The unholy sister

In the heart of a desolate countryside stood St. Agnes Convent, its towering stone walls etched with time, worn down by decades of harsh weather and forgotten prayers. The land around it was barren, stripped of all life except for the wild crows that circled above. The sisters who had once called it home were long gone, leaving behind nothing but a silence so oppressive, it seemed to swallow the earth itself. No one dared go near the convent. Not anymore.

It was said to be cursed.

But as with all legends, there was always someone brave—or foolish—enough to test the boundaries. Ellie, a journalist from the city, had heard the stories whispered in every pub and on every street corner. St. Agnes Convent, once a peaceful sanctuary for the devout, was now nothing more than a haunted ruin, home to a vengeful spirit. It was said that the last nun who had walked its halls, Sister Beatrice, had been a devout woman, a model of piety and virtue. Yet, in the end, she had succumbed to something far darker.

Determined to uncover the truth, Ellie set out to investigate the convent. Armed with her camera, notebook, and a healthy dose of skepticism, she traveled to the outskirts of town. The weather had turned cold and rainy as she made her way up the long, crumbling road toward the convent's imposing gates.

As Ellie passed through the rusted iron gates, a sense of unease washed over her. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone and decay. The once grand structure stood before her like a mausoleum, its windows shattered, the doors long since sealed shut by time and neglect. But there was something about it—something that made her heart race with a strange mixture of curiosity and dread.

Inside, the convent was a labyrinth of forgotten halls and decaying rooms. Dust covered everything. The wooden pews in the chapel had rotted away, leaving only the skeletal remains of what once was a place of worship. But it wasn’t just the decay that made Ellie’s skin crawl. It was the silence. The deep, suffocating silence that seemed to reverberate in her bones.

Her flashlight flickered as she made her way through the corridor, her footsteps echoing off the walls. She paused at the end of the hall, where a door stood slightly ajar. The faintest whisper of a breeze seemed to beckon her forward, and without thinking, she pushed the door open.

Inside was a small, dimly lit room—an office of sorts, with an old, wooden desk piled high with papers and books. At the far side of the room, a tall, ornate mirror stood against the wall, its glass cracked but still intact. As Ellie approached the mirror, her breath caught in her throat. Her reflection was there—but it wasn’t just her. Behind her, a figure stood, barely visible in the dim light.

A nun. Her habit was old and tattered, the once-white fabric now stained and torn. Her face was pale, almost sickly, with dark, hollow eyes that seemed to peer into Ellie’s very soul. The figure’s lips curled into a twisted smile, a smile that made Ellie’s blood run cold.

Without thinking, Ellie turned to face the figure, but there was nothing there. The room was empty. The mirror, too, was empty. A chill swept over her, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Suddenly, the air grew thick with the scent of something rotten—like decaying flesh—and the faint sound of a chant, soft at first, but growing louder, filled the room. Ellie’s heart raced. She backed away from the mirror, her hand fumbling for the door. But the door wouldn’t open. It was as if something was holding it shut from the other side.

The chanting grew louder, more frantic. Ellie could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw it. The figure in the mirror—Sister Beatrice—was now standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, her hands outstretched as if reaching for Ellie.

Ellie stumbled back, crashing into the desk, knocking over a stack of papers. The room seemed to warp around her as the chanting grew louder, now a chorus of voices, all repeating the same prayer over and over, but the words were twisted, distorted. They no longer spoke of faith or salvation. They spoke of torment, of a vow broken, of a darkness that could never be undone.

In a panic, Ellie rushed toward the window, desperate to escape. But as she pulled open the shutters, she found herself staring not at the stormy landscape outside, but at a vast, black void, as if the world had been swallowed up entirely. The chanting was deafening now, and Ellie felt her head spin as the room seemed to close in on her.

The figure of Sister Beatrice stepped closer, her twisted smile now a grotesque snarl. "You shouldn’t have come," she whispered, her voice a rasping, hollow sound. "You’ve awoken the curse."

Ellie’s knees buckled beneath her as she fell to the floor, her breath shallow and quick. The room was no longer just a room—it was a tomb, a prison of the dead, and Sister Beatrice was its warden.

With a final scream, Ellie tried to run, but as she crossed the threshold of the door, she was pulled back. Her body jerked violently as if held by invisible hands. In the last moment before the darkness consumed her, she saw the truth—the truth of what had happened to Sister Beatrice and the others. It was no accident. The convent had been a place of twisted rituals, where the line between faith and madness had long since vanished.

When the town found Ellie’s body days later, all they found was her camera. The lens was cracked, but on the film inside, the last image captured was of a nun standing before the altar, her face twisted in an unholy smile, her eyes glowing with malevolent glee. And above her, in the rafters, a dark figure loomed—a shadow of something far worse than a mere ghost.

The curse of St. Agnes Convent had claimed another soul.