Salome: part 2.
12: The Order Of St Michael
Welcome to Episode 12 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.
This is the end of part 2. Salome returns from the dream with Catherine. Mother Hildegard needs to carry out an initiation before it is too late.
11
I was alone with Mother Hildegard, and the frightened faces of my cohort, standing in their nightgowns like scattered petals in the hall. Someone was sniffling quietly.
“Come,” Mother Hildegard said to them, “it is time.”
She helped me stand and we walked slowly up to the third floor of the house, Mother Hildegard holding my arm over her shoulders as she supported my waist. The journey was silent, the candles in my sisters’ hands steady, contrasting with their flickering shadows on the stairwell. Sisters from the other dormitories joined us, their heads bowed under the weight of the matter. I barely breathed as we ascended.
The cat, sitting beside a vase of flowers on a table on the second floor, watched us pass and approach the next staircase. I looked at him, and remembered his strangeness when he approached this threshold. He did not approach that night either. He remained as still as the figure of Christ above him.
Mother Hildegard led us across a landing that had only one door. She knocked gently, and to my surprise, the door of this dark place opened. It was Sister Therese standing there, bathed in the brilliant light of the room behind her. She moved aside and gestured for us all to come in.
When I had gathered my breath, I looked up at the source of the hubbub. Every sister who lived in this building was now in this room. Every sister but Catherine.
We sat down on chairs in a vast and well-furnished library, the shelves reaching to the limit of the high ceiling, a chandelier hovering in the centre of it. Sister Therese made coffee in a small kitchen behind an alcove, and two of the younger nuns helped her serve it. I could not help but frown in confusion. Coffee, at a time like this? Catherine could have died and I was about to drink coffee with others in a fire-lit library in the middle of the night? I restrained myself from an outburst. In truth, I could not afford to have one. My heart ached with every beat.
I studied the faces of the older sisters, and they told me nothing. With an ethereal calmness, they arranged the furniture and seated everyone, tugging on the sleeves of novices who were beginning to panic. “What is this?” I whispered, half to myself. Someone passed me a tiny cup of black coffee and urged me to drink it. It was Celeste, wide-eyed and more excited than frightened.
Mother Hildegard remained standing, and waited for us all to be seated again before speaking. Her face was grave as she sipped from a small cup. I looked above her head to the clock, my stomach lurching. The witching hour. I shook off the superstitious remnants and looked levelly at the room. The icons were still here: La Madonna on a small shrine beside a vase of daffodils, Christ hanging above us on his crucifix. I took a deep breath, reassurance allowing air into my lungs. The aroma of the brew comforted me with its familiarity. Although in recent dreams, home taunted me, the reminder of where I came from gave me strength.
“Sisters,” Mother Hildegard began, “It is late, but we cannot delay any longer. The Lord calls and we must answer.” The younger women glanced at one another, wondering what was going on. Some of them looked at me. “You are all here because there is something you share. I have spoken with each and every one of you individually, and I am certain now that everyone in this room is supposed to be here.”
“Sisters, Evil is upon us, and it has found its way into the heart of this order.”
Evil.
I didn’t breathe for a moment, making the gasps from the others all the more audible.
“Sister Catherine has taken ill. A demon has taken hold of her.”
I heard the words clearly. I could not believe it. I had been there, and yet I could not believe it. I thought back to her wounds, her state of mind, her wild eyes. Her fear of approaching the church.
“And now it knows,” Mother Hildegard continued over the heavy stillness of the room, “now it knows where we are, who we are, and what we’re here for.” Her eyes brushed over every face, but her countenance remained stern. “There is no time to hesitate. There is no time for fear. We must act, and we must act soon.”
“It is not a demon.” My words hung in the air, too far away for me to catch them and take them back. More gasps.
“Sister Salome?” Mother Hildegard asked, her eyebrow raised.
“It has demon blood, but it is not a demon.” I felt the heat of their eyes fixed on my face as I spoke. “I believe, Mother…”
I searched around the room for Father John, crushed when I couldn’t find him.
