mistakes. The dampness that had overtaken your clothes— from the rain or blood, you weren’t quite sure— soaked into your skin, chilling you straight to the bone. The giant brass knocking-rings on the doors mocked you, dared you to use them, to rouse the inhabitants within to help you in your time of need. Never having been a religious person, you had never intended to end up here. Never could have possibly imagined you would be groveling at the steps of such a holy place, and yet here you were.

The events that lead to your being bloody and rain-soaked on the step’s of Exham had passed in such a frantic blur that you had hardly been able to process any of it. A few weeks of hardships came to a head in a single night of mistakes, a drunken haze which the fallout of had changed the course of your life entirely. You didn’t want to get pregnant. You were falling behind on rent, struggling to juggle the weight of student loans, rent, and sick parents, and you simply buckled under the pressure. All you wanted was a night of peace, to forget all of it for just one night. By the time you were in bed with whoever it was you were pregnant by, you were so inebriated that now, on these holy steps, you couldn’t recall his name. You could barely recall his face. Being in the position you were in, there was no possibly way for you to raise that child. Hell, you couldn’t even pay for the doctor’s visits and hospital trip to have the child.

You made the only real decision available to you. And, due to the circumstances, it had to be done by yourself. After you had done it, rendered yourself wounded and bleeding, you did the only thing you figured you could do… Another bill on top of the endlessly piling list of monetary struggles was out of the question. Your only hope was that there was something, anything they could do to help you here, even at this time of night. Exhaustion was quickly threatening to overtake you, shivers racking you so intensely that, as you reached up to lift a brass knocker, you could barely take hold of it.

As you used what little you could muster of your strength to knock, one, two, three times, a dread settled deep in your stomach, so intense it almost rendered you dizzy. You pressed on anyway, you didn’t have a choice. The iron was cold and wet in your grip, the weight of it causing your arm to ache as you knocked. The sound reverberated dramatically, so loud you could hear it echoing inside from the other side of the door. As you released the knocker, you stumbled forward onto your hands, the sharp, stinging pain in your abdomen radiating throughout your whole body. You stared up at the door, wondering if you could be lucky enough to have your prayers— albeit to a god you don’t believe in— answered.

Answered they were as the heavy door was slowly pulled open, the silhouette of an old woman appearing in the dim light resonating from inside. The heat from inside gently fanned over you, a stark contrast to the cold rain pouring down. The woman’s face was drawn into a confused scowl, her eyes scanning from eye level all the way down to the steps where you kneel, a hand on your abdomen and blood dripping down your legs. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked upon you, immediately reaching a hand down to you to usher you in. “What in the world has happened to you?!” She demands as she pulls you in, one of her hands coming to support your back as you try to stand.

“I need… Help…” You sputter, shaking on your feet.

The room is lit only by candles, of which there are seemingly hundreds. They cast not only light upon the room, but also a heat, one that you revel in after being soaked down to the bone. “I can see that.” The woman huffs, leading you as best as she can in her feebleness to what you can only imagine, or at least hope, will be an infirmary. The lack of other signs of life outside of this woman dampens your faith that you will find any sort of medical help here, though. Your eyes dart around the chapel, a flash of lightning illuminating a rather graphic carving of Jesus on a crucifix. The images burns itself into your mind, and just as the old woman pulls you out of the chapel, the silhouette of a man in all black catches your eye, a heavy wooden door slamming shut before you can really make anything of it.

The woman leads you, essentially dragging you, onto a spiral staircase. You painstakingly make your way up, unable to imagine where she could possibly be taking you. Ultimately, it appears to be the boarding area of the priory, a long hallway of doors. Thankfully she spared you the entire length of the hall, leading you to the third door down on the left. She pulled out a small matchbook from her pocket, striking a match to light a candle in a holder on the wall. In the dim light, you could just barely make out the room. It was a regular boarding room, though rather barren, hosting only a bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. Without the heat of the candles, a cold, dampness seeped through the stones that made up the wall, making your skin erupt in goosebumps once again. She leads you to the bed, helping you lay back.

“There won’t be much I can do for you, child.” She murmurs, her voice, though quiet, fraught with worry. She leaves the room, leaving you to wonder if that was it, if giving you a bed to potentially bleed out on was the most she could do for you. As you sit in the dimly lit room, pained and exhausted, shadows dance in the corner of your vision. When you try to catch them straight on, you see nothing but stagnant dark corners and a dark hallway through the small grate in the door. A shiver runs down your spine, all of your hair standing on edge as the feeling of being watched overwhelms you. The only other living soul you’d seen since you’d arrived here was the old woman. Maybe she simply hadn’t gone far, and it was her presence you were sensing…

The sound of the door opening brought you back to, bringing to your attention that you must have dosed off. The sharp pain in your abdomen had morphed into a deep, dull ache, though you figured that was likely from finally getting to rest a little bit. The woman approached your bed, holding out a cup of water and some pills. “Took me a little while to find them.” She says as you take the pills for her. “All I had were some anti-inflammatories I’m afraid. Hopefully it will help the bleeding.” She places a hand on your forehead as you take the medicine.

“Now… What has happened to you, child? What has brought you bleeding on my doorstep?” She asks, the concern still ever present in her tone.

“I… I’ve miscarried…” You lie. You figured it would put you on better footing to put the story that way. This woman isn’t a doctor, she won’t know the difference. So you would think, at least. Her face seems to tell a different story as she glances at you sidelong, seeming to sense there was more to it than that.

“I’m not sure a convent is the best place for you in such circumstances, my dear. Especially my own… I find myself woefully unprepared to help a young lady in distress such as yours.” She says gently. You glance away, picking at some loose strings on the bedsheet.

“I know.” You say quietly. “I couldn’t afford the medical bills.”

The old lady sighs, taking the cup back from you and setting it on the nightstand. “Well, I suppose you may stay and try to get your strength back. Better to have someone to keep an eye on you in this state than to go it alone.” You nod and thank her, watching as she walks towards the door. She stops just short of it, hesitating a moment before turning to look at you. “My quarters are at the end of the hall.” She hesitates again, glancing out the door. “Should you need anything… But be… Mindful, dear. It gets rather… Dark at night.” With that, she exits the room, leaving you in the dim candlelight.

Eventually, the medicine the woman gave you starts to kick in. It doesn’t completely kill the pain, but given the circumstances, you don’t imagine anything you’ll have access to will. You doze off to the capacity that you can, waking up rather frequently throughout the night. Strange dreams plague you, blurring the lines between wakefulness and sleep. At one point you believe yourself to be sitting on the windowsill, watching an angry storm roll in and obscure the moonlight, casting your room into darkness. The next moment, you hear a rat loudly screeching in the corner, the only thing in your field of vision being the ceiling, illuminated by bright moonlight. You move to cover your ears, but before your hands can rest, the noise is gone, and you see the silhouette of a man above you. His features are made only vaguely visible by the moon, and all you can make out is neat, dark hair and a pale face. A small spot of white highlights his neck, and before you have time to consider the implications he’s gone. He doesn’t move, there’s no commotion, he’s just… Gone.