THE HUNGER OF SAINT MARGUERITE'S HOSPICE
73 Jars of Preserved Hands. 129 Years of Missing Surgeons. The Hospice is Still Recruiting... and the Saint is Always Hungry
Season 1
PROLOGUE: THE FIRST INCISION
Sister Evangeline's Private Journals - Locked Ward, 1893
The hospice's east wing had been silent for seventeen years when the screaming began again. Not the usual cries of the dying - this was the wet sound of meat being parted from bone with deliberate precision.
I found Dr. Lemarchand in the surgical theater, though he'd been buried a fortnight prior. His corpse stood upright, performing an autopsy on little Claire Duvalier. His hands moved with impossible skill, tendons snapping as dead fingers wielded the scalpel.
Most horrifying was the audience - our marble statue of Saint Marguerite had somehow moved to the observation gallery. Her stone hands were now flesh up to the wrists, dripping onto the theater floor below.
When the morning bell rang, three truths became clear:
Claire's body had been perfectly dissected, her organs arranged in neat rows
Her hands were missing
The statue's new fingers wore Claire's skin like gloves
The Bishop declared it a miracle. That night, he disappeared. We found his tongue nailed to the chapel doors, threaded with surgical wire. Pinned beneath it, a note in his own hand:
"The first Felix is ready."
CHAPTER 1: THE THIRTEENTH FELIX
The Arrival:
The vellum envelope smelled of embalming fluid. Inside, a contract written in what Daniel Shaw hoped was iron gall ink:
£90,000 for six months' service as resident physician
Requirements:
Fellowship in surgical medicine
No living immediate family
Willingness to answer to "Felix" without question
Daniel's mentor at Edinburgh had warned him about Saint Marguerite's Hospice. "They don't just treat patients there, Shaw. They harvest them." But £90,000 would erase his gambling debts and buy the silence of that nurse from Bethlem.
The Orientation :
Mrs. Duchamp, the hospice administrator, wore gloves at all times. During the tour:
The surgical theater's walls bled between the tiles
Patient records showed his signature from 1927 and 1983
The statue in the chapel turned its head to track their movement
At precisely 3:33 PM, every clock in the hospice stopped. Mrs. Duchamp whispered: "She's waking."
First Night Rituals:
1:17 AM. The counting game began.
Thirteen beds in the children's ward. Fourteen sleeping forms.
Bed 7's occupant:
No face, just a void that drank the lamplight
Breath that smelled of ether and rotting roses
Small hands grafted to the mattress with surgical screws
When Daniel lifted the blanket, the thing whispered through stitches:
"She's been waiting 129 years for hands like yours, Felix."
His pager buzzed. The screen showed one word:
CONSULTATION
CHAPTER 2: THE BASEMENT ARCHIVES
The Specimen Collection
The lock yielded at 2:15 AM. Inside:
73 glass jars containing hands in various metamorphic stages
Ledger entries tracking each Felix's "progress":
Felix IV (1902): Vocal cords preserved. Hands rejected (tremors).
Felix IX (1951): Near-perfect conversion. Sacrificed during lunar eclipse.
Film reels showing Felix XII's transformation:
Day 1: Fingers elongating
Day 43: Nails hardening into surgical steel
Day 178: Screaming as his tongue unraveled into suture thread
The projector clicked. A new title card appeared in Daniel's handwriting:
FELIX XIII: PRIME CANDIDATE
The Choir Practice
3:03 AM. The chapel was never empty.
Twelve figures in surgical gowns stood facing the statue, singing a Gloria in perfect Latin. When Daniel stepped closer:
Their mouths were stitched shut
The harmonies came from incision wounds in their throats
Their hands were the surgical instruments
The statue's marble lips were now flesh up to the chin. It whispered:
"You'll make beautiful music, Felix."
The First Procedure
Daniel woke to find:
His fingernails replaced with scalpel blades
Suture thread spooling from his mouth
Shadow performing an amputation on nothing
The pager buzzed again:
OR THEATER 1. STAT.