“Go on, Sister Salome,” Mother Hildegard said.
“I believe… that this is a vampyre.” I licked my dry lips, “And it is tormenting me also.”
More gasps. I caught hands making the sign of the cross in the corner of my eye.
“Please,” Mother Hildegard said, lowering her head slightly, “continue, Sister Salome.”
I clenched the small empty coffee cup in my hands, and I addressed my sisters. “I had a recurring dream,” I said, my throat tightening. I did not like addressing so many people at once. My cheeks burned. “Sister Catherine was there with me. And in the dream I had tonight, I realised why my friend is so sick, so tired, so pale. I realised why she cannot sleep. I saw the marks on her neck. Something is consuming her, by way of blood.”
Silence, interrupted only by the creak of someone’s chair.
“Please, tell us what else you saw,” Mother Hildegard said, sitting down. I paused for a moment, wondering how she knew there was more to tell. Then I remembered what she had said. She could not see, but she could sense. I had to tell her the truth.
“This creature tries to lure me to the church on the hill. In the dream I pass the grave of my parents. In this dream I am in my childhood village, but I am the only one alive. I go to the church… and…” I broke off. I couldn’t say it.
“Take your time,” Mother Hildegard said. Her face had softened, and she was leaning forward.
“At the church, someone had painted the doorway with the blood of a lamb. The remains of the lamb lie on the stone floor. Then… There is an altar. I cannot see it clearly, but the candles are lit so brightly, and there is a figure in the way of it.” I looked around. They hung on my every word. “The creature is dressed in robes, like a monk. I cannot see its face in its deep hood, but its eyes are bright. Unnaturally so. It knows me, and it tells me I have to stay. Then, it grabs my wrist.”
I pulled my sleeve back and revealed the marks on my arms. Their panic, though they did their best to hide it, permeated through the thickened air of the room.
“Tonight, the dream was slightly different. I went to walk to the church as I always do… for it doesn’t end without this part…” My heart beat furiously in my chest, threatening to crawl up my throat. I forced it down with deep breaths. “But Sister Catherine would not come with me. She was frightened. So frightened.” My throat caught, and I swallowed the lump that tried desperately to rise up. “And she collapsed. Her convulsions wouldn’t stop, and all I could do was pray for her recovery… while the wolves howled outside.”
“Wolves?” Mother Hildegard asked.
I nodded. “Demonic wolves. Red-eyed wolves. So close that I could feel their fetid, hot breath on my neck. In their howls I heard all of human suffering, and I was afraid.”
“And then what happened?”
“I finished my prayer—the prayer for the sick—and woke in the corridor outside your office.”
“Listen carefully, Sisters,” Mother Hildegard said. “This is our sign. Now it is time to act. Let us pray.”
We left our chairs, lowering ourselves to our knees. Mother Hildegard stood over us.
“St. Michael the Archangel,defend us in battle.
Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou,
O Prince of the heavenly hosts,by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan,and all the evil spirits,
who prowl about the worldseeking the ruin of souls.”
“Amen,” we said in unison.
There was a moment of silence, and with my eyes still cast downwards in prayer, I did not see where Sister Therese had gone. When I looked up, she was shuffling over to Mother Hildegard’s side with something in her hands. Something heavy. My mouth hung open.
It was a greatsword. I wondered how someone as frail as Sister Therese could hold such a thing, but she did. She carried it as though it was the Christ child himself, her chin high. She got down on one knee when she was beside Mother Hildegard.
“Sisters,” Mother Hildegard said, taking it from her. Frozen in awe and blinking several times to ensure my eyes were not deceiving me, I watched the long blade catch alight, its celestial flame brilliant and blinding as she held it up for all to see. If doubt had followed any of us into the room, its head had long been severed and reduced to dust. She brought it down with control, resting the tip of the blade on the floor. Her hands seemed so small on the long hilt as she knelt behind it, the glow of the celestial flame illuminating her face. She held on to it as though it carried no heat. “Welcome to the Order of St Michael.”
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