TAKE ME TO CHURCH, The Nun

00. 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

    1952.

    Monastery of St. Carta, Romania.

    'God ends here.'

    Those were the words written on the sturdy wooden door of the monastic cell at the end of the tunnel. Maybe it should have been enough to scare away Father Simons and Sister Victoria. However, it wasn't.

    The darkness of the night only lightened by the moonlight, the young priest tried to not trip over the pieces of wood and rocks on the ground as he ran as fast as he could across the woods. The wind and cold were scratching and reddening his face while the rain was falling dow his black vestments, his dark blonde hair stuck to the cold skin of his forehead.

    Father Simons ran. He ran faster than he'd ever had before, frightened, trying to avoid the dark trees in his way. His shaky hands were tightly holding onto a large key.

    Whispers called his name, like they were only a few meters behind. The young man could hear his own heartbeat, blood passing through his veins. He hid behind a large tree, waiting for that thing to lose his trace. He looked around, eyes wide open, as if he was too afraid to even allow himself to blink. There was nothing, nobody to hear him begging for help, Sister Victoria was dead and he was now on his own.

    Then, the silence, no more whispers, no more rain, no more branches cracking, everything was quiet, eerily quiet. All you could hear were Simons' sharp pantings while he tried to catch his breath.

    Then suddenly, his arm found itself caught by a thick and wormy grip, it roughly pulled him to the dirty ground of the forest. Caught off guard, the young priest craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the black autumn sky which curved above the monastery that night in the fall of 1952. His screams were shrill and piercing, ripping the inside of his own throat.

    There were yellowish eyes staring down at him: the sort of eyes he had always imagined but never actually seen down in his basement when he was a child. Whatever was pinning him down was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke.

    Simons closed his eyes for a few seconds, his whole body was shaking as fear took over his whole being. He thought this was the end. But it wasn't. Suddenly there was a ripping noise and a flaring sheet of agony, and he knew no more.

    Father Cassius was the first to get there, and although he arrived only a short moment after the last scream, there was nothing but a passed out priest laying on the ground. Cassius grabbed him by the back of the collar, pulled him under the moonlight to have a clearer look—  his face immediately paled and he began to scream himself as Simons' body turned over in his hands. The back of his ripped liturgical vestments was bright red, blood soaking the piece of clothing.

    Red lines, brimming with blood, had been carved deep into the his porcelain skin. The congealed liquid was starting to tighten, crack. The maroon lines were precise, stick-straight. There was no way he could have done this to himself.

    This had been done to him.

    Father Cassius gazed at the nest of lines. The slices formed a five-pointed star. An upside-down one. Around that, a circle was engraved.

    Sign of Satan.