Salome: part 2.
Chapter 8i: “You can’t hide it, Salome,” she said, almost in my ear. I turned to face her, our eyes level. What did she know?
Welcome to chapter 8 of Salome. This is a Gothic Horror novel set in the 1880s and introduces Sister Salome, a young Italian nun who will appear in the 3rd Muldoon book. I started this serial to help you get to know her before the events of the next novel.
Last week, Salome dreamed she was at her old cottage, but there was something wrong. Her meeting with a hooded figure in the church has brought her to the enemy’s attention.
I met with Father John the following morning, my body exhausted from holding on to the details of the dream. He was on his way out, but seeing my face, or hearing my voice, he silently removed his hat and hung it back on the hook, ushering me into the dining room. Mother Hildegard was out with some of the sisters on community duties, and it was still early enough for me to finish my work before they returned. He removed his coat and sat down at the table, gesturing for me to do the same.
I told him of the night before, and the events leading up to it.
“Do you doubt your place here?” he asked.
“No. Mother Hildegard told me that I was not ready, and I agree with her… but I do not wish to leave.”
“Is there anything here that is troubling you?”
“No.” I was certain, but he eyed me curiously, making sure.
“When did this begin?” he asked.
“Last night. I fell asleep some time after returning from Mother Hildegard’s office.”
“Were you in distress of any sort? You did not come down for your evening meal, and Sister Bridget thought you ought not to be disturbed.”
They did check on me. “I am grateful. I needed the rest.”
He groaned, agreeing with a nod. “Mother Hildegard thought as much. So go on, tell me everything, if you please.”
He listened intently, slowly nodding but not making a sound as I spoke. I relived every moment of the dream, and every sensation.
“So,” he said, sitting back and clasping his hands together on his lap, “it was vivid? Almost as clear as this room, or you and I speaking now?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. It was as real as this.”
“A dream?”
I felt my body collapsing in deflation, dragging my countenance down with it. He waved a hand, stopping me in my tracks.
“I will not suggest anything to you; it has to come from you.”
“What I saw was more vivid than a dream, Father.”
“How so?”
“Father,” I said, my throat catching. That had happened in bursts throughout the morning, my grief resurfacing each time. “Father, it was real.”
If he thought I was ridiculous, or sick, or hysterical, his face showed no sign. He took a deep breath, his brows fixed in a new pensiveness. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, but he did not look at it, nor did he ever reach for his pocket watch.
“Go on,” he finally said, still thinking, still listening. Waiting for new evidence to arise.
“I felt the dust. I felt the moist air on my face. I can still feel the stones underneath my thin shoes. There was a storm coming; it was evening, and the lights were on in the church.”
I told him of the blood, the lamb, the candles, the altar I could not see.
“Tell me more about the hooded man.”
“He was in my room, Father.”
He fixed his eyes on me, and pointed upstairs, “Your room here?”
“My room, here.”
“And what happened then?”
I told him of the sight behind me, and how I turned to look at him.
“Were you afraid?” he asked calmly.
“Yes.”
He sighed, and folded his arms. “How did you get rid of him?”
“I didn’t. He was gone. Gone before I could say anything or do anything.”
“Gone how? Through the door?”
“No. Just gone. Disappearing with a blink.”
“I see.”
He thought again for a moment. We were not due for a lesson until the evening, and I felt terribly guilty for pulling him out of other appointments to speak to me about some silly dream, but it bothered me.
“Could you smell him?” he asked quietly.
“Father?”
He leaned closer. “Could you smell him? Was there a scent? A familiar smell?”
There had been a smell. I passed the tallow of the candles and the perfume of flowers to retrieve it, but there was a smell, and I was no stranger to it.
Death.
While cleaning the stairs, I could hear the muffled voices of Father John and Mother Hildegard in her office. A heated discussion. I continued to work as though I couldn’t hear them, but Sister Bridget eyed me suspiciously and told me to hurry up. I wanted to know what they were talking about, but whatever it was, Mother Hildegard was not agreeing with him on several matters. She didn’t raise her voice, but like a stage performer, she could make it reach every corner of the building if she wanted to. Worried that I’d run out of a reasonable timeframe to be seen cleaning steps, I gathered my things and went to the next floor.
Upstairs, the dormitories were empty, and I worked in silence, the bristles of the brush moving back and forth my only sense of time passing. Occasionally, one of my sisters would come and go, greeting me quietly. Nothing seemed amiss, and they regarded me as they always did.
I did not see Sister Catherine until after dinner.
That night we cleared up in the kitchen. If anyone was to look in on us, we were in our usual good spirits. She was a dear friend to me, and we could talk about anything while we worked.
Sometimes, the scar that Sister Cecelia left ached, and urged caution, but Catherine knew nothing of my former life. She did not know what I had done. She did not need to know. I had talked about this at great length with my superiors, the guilt fading each time.
I asked Father John why I had been forgiven. Would an exorcism not have been better? But there was no need to exorcise a corpse. There was no soul to save. A shell. That was all she was. I caught a lump in my throat thinking about it: a lie that lived for years beside me. But it was God’s plan. I still believe it.
The shadows of the past hang to obscure the light only if we let them. I chose to pull them down and opened the windows, starting anew.
I felt a closeness to her that I didn’t feel with the others. Of course, we all worked and served together, but Catherine roused curiosity in me. Catherine made me laugh.
In the longer days of sunshine that often went hand in hand with spring, I could see her face in the fading light coming in through the windows. Haggard features. Dark circles under eyes that were never closed for long enough. Nails bitten down until they stung every time the skin stretched to accommodate movement. The candlelight had been kind to her. The sun had not. But no matter how hungry she was for sleep, the insomnia did not seem to dampen her spirits.
That evening, we talked about dreams.
“Do you dream much?” she asked me as she gently placed more plates into the sink. “You know, since coming here?”
“I dreamed…” I was confused. She realised and laughed, shaking her head.
“Sorry, I know about last night, but I mean… Do you dream often?”
“Oh.”
“When I came here, it was strange. I remember sleeping and dreaming a lot as a child, and sometimes before I came here, but not so much now. I wondered what it must be like for you.”
I did not know how to answer, and I did not like the way my gut responded to so innocent a question. Did I dream? Was what happened to me the previous night a dream? Why was she asking me? The panic intensified, and Sister Catherine was waiting for an answer.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, disappointed with how flustered I sounded. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, and made the excuse that the water in the sink was too hot.
“Do you?” I asked.
She continued washing dishes, not appearing to notice my mild distress. “I do sometimes,” she said. “You know I have trouble sleeping, but sometimes I will have a little dream about home or what has happened that day.” She stopped what she was doing for a moment, her shoulders slumping. “Can I tell you about a dream that frightened me?”
I dried off some of the plates with a cloth and stacked them gently. “If you want to.”
“I think it would be of great help if I could just tell someone.” She sighed.
“Then tell me.”
She continued with her work and looked down at the suds. Her red hands and forearms moved in and out of the water mechanically as she spoke. “That night you saw me in your room… Was that only yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“It seems so long ago.” She looked down at her hands for a moment, her shoulders slumped. “I had a strange dream.”
“It woke you?”
“That’s what’s strange about it. I sleepwalked to your room.”
“What?”
“Sister, it frightened me.”
“Tell me,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “Go on.”
“I was in a village. It wasn’t mine. There are mountains in Ireland, but these were none that I had seen before or even heard of.”
“Have you been up a mountain?”
She half-laughed. “No, and this is why it’s strange. I knew they weren’t from home. You know how you just know something isn’t yours? Like a comb you’ve used in your hair that doesn’t drag right, or shoes that have been worn in by someone else. I knew the mountains weren’t mine.”
“I see.”
“I was in a little cottage, and those mountains… they were mountains around me. But the cottage was empty, and there was a storm.”
The shatter of the crockery on the stone floor startled us both. I looked down to see that it had fallen from my hands. I hurried to pick up the pieces before Sister Bridget returned to see what the noise was.
Sister Catherine crouched down beside me and assisted me. “You can’t hide it, Salome,” she said, almost in my ear. I turned to face her, our eyes level. What did she know? She smiled and shrugged. “They’ll know we’re one plate short.”
She looked down at my hands. “What happened? Was that the plate?”
We both stared at the scratches on my wrist, my world going dark.
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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.
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Is Sister Catherine as innocent as she seems? Or is it an act? Are they having the same dream or is Catherine deliberately trying to intensify Salome's fear? I enjoyed this chapter, Hanna!