Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, religious orders, and institutions are entirely imaginary and bear no direct relation to any real faith or denomination. The narrative explores the psychological and supernatural aspects of devotion, fear, and redemption within a fictional setting. Reader discretion is advised — this is a gothic horror tale meant to unsettle, not offend.
Dedication
For those who still pray in the dark and dream in silence.
Acknowledgment
To everyone who stood by me through this journey — thank you. Writing The Holy Death was walking through both shadow and light, and I couldn't have done it without the faith and encouragement of those who believed in me when I doubted myself.
To my friends and readers who waits patiently for every chapter — your support gives life to this story.
And to those who carry their own fears quietly, may this book remind you that even in darkness, there's always something sacred left to hold onto.
With love and gratitude,
— TalesReborn
Epigraph
Opening Scripture
(From the Lost Gospel of Saint Caritas — Codex Mors I:VIII)
"Et vidi: et ecce equus pallidus,
et nomen illi Mors; et infernus sequebatur eam."
— Revelationis 6 : 8
And the veil was torn,
and from the wound of Heaven came the Mother.
She rode the pale horse through the chapel doors,
her eyes hollow, her breath a psalm.
Benedicti mortui, qui moriuntur in fide.
Blessed are the dead who die in faith.
They knelt before her, believing her light divine.
But when she blessed them, their hearts fell silent.
Blood turned to incense. Flesh to prayer.
In candore venit, she whispered.
Sub velo absconditur veritas.
(In whiteness she comes. Beneath the veil, truth is hidden.)
Now she waits within the stones and echoes,
her voice a cold confession through the walls.
Each breath of prayer feeds her hunger.
Each Amen opens the grave a little wider.
Mors Sancta venit in candore,
et infernum sequitur eam.
The Holy Death comes clothed in white,
and Hell follows her.
Prologue — The Arrival at Saint Caritas
The scripture ended in a whisper.
Sister Clara traced the last Latin words with her thumb, the parchment damp from her breath.T he candle beside her flickered, struggling against the wind that howled through the carriage cracks. The mountains rose outside — black and endless, their peaks swallowed by fog.
"Saint Caritas lies just ahead, Sister," said the driver. His voice was thin, almost afraid to echo.
No lanterns burned along the path. Only the monastery's bell tolled somewhere far above — one deep note, carried on the storm. Clara drew her cloak tighter. "Does it always ring this late?" she asked. The man didn't answer. His hands tightened on the reins. When the carriage stopped before the gates, he didn't look back. He only crossed himself, murmured "Deus te custodiat" — May God keep you — and left her there. The gates of Saint Caritas loomed before her, older than any church she had known. The iron was veined with rust, and carved into the arch above, half-buried in moss, were the words:
> Mors Sancta venit in candore.
The Holy Death comes clothed in white.
She pressed her rosary to her lips. Lightning cracked — and for the briefest instant, she thought she saw a figure standing behind the gates. A nun, still as marble, veil fluttering in the wind.
But when the thunder came, the figure was gone.
A lantern appeared on the other side. A woman's voice — soft, hollow — spoke:
"Welcome, Sister Clara. You are late. We have prayed for your arrival."
The gates creaked open.
As she stepped through, the world seemed to exhale. The air grew heavier, colder, the scent of rain replaced by something ancient — incense and wax and faint decay. Her heartbeat slowed. For a moment, she thought she heard whispers beneath the bell's toll, murmuring in Latin too faint to understand:
"Sub vela venit anima… sub morte pax."
(The soul comes beneath the veil… under death, peace.)
Her shoes sank into the wet stone as she crossed the threshold. The iron gates groaned shut behind her — not loudly, but with the finality of a coffin lid. Inside, the courtyard smelled of rain and old smoke.
Sisters moved like shadows beneath the cloisters, their faces hidden by hoods. None spoke. None looked at her. Only the sound of dripping water filled the silence — slow, rhythmic, like something breathing.
Mother Superior stood waiting by the chapel doors.
Tall. Veiled in black. Her hands folded beneath her sleeves.
"We rise at dawn," she said. "We pray at dusk. We confess at midnight. You will find no rest in between."
"Yes, Reverend Mother," Clara whispered. She bent to kiss the woman's hands — cold as stone, smooth as candle wax. The skin smelled faintly of myrrh and something metallic, like dried blood. The Mother's lips curved — a semblance of a smile. She placed her palm over Clara's head and murmured a blessing, her voice low, drawn out like a chant:
> "Dominus te videat, et si non, mors te inveniat."
(May the Lord see you, and if He does not… may Death find you.)
The words lingered in the air like smoke.
"There is no need for fear here, my child," the Mother said, her tone almost kind. "We are under the gaze of the Holy Mother." She gestured toward the chapel. At the far end of the hall, beneath a single candle, stood a statue — a veiled figure in white, hands outstretched, face lost beneath shadow. Something about it made Clara's throat tighten. She bowed her head. And in that silence, she thought she heard a breath that was not her own — a whisper that slid through the candlelight like smoke:
> "In candore venit… sub velo absconditur veritas."
(In whiteness she comes… beneath the veil, truth is hidden.)
Clara turned.
No one was there. But the bell above the monastery began to toll again — slow, hollow, and wrong.
This time, she counted the rings.
There were thirteen.