SEASON FINALE: THE APOTHECARY'S GOSPEL
The Truth in the Ledger
The final ledger entry:
"Saint Marguerite was never canonized. Born 1799 as Marguerite Lemarchand, she pioneered living surgery , grafting patient consciousness into organs. The hospice is her harvest chapel. Each Felix becomes another instrument in her eternal symphony."
The Transformation
Midnight in the surgical theater:
The 12 former Felixes emerged from walls, their bodies fused with tools
Daniel's hands moved independently, performing flawless incisions
The statue stepped down, revealing mummified flesh beneath marble
Her first words in 129 years:
"Let us begin the final dissection."
The New Arrival
As Daniel's severed hands continue operating on empty air, a fresh applicant rings the hospice bell. The reception book opens itself to a new page:
FELIX XIV: INTERVIEW PENDING
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The choir is missing its final instrument. Follow for Season 2 - The Harvest Mass - arriving this thursday.
=====================================
The hospice doors are open. The surgical lights are bright. And Saint Marguerite is always watching.......
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Tales That Breathe at Night
I write what lingers in the dark—true horrors veiled in fiction, fiction rooted in truth. Some tales are whispered in graveyards, others buried in silence. If it gave someone nightmares, I’ll write it. Some stories remember you, too.
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The Voice That Waited
Seen (1) At the edge of a quiet town stood an abandoned radio station, forgotten by time and avoided by locals. The building had been shut down for over twenty years, yet people claimed that at exactly 2:17 a.m., a faint broadcast could still be heard on an old frequency. No music. No news. Just a voice. Daniel was a small content creator who specialized in audio storytelling. He didn’t believe in rumors, but he believed in stories. When he heard about the mysterious broadcast, he decided to investigate—not for views, but for curiosity. One cold night, Daniel entered the radio station with his recorder and headphones. Dust covered the equipment, and spider webs hung from the ceiling. Everything looked dead. Silent. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the old transmitter crackled. A voice broke through the static. “Hello… is anyone listening?” Daniel froze. The voice was calm but tired, like someone who had been waiting for a long time. “My name is Arthur,” the voice continued. “I used to work here. If you can hear me, please don’t turn this off.” Daniel whispered into his microphone, “I’m listening.” The voice seemed relieved. “For years, I spoke into this microphone, hoping someone would hear me. When the station shut down, everyone left. Everyone except me.” Daniel’s heart raced. “Are you… alive?” There was a pause. Then a soft laugh. “That depends on what you mean by alive,” Arthur said. “I passed away in this building many years ago. But my voice stayed. This place remembers me.” Arthur explained that he had been a late-night radio host, speaking to lonely people, travelers, and insomniacs. The night the station closed, he stayed behind to record one final message—something meaningful. But no one ever aired it. He died alone, with his words unheard. “So I kept talking,” Arthur said. “Night after night. Waiting for someone to listen.” Daniel felt a heavy silence fill the room. “What do you want from me?” Daniel asked. Arthur answered gently, “I don’t need fear. I don’t need fame. I just want my message to reach someone. Anyone.” Daniel nodded, even though Arthur couldn’t see him. “I’ll share your story.” For the first time, the static disappeared. Arthur’s voice became clear. “Tell them this,” he said. “You are not invisible. Someone, somewhere, needs your voice—even if you don’t know it yet.” The broadcast ended. The room fell silent. Daniel left the station before sunrise and spent the next day editing the audio. He uploaded the recording as a simple podcast episode titled *The Voice That Waited*. He didn’t add music. He didn’t add effects. Just the truth. Within days, thousands of messages poured in. People said the voice helped them through loneliness, grief, and dark nights. Some cried. Some found comfort. Some found hope. Daniel returned to the radio station one last time. At 2:17 a.m., there was no broadcast. The transmitter stayed silent. But Daniel smiled. Because he understood something important: Some voices don’t fade because they are loud. They survive because someone finally listens.
By Do bol ho jaaye 2 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
Nice story!!!