The Morning Bell
The first bell tore through her dreams like a scream.
Sister Clara sat up, her breath shallow, the darkness in her small cell still heavy with the scent of wet stone. For a moment, she couldn't tell if she was awake. The silence after the bell felt too deep — like something listening. She touched her throat. Her rosary was still there, tangled in her fingers. She must have fallen asleep praying. Another bell struck — closer this time. The sound didn't echo; it pressed against her chest, vibrating through the walls like a living pulse.
Clara rose, the cold biting through her bare feet. Her habit hung neatly on the peg by the door. She paused, her fingers brushing the coarse wool before slipping it over her shift. The fabric clung to her skin, still damp from the mountain air. When she reached for her veil, the candle on her table flickered once… then went out.
Darkness. Complete.
She swallowed hard and lit it again with shaking hands. The flame caught slow, reluctant — as though it too feared the light. By the time she stepped into the corridor, the other nuns were already moving in silence toward the chapel. Their footsteps were soft, yet the sound filled the hall like the rustling of dry leaves. No one spoke. The air was thick with candle smoke and the faint, sweet rot of old incense.
Mass began before dawn.
The chapel of Saint Caritas was vast — larger than it had seemed from outside. Columns rose like ribs into the vaulted dark. The statue of the veiled figure stood before the altar, gleaming pale under the candlelight. Her hands were still open, but the light made the folds of her robe seem to move — as if breathing. Clara knelt among the others, her knees pressing into cold stone. The chant began low, humming through the air like wind through catacombs. "Kyrie eleison… Christe eleison…"
She tried to follow, her voice trembling. The Latin blurred on her tongue.
When Mother Superior entered, every head bowed.
Her shadow stretched across the floor — long, impossibly long — until it reached Clara's feet. For a heartbeat, it twitched, as though something else moved within it. Clara's breath caught, but when she dared to look again, it was only the flicker of the candles. The Mass continued. But when the bell rang for the final blessing, the sound cracked — shrill, wrong — and every candle guttered out for the space of a single breath. When they relit, Mother Superior stood already turned toward the statue, her voice a whisper that seemed not to belong to her.
"In candore venit… et in candore morimur."
In whiteness she comes… and in whiteness we die.
A shiver rippled through the room.
Afterward, the sisters filed out one by one. No one spoke. Even the air seemed afraid to stir. Clara lingered, her eyes fixed on the pale statue. For the first time, she noticed something she hadn't before — faint streaks of red at the statue's feet, like veins in the marble… or something older seeping through. A soft voice pulled her back. "Sister Clara?" It was Sister Agnes — the one assigned to guide her. She was young, with calm grey eyes and a smile that looked gentle but never reached them. "Come," she said softly. "Reverend Mother wishes you to see the grounds." The monastery by daylight was no less haunting. Mist still clung to the cloisters, blurring the garden paths. The stone walls glistened with dew, and the gargoyles that crowned them seemed to watch her as she passed. Sister Agnