Salome: Episode 19.
The catacombs AND ONE OF MY FAVOURITE SCENES.
Welcome to episode 19 of Salome. I really left you hanging with 18, didn’t I? And no one is annoyed with me.
We’ve had a hiatus of a few weeks while I worked on promoting Oceanus in the run up to its release, but now that that’s over, we’re back to Salome.
Salome is a Gothic horror novel set in 1880s Liverpool. When a novice murders a sister at her own convent in Turin, she expects the gallows. Instead she is brought to a clandestine convent on the banks of the River Mersey. Her name is Salome, and she has a gift, but she must choose a side.
In the last episode, Salome is ordered to follow Catherine to the cemetery. Father John and Muldoon catch up with her just in time.
Salome is a prequel novel to support the Muldoon supernatural thriller series (Book 3 is coming soon!) and will be released in ebook/paperback in October 2026.
“There’s a child in there!” I whispered.
“No,” Muldoon said, shaking his head. “It’s a trap.”
“What?”
Father John stood solemnly, his hat covering his eyes. “It is time, I think.” Muldoon nodded gravely in agreement.
“Your friend is being used as bait, Salome,” Muldoon said.
“But Mother Hildegard said to—”
“She shouldn’t have sent you alone,” Father John said, returning to us and squatting down.
I looked at each of the two men. “It wants you, Salome,” Muldoon said, his face stern.
“Why did she…?” I asked breathlessly.
Father John shook his head. “That I cannot answer. But I am glad we could get to you in time.”
“What about Catherine?”
Father John lowered his gaze, the pause an agonising one. He stood up again. “It is possible we can save her.” His eyes met Muldoon’s, and he gave a grave nod.
Why did they have to be so cryptic all of the time? “Please tell me what is the meaning of this?” I demanded.
“Salome,” Muldoon said gently, looking at me. “How much astral projection have you done?”
I shook my head, remembering the failed forest attempt. “Little.”
Muldoon scoffed. “Little? Come on, that can’t be true.”
I frowned.
“Sure you have. There was the dream, wasn’t there?” he said. “The church and all that? You’ve been there plenty of times.”
“That’s astral projection?” I almost laughed. I was so stupid.
Muldoon continued. “You’ll have to walk to her.”
I began to stand up. He pushed my shoulders down, “No, no,” he said. “In your dream.”
“But I can’t sleep here?”
“You don’t have to sleep.”
“But… The Order? I haven’t finished my training!” The memory of the fading leaves and Mother Hildegard storming out made me feel it would be a wasted effort.
“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, eh, Father?” Muldoon said.
Father John raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth wrestling with the impulse to smile. “He speaks from experience, Salome,” he said, grunting in agreement.
Muldoon returned his attention to me. “We can try, can’t we? Do it with me.”
He sat down in front of me, Father John standing vigil with what I realised was a crossbow he’d been carrying on his back. Thoughts swirled around my head, the severity of the situation finally descending like sediment once kicked up from the sea bed in a tempest. Muldoon took my hands in his. “Close your eyes, and go somewhere you’ve been with her before.”
I froze. I’d never dreamwalked intentionally. He squeezed my hands. “It’s all right. Be patient.”
I looked behind us. “But—”
“Ignore that,” he said. The wailing continued, never ceasing or intensifying. Perhaps it wasn’t real, just as they said. The more I listened, the less human it sounded. “Come on. It’s all right.”
I closed my eyes, and opened them again, frustrated. “I can’t.”
“Less of that. Come on. Just go for a walk.”
I stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Just go for a walk. It was not as easy for me as it evidently was for him.
“What’s she doing where she is? Go on, show me.”
I closed my eyes again.
First, I heard the faint rustle of the leaves on the trees fading into the background. Then Father John’s breathing, his fingers brushing against the tight wire of the crossbow, making it sing ever so slightly, his heart beating steadily. The thrum of a moth’s wings. The clatter of a glass bottle on the kerbside, somewhere else. A fox disturbing soil as it emerged from its den, its weightless step across the cobbles. Rats squeaking and scratching at rubbish in the alleys. The gentle whisper of air above us…
I wanted to open my eyes and see it all, but I remained still, fully absorbed in the vision. Blackness, and dripping water. The air rushed past my ears as I flew across the city. My focus moved to Catherine, but I waited in the dark.
The tip of my nose was cold. I reached out with my hands and touched the bare bricks of the wall, the dried clay and grooves of the cement rough beneath my fingertips. The candles rested in their sconces, unlit. I gingerly put a foot forward. Floor. Hard floor. I took another step, and another, never lengthening my stride. I let the hard surfaces of the building’s structure guide me down the hallway, a little light at the end waiting for me. Smells, as reassuring as a mother’s scent to an infant, widened my lungs; pollen, bread, freshly-washed linen, the slight must of a wool carpet. Sounds, as soft as they were and far away, grounded me. I was in the downstairs corridor of the convent.
I turned to look behind me. “Muldoon?” I asked. My voice echoed in the cavernous space.
“I’m here.” His voice sounded so far away, but I could see him. He was only a couple of feet behind me, encouraging me to go forward. “Lead the way.”
I followed the sound of the splashing water and the clatter of crockery coming from the scullery. “My hands,” I whispered.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re cold.” They stung, as though I’d picked up frozen snow and held it with bare hands for too long. My flesh tingled, but I could not move my fingers.
“It’s all right. Keep going,” Muldoon said. I took a few more steps, my confidence eroding with each one. Why was it so far away?
This isn’t right.
I stopped abruptly. I could smell it. The metallic scent, unmistakable. Blood. Something behind him. “Muldoon?” I said, turning around. Two domes further down the corridor. Small. Glowing. Moving up and down the black space. Widening, reddening, slit pupils. One carnivorous mouth, claws tapping on the bricks as it stalked us, slowly. Peering into the dark, I could see that it was upside down, hanging from the ceiling. The cold, foul air of death brushed my cheeks as it beat its leathery wings.
Muldoon followed my gaze.
“Keep… going,” he whispered.
I hurried forward to the scullery, his footsteps following mine. The thing behind him, its joints cracking as it moved closer, sniffed the air and lunged. I heard Muldoon shout as he punched it away, the connection between his fist and its face echoing through the corridor. I winced, clapping my hands over my ears when I heard its deafening shriek. It retreated, its claws scratching the bricks as it clambered back onto the ceiling. I fired one glance behind. It was growing larger, coming back for another attack. I turned away and ran.
The distance between us and the door of the kitchen seemed further than before, and my legs were growing tired. My chest burned, the taste of blood in my throat. I wanted to stop for breath, but I couldn’t.
The Devil wants you to stop, Salome.
I whimpered as I pushed forward, hearing Muldoon at my shoulder. He was growing tired too. “Come on, Salome,” he uttered with a ragged breath. “Where is the door?”
My heart stopped, a culmination of realisations emerging from the murk of my mind. It was up to me.
“It is right here,” I said, crashing into the large wooden door of the scullery. My hands clumsily groped the knob and turned it. I pushed it open with my body, both of us bursting into a warm, tiled room. Muldoon shoved me out of the way and forced it shut with his body.
“Bolt, Salome!” he called, putting his body against it. I clambered up and reached over him, bringing the bolt down. I yelped when it landed on the door, thrusting me back onto the stone floor. Muldoon didn’t move. “I’ve got it. Go.”
It clawed at the door, some of the wood splintering as it tore the panels. “The Lord is my strength and my shield,” I said to myself, making the sign of the cross as I walked further into the room. I followed the sound of the plates dropping into the sink, and the clink as they were laid to rest on the draining board. A calmness came over me. No longer could I hear the shrieking and hammering in the other room.
She had her back turned to me.
“The mountains,” I said, unsure of how they left my mouth without my mind’s approval. “You must have been dreaming of the mountains.”
She stopped for a moment, her shoulders slumping. Her head bowed, she wiped a plate in the warm, steaming water. “I always wanted to see the mountains,” she said dreamily.
I picked up a drying rag and stood beside her. “We should go and see them.”
She did not look at me. The side of her face that I could see seemed content, dreaming, a slight smile in the corner of her mouth. She continued to wash the dishes. I looked down at her feet. Bare. Filthy.
“Let me wash your feet,” I said. “They are cut.”
She turned to look at me. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Her eyes, sunken beneath dark circles, were heavy and lost. The wildness had gone. Death was coming. Her skin, feverish, glowed in the steam of the water. “What do you believe, Salome?” she asked, her voice so small and broken.
I put the drying rag down and wiped a tear from my eye. “I believe in God, the Father almighty.” I sniffed, my throat tightening. “Creator of heaven and earth and in Jesus Christ…”
“He misses you.”
“What?”
“He asks why you do not visit.”
“Who does?”
“You know.”
My heart, seized by fear and the pain of grief, skipped a beat. She continued. “He asks why you choose God over him.”
My fears confirmed, I steadied myself. “I believe in—”
“God has forsaken him.”
“That is not true. I do not—”
“It hurts, Salome,” she said weakly. I reached for her hands and held them. “There is no pain like His absence. There is no greater shame than being forsaken by He who said he loves you. I have committed no sins, Salome.” Her voice was cold, distant. I was losing her. “Why has he forsaken me?” Tears fell from her eyes, but her face did not move. Her eyes looked through me.
“He has not forsaken you, Catherine.”
“The pain, Salome.”
“Come, let me wash your feet.”
I sat her down in a chair and looked around for a bucket. I went to the sink and filled it with soapy water.
“You are cleaning my body for burial,” she said, drifting away.
“No. I am cleaning your feet. You are home now. You must stay with me.”
I knelt down and gently lifted one of her limp legs, placing it into the water.
“I am alone,” she said.
“You are not.” I bathed the foot with the warm water. “I am with you.”
“Then why am I in Hell?”
I gasped. The foot changed. Smaller. Softer. Uncut. It was not Catherine sitting in the chair but a little girl. The younger Catherine, possessed and alone. Her eyes flickered from fear to fury. My hands trembled. “Why am I in Hell, Salome?” her little voice asked. I shook my head wordlessly, my mouth hung open.
I blinked, the blood in my veins freezing. The figure had transformed again. I still could not speak.
“Why am I in Hell, Salome?” Sister Cecilia. Her blonde hair burnt away, her cheeks dusted with soot. My nose curled. Sulphur. “Do you condemn everyone you love to Hell?”
The saliva forced its way to the front of my mouth, that pulse of throat and stomach muscles accompanying it, threatening to lunge. I wanted to be sick. I wanted to flee, to scream, to beg for an end, but I remained still. I looked down calmly at the water, breathing deeply, and continued to wash the foot in my hands.
“You do not belong there. I believe that you can be saved,” I said.
“I am dead.” Catherine’s voice again.
“No, dear Catherine, you are here with me.”
“Everyone you love dies in the end.”
“That’s not true.”
“I am dead, Salome.”
My eyes met with hers. “No, no you are not.”
“I am forsaken.”
“No. I am with you.”
I wiped the dirt away, bringing the clean foot out of the water, placing it on the ground. I brought the other one into the bucket. “I am with you. God is with you.”
“God has forsaken me.” Her chest heaved, her breath rasping.
“I am with you, Catherine.” I hoped that in saying her name, I could keep her there. “We are going to see the mountains.”
Through cracked, blue lips, she asked, “Do you ever wonder, Salome?”
“Wonder what?”
Her dead eyes, turning pale, fixed their gaze on me. “How can God exist when there are so many horrors in this world?” She pulled down her collar, revealing the gaping wound to me. Fresh. The coppery odour overwhelmed me, making me gag. It bled, and she was growing paler by the minute. “The Devil is real. Look…” The blood glistened, trickling down her translucent, eviscerating flesh. I remained still, my heart sinking. The creature behind the door wanted to finish its meal.
I reached for the linen rag on the sink and dried her feet. “Walk with me,” I said.
She rose from the chair, returning to her trance. I held her arm and led her back to where Muldoon was holding the door, his face flushed and his hair hanging over his eyes as it hammered and kicked, fragments of wood scattering across the kitchen floor. A long claw slid down the gap between two panels, slicing his forearm. He cried out as a trickle of blood rushed down his skin, a forked, serpentine tongue darting out of the gap to lick it away.
“Pray with me,” I said, helping her down to her knees. I knelt beside her. Muldoon, his feet slipping under the pressure, made an effort to push his body further against the door. The tongue returned, the creature screaming as Muldoon slammed the point of a small knife into it. The black flesh tore as it pulled itself away from where it had been pinned. It retaliated with a final push, shattering more panels of wood. Muldoon leaned against the bolt, dodging it as it lunged, hungry for more.
I swallowed and thought about what I was doing. Would it work? I didn’t know. I clutched the small crucifix on my chest and decided that what would be, would be.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I began. Catherine said it with me in unison, unshaken by Muldoon’s cries as he fought the horned monster in the door. Her eyes were closed. Mine remained open. I looked at Muldoon as I prayed.
Close your eyes.
What?
Close your eyes.
He did as I said as the prayer continued aloud. “Lead us not into temptation,” I said, moving my attention to the creature. I stood and approached, watching it shrink away behind the door. “But deliver us from evil,” I commanded, watching it slam into the wall behind the door, its clawed hands covering its eyes, its skin sizzling in the light. “Amen.” The smell made me retch, but I remained resolute. Catherine continued praying.
Next Chapter⇾
Ways to support this fiction newsletter.
As well as the option to upgrade your subscription to paid, I do also have books that you can purchase as well as a ko-fi and paypal.
If you’re enjoying Salome, you really would enjoy The Muldoon Mysteries series. There are currently two books (standalones) in this series. Click the image below to find out more about them, and find them on Tiny Worlds.
My books are now available at Tiny Worlds
It is indeed a picturesque scene. You described it beautifully!