Bad Nuns

Horror mystery short story about suspicious holy women, missing teenagers and one investigative journalist trying to piece together the truth.

‘Well then, my child,’ said the middle-aged woman, putting down her china tea cup. ‘What brings you to our little corner of the world?’

Terri Reed examined the woman with a critical eye, from her black and white habit to the silver cross that hung delicately around her neck. ‘I’m writing an article.’

‘So I understand… don’t forget to drink your tea, now.’

The tea sat anaemically before Terri, and she took a small, courteous sip. It was overly sweet and had gone slightly tepid.

‘You will be staying with us for a week, then?’ said the nun.

‘Yes. That’s still alright, isn’t it?’

‘Why, of course. You are most welcome. Only it seems a little long a stay for just an article. Perhaps something else brings you here?’

Terri didn’t flinch. ‘I could do with some peace and quiet.’

The nun laughed. The sound bounced pleasantly around the small room, jingling like silver bells. ‘Oh you won’t find much of that here, I’m afraid. Are you sure I can’t tempt you with a piece of fruit cake?’

Terri eyed the cake. It was just the sort of creation her grandmother might have made, lumpy, dense looking and somewhat burned. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Very disciplined of you. But I get the sense you are a woman of strong will.’

Their eyes met. Terri searched them, hunting for a sliver of anger, cruelty, even fear. But there was only niceness, all the way down.

Mother Agatha was one cool customer.

#

Terri had arrived in the little town four days earlier. She was officially meant to be on holiday, but, as a newbie local journalist, all her job currently seemed to involve was churning out AI-assisted garbage. What she needed a story to get her teeth into, a proper story, and this one felt perfect: a small and peculiarly religious town where it was rumoured young people were going missing. The ultimate true crime mystery; you could almost hear the podcasts.

Besides, what better way to get over a messy break up than spending two weeks in the middle of bleeding nowhere with the world’s worst WiFi signal?

Unfortunately, the first three days of her visit had proven rather fruitless. Terri had spoken to various contacts and spent time exploring the local amenities (aka the pub). She’d tried bringing up the missing young people several times, and had got nothing more concrete than rants about immigration, drunken conspiracy theories and the lowdown on generational grudges over supposedly stolen farming equipment.

But on the fourth night, she’d had a stroke of luck. While nursing a pint of cider and trying to watch the football on the tiny pub TV, she’d overheard two women, presumably an elderly mother and an adult daughter.

‘She was always a wild one,’ said the older one. ‘No one wonder they took her.’

‘Mother, you can’t say things like that.’

Suspicions confirmed, Terri sipped her pint, trying not to look too conspicuous.

‘It’s true, though.’

‘We have no idea what’s happened. They could have run away.’

‘Run away, my backside.’

‘Mother.’ The younger woman glanced around, while Terri pretended to be enraptured with her phone.

‘Don’t you “Mother” me. I may be old but I’m not daft. I know who took them, and you do too.’

The younger woman turned her head to the picture of the saint on the wall and crossed herself. ‘Mother, please. Let’s go home.’

Terri’s eyes never left the TV. She lifted her pint slowly to her mouth.

That night, she looked up everything she could find about the local religious order, and found the perfect cover: a one-week spiritual retreat.

#

After having tea with Mother Agatha, Terri was taken on a tour of the convent building by a young, rosy-cheeked novice called Claire, whose blonde curls threatened to burst out from under her habit. She was extremely talkative, waving her hands about enthusiastically as she explained all their duties.

‘We take turns to cook and clean and garden, and volunteer in the community. Along with all the prayers, of course!’

Walking around the beautiful kitchen gardens, and the chapel, where the sun streamed through bright stained glass, Terri found a strange peace filling her. Shoulder tension she hadn’t even realised she was carrying began to fall away.

She was disappointed not to be staying in the convent itself, but in a small outbuilding building which Claire referred to as the guesthouse, though no one else appeared to be staying in it. Terri’s room was small but homely, with a bed, a desk, chair and bookcase. She examined the titles: religious tracts, of course, but also several Father Brown novels, and a very creased copy of The Hobbit.

‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Do you know about any—?’

But the cheerful novice was already gone.

#

Terri expected to be summoned from her room for some sort of prayer or religious activity, but she was awoken from the nap she hadn’t expected to take by a soft knocking and Claire saying.

‘Sorry to bother you, but supper’s in the refectory. Will you join us?’

Wiping her crusted eyes, Terri prised herself off the bed and followed Claire to the communal dining room. She’d heard nuns ate in austere silence, so was surprised to see nuns seated at long tables, laughing and joking. Mother Agatha smiled warmly at Terri as she entered.

‘Ah, our guest is here. Please. Sit down wherever you like.’

As Terri perched herself next to Claire, wooden doors at the end of the room swung open and several nuns walked in carrying steaming ceramic trays, which they placed on each table. A thin, severe looking old woman stomped between them all, peeling back the foil of each tray and frowning.

‘Stop fussing, Francis,’ said Mother Agatha with barely concealed amusement. ‘I’m sure your proteges have done a perfectly good job.’

Sister Francis slowly sat down in the spare seat opposite Terri, scowling.

Even beneath the foil, Terri could smell the rich warm pie and her stomach made an involuntary grumble. But before she could ladle herself a portion, Mother Agatha was rising from her chair and the nuns were bowing their heads and making the sign of the cross. Terri copied the gesture, keeping her eyes open.

‘Our Father in Heaven, bless this food we have before us…’

Terri half-listened to Agatha’s prayer, scanning the room. All the nuns seemed absorbed in reverent reflection, save one. Sister Francis was staring openly at Terri, her pale blue eyes glowing like candles in a dark chapel. She lifted one spindly finger and brushed it, ever so delicately, across her chicken neck.

‘…in the holy name of our Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.’

‘Amen.’

The nuns crossed themselves and opened their eyes. Terri stared at her plate. She was suddenly an awful lot less hungry.

Terri spent the rest of the dinner attempting to eat the admittedly delicious food while trying to ignore the nausea bubbling away in her gut. The blonde novice beside her seemed not to notice her discomfort, chatting nineteen times to the dozen. Sister Francis ate quietly, the very picture of holy meekness.

After the meal was over, Terri quietly suggested to novice Claire that they go for a walk in the kitchen garden, hoping to have a private conversation without being overheard.

‘Of course!’ trilled Claire, clapping her hands. ‘Sister Francis loves walking in the garden. Don’t you, Sister?’

The venerable sister nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving Terri’s face. ‘Indeed,’ she said, in a voice like thin hot blade slicing through flesh. ‘A walk would be most… satisfying.’

Cold sweat dampened Terri’s collar. She rose from her bench, stammering. ‘I’m sorry, I have a headache coming, I’d better go to bed.’ Then she fled the refectory and hurried down the corridor, cursing her own cowardice.

Some investigative journalist she was turning out to be. The first sign of trouble, and she bolted. She might as well pack up now and go back to churning out clickbait.

Terri sighed to herself, then frowned. In her hurry to get away, she’d taken the wrong turning, and instead of finding the door to the grounds, she found herself in a long corridor she didn’t recognise. She was about to turn around and retrace her steps when she heard the unmistakable sound of weeping.

Terri turned towards the source of the sound. It was coming from the end of the corridor, behind a large wooden door studded with iron nails and a round iron handle.

It probably wasn’t anything. One of the novices, having a bad day. And yet…

She knocked on the door. ‘Hello. Is everything OK in there?’

The weeping stopped. Footsteps echoed from behind the door, followed by a loud and agonised cry.

My God, Terri thought. She yanked on the iron door handle, which would not budge. ‘Are you hurt? Hang on, I’ll get—’

Hands pressed on her shoulders. Terri whirled round.

Mother Agatha sighed heavily.

‘My child,’ she said. ‘This does not concern you.’

‘But—’

‘Sister Francis is having one of her… turns. She gets them more these days.’

‘I—’

‘Come, please. Let us give our Sister some privacy in her difficult hour.’

Terri stared at the closed door for a moment. Then, with great reluctance, she allowed Mother Agatha to steer her back to her room.

#

Hours later, Terri lay sleepless on her small, cramped bed.

On the way to her room in the guest house, Mother Agatha had quietly explained Sister Francis’s misfortune. She had her good moments and bad ones, and it was unfortunate that tonight had been particularly bad. At times she might become overwrought and frenzied, and even violent, though no one had been injured by her, thank Heaven. She was a good woman, Mother Agatha had assured, in the grip of a great trial that only God could understand. But sweet Jesus and Mary and all the saints held dear Francis’s soul in the palms of their hands, and the nuns prayed daily for calm deliverance.

‘Between you and I, I believe our poor sister will not be able to stay with us forever. But we shall take good care of her for as long as we can.’

It all sounded very genuine and believable… a little too believable. Mother Agatha was saying too much. She knew it too; there was an uncharacteristic fluttering in her hands and an earnestness to her tone. Her words bounced around the room long after she had left.

Whether Sister Francis really had dementia or not, Terri could not say. Her behaviour at dinner had been irrational. But that did not explain how she had gotten to her room so fast without Terri’s even seeing her. And besides, the crying she’d heard hadn’t sounded like an old woman’s suffering.

It sounded young.

Terri stared at the off white ceiling. She ought to be writing all this down … but what could she say, exactly? That a person she had never seen and might not even exist was being kept against their will in the room of an old and probably infirm nun? It all sounded so ludicrous.

My child… this does not concern you.

Perhaps that was her problem. She was so desperate to find a story here that she was creating it for herself.

Terri rolled over, staring at the dark curtains. What she really, truly, wanted was to go home. But what would be there but more darkness, more quiet, more emptiness? She wished she hadn’t broken up with Rebecca. She wished she had never come here. She wished—

Thud.

Terri’s froze. Her breath came out sharply.

A second, heavier thud hit the window. Terri still couldn’t move.

A third object hit the window, much harder than the others. It smashed through the glass and slammed into the curtains, then fell onto the carpet. A large black stone.

The sound startled Terri into action. She scrambled off the bed and ran to the window, trying to see who was pelting her window with projectiles. There was definite movement in the bushes below, but it could have been the wind rustling them, as it rustled the trees. Then she saw a distinct dark shape moving across the lawn, hurrying towards her.

Terri dodged back, pressing herself against the wall and peering through the side of the curtains. She could just about see what happened, but still, she wasn’t sure if she believed her own eyes.

A figure erupted from the bushes and began to sprint away. The other figure ran after it, and the first figure stumbled and the second caught it by the arm, dragging it back kicking and screaming towards the convent. Through the window, Terri could hear the high pitched sobs.

Terri stepped away. Heart thudding, she picked up the stone, ignoring the stabbing of broken glass shards piercing her skin. She turned it over. Attached to the underside was a piece of paper, which read.

“Help me.”

Terri gripped the rock. Its edges rammed into her palm, compounding the bite of the shards of glass, blood beading on her hand. This was beyond a story. This was a kidnapping.

Terri reached for her phone and found it wasn’t there. She searched frantically, opening every bag, upending the duvet, throwing her clothes around to no avail. Had she dropped it somewhere? But no, she remembered putting it next to the bed.

The conclusion sat coldly within her. It had been stolen.

Horror dunked over Terri like an ice shower. She ran to the bedroom door and tugged at it. It remained firmly and resolutely locked.

‘Help!’ she screamed. ‘Let me out!’

The answer was a cold and holy silence.

#

When the first strands of dawn light entered the small room, Terri was on the floor, hunched over herself, arms wrapped round her knees. Her panic had worn itself out, and she felt oddly calm as she tried to plan what to do.

She could break the window. But she was two floors up and if she didn’t die from the jump, she’d be severely injured and in no fit state to run anywhere.

She’d already tried breaking down the door. Despite her surging adrenaline, there hadn’t been much chance of success; she was a slight, five-foot four woman, and the door was heavy oak. She’d tried it anyway for what felt like hours, before collapsing, breathless and sobbing.

She could try to overpower the nuns when they came for her, as she knew they would. But she was scrawny, and Mother Agatha, while middle aged, had height and weight to her advantage. She could hit them with the rock of course, which would help, especially if they weren’t expecting it. Yet she was only one and they were many, and while half of them might be over 60, she didn’t think she could fight off thirty women with only a stone.

And even if she did, somehow, managed to flee, what would happen to the girl who’d been dragged away? Any help she could get could be far too late.

It seemed best to talk her way out of it. Perhaps this could, on some strange level, all still be a terrible misunderstanding.

Someone knocked on the door. Terri got to her feet.

‘Good morning,’ rang out the voice of novice Claire. ‘Would you like some breakfast?’

Terri’s mouth flapped open. She tried to speak but the air wouldn’t come.

‘Tea or coffee, then? Or some water?’

At last, Terri’s paper tongue allowed itself to speak. ‘Claire,’ she rasped. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’ve been locked in my room.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Claire. ‘I’m so dreadfully sorry.’

Hope bloomed inside Terri. ‘You can let me out then?’

There was an intake of breath. ‘I’m afraid not. You see, the Mother Superior says you are to stay cloistered until tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.’

‘Temporary? Temporary?’

Terri flung herself at the door. She swore and she screamed until her throat ached, then sank to the carpet, utterly spent.

‘Are you feeling any better?’ said Claire, very kindly.

‘Monsters,’ said Terri. ‘Monsters. All of you.’

#

After several failed attempts at reassurance, Claire went away. When she was gone, Terri regretted her outburst, as the quiet and smallness of the room threatened to swallow her whole. She ran to the window and looked for any signs of life, for anyone she could call to for help. But there was no one. Only the trees, swaying in an unfelt breeze.

Terri sat on the bed, and got out her notebook. She should write down all the details, everything she could remember.

Her hands lay motionless.

After a few moments, she shut the book and put it back in her bag. Then she stood by the door, stone in hand.

She had to get someone’s attention. She would say she was violently ill, and needed medical help. She would say she was dying of thirst. She would say anything to get the door to open, just a crack, and when it did, she would smash the stone right down on the skull of whosoever—

Footsteps. Lighter and quieter than any she had heard. And a voice saying.

‘Sssh!’

Terri stayed quiet.

There was a scraping of metal in the lock. The door opened and Terri saw a small, narrow, youthful face with light, almost white hair, blue eyes and no brows. She recognised it from one of the missing posters she’d seen, ripped and faded by time, but now clear and real.

15-year-old Jenny Marie.

The girl slipped through the door and shut it behind her. ‘We don’t have long. They’re at Mass.’

Terri reeled. The girl looked thin and tired, and her arms had bruises on them. Her eyes were lively, though, like a cat’s, searching for danger.

‘How did you—?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘What did they—?’

The girl put her finger to her lips. ‘We have to go, now. We need to free the others.’

Terri almost parroted “others”, then cut herself short. ‘OK.’

They slipped from the room. The stone lay heavy in Terri’s pocket, and she wished she had some other weapon, something more reassuring. They crept down the corridor, Jenny Marie quiet and quick, Terri cautious but louder, less used to being unnoticed, it seemed. She was sure a horde of nuns would burst in on them at any moment.

Yet their progress was uninhibited. ‘Where are the others?’ Terri hissed, as they crept down the stairs.

‘In their rooms. I stole the Mother’s master key.’

Terri held out her hand. ‘Give it to me.’

Jenny Marie didn’t move. She looked very young suddenly, her gaze lowered. And Terri thought what it must be like to be imprisoned for so long, and the thought made a lump rise in her throat.

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘We’ll go together.’

Terri could almost feel the burning of the nuns’ eyes in her back, watching her every move as they crept across the grounds and into the convent. Rows and rows of non-descript doors stretched before them.

‘Which one?’ Terri whispered.

Jenny Marie pointed to the end.

Sister Francis’s room, Terri thought. Of course.

The door loomed as large as the entrance of an ancient dungeon, though in truth it was just as modest as all the rest. Jenny Marie put the key in the brass lock and turned it slowly, pulling the door back with a single, deafening creak.

Sister Francis sat on the bed. She held a large wooden cross, which she gripped with both hands.

Jenny Marie flinched back at the sight of the old woman, glaring at them with unholy malevolence. Her voice was the chill brush of death, the cold judgement of thousands of years bearing down upon them, and only the faintest quaver revealed any human weakness in it.

‘Fool,’ she said. ‘You have no idea what you’ve meddled with.’

The old woman’s knuckles were bone white and protruding in her shrivelled hands, her eyes spark hot. She lifted the cross and pointed it at Jenny Marie.

‘You’ll take them over my dead body,’ she spat.

Jenny Marie threw herself at the nun, but the old woman was uncannily spritely. Sister Francis leapt off the bed and threw herself at the girl, shoving her to the floor, the cross pressed against her throat. The girl writhed in agony, trying to twist away, but the nun bore down on her with all her ancient strength.

‘Stop!’ Terri screamed, and the nun looked at her, and Terri saw there was no stopping this woman, that she was mad, mad beyond reckoning, and before she could think Terri had taken the stone and was smashing it into Sister Francis’s skull, over and over again, until the old woman relented, flopping to the side, blood leaching onto the grey carpet.

Jenny Marie coughed and spluttered, flinging the cross away. She shook violently all over.

Terri ran to her, holding the girl tight in her arms. ‘It’s alright,’ Terri murmured. ‘She can’t hurt you anymore.’

Terri looked at the body that had once been Sister Francis, feeling a dark and terrible hollowness. Now she was dead, the nun looked so small, so helpless. So old.

I had to do it, she told herself. Sister Francis was a monster who hurt children. She deserved to die.

The words rang lifeless in Terri’s brain. She stared vacantly about the room, and in her numbness, a thought occurred to her.

‘Where are the others, Jenny Marie?’

Jenny Marie didn’t say anything. The corner of her mouth twitched and she began to smile, ever so slightly. The smile grew into a grin. The grin into a laugh. A hateful, dark, vile laugh.

As she laughed, the bruises on her skin began to fade. The colour flushed into her cheeks. She looked healthier. Bigger. Stronger.

The door creaked behind them. Mother Agatha gripped Terri’s arm. ‘My child,’ she whispered. ‘What have you done?’

Terri began to speak, then realised that the Mother was not talking to her.

Jenny Marie’s eyes glowed. Her pupils thinned, her irises turning flame red.

‘I have broken free, Mother,’ she said.

Mother Agatha shook her head. ‘Whatever was promised you, it was not worth the price. Oh my poor, poor child—’ The Mother superior reached out her hand, holding the beads of the rosary. The girl shrank from it, snarling.

‘GET AWAY FROM ME.’

The voice that came out of that throat was not that of a teenager. It was not that of a human. It spoke with a dark venom, a relentless, pouring rage that stank and soured the very air.

Mother Agatha lowered her hand. ‘My daughter. We only tried to protect you.’

‘From monsters.’ The voice was ordinary again, if bitter and sarcastic.

‘My daughter. Jenny Marie.’ Mother Agatha’s voice was very quiet and slow, as if trying to calm a terrified animal. ‘I know this whole situation has been difficult. I know you’re scared. But we are so close to lifting this curse from you all, and it is not too late to turn away from sin. Think about your friends, Jenny Marie. Think about your mother. She would not want—’

‘YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT MY MUM WOULD WANT!’ That horrible voice mixed with a teenager’s painful scream. ‘SHE’S NOT IN HEAVEN. SHE’S DEAD. SHE’S DEAD AND GONE AND YOU CAN’T BRING HER BACK. ONLY HE CAN.’

Jenny Marie’s eyes were truly burning now. The veins on her skin darkened to bruise purple, then black. Her teeth were shark sharp and nicotine yellow.

‘IT IS TOO LATE, HOLY WOMAN. THIS VESSEL IS MINE. NOW GET OUT OF MY WAY BEFORE I KILL YOU ALL.’

The Mother Superior turned her head. In the dim light of Sister Francis’s spartan bedroom, she no longer looked like a cheerful, fifty-something with a soft spot for fruit cake. She looked waxen, and hard, and other.

‘Go. I will deal with this.’

Terri didn’t move. The Mother Superior raised her arm and before Terri could react, she felt novice Claire come up behind her and grab her around the waist. She tried to wriggle free but it was no good. The novice’s hold was unbelievably strong.

Claire dragged Terri from the room and shut the door with a terrible finality. She pulled her down the corridor, and as they turned the corner, there was the echo of a horrible, mind-numbing scream.

Thanks for reading! While you’re at it, check out these other free creepy reads, including my horror adventure novella, The Scouts Guide to Unspeakable Horrors:

And if you like mystery as well as horror, check out these free reads from Dark Crow Books, including my free horror short, Rogue Landlord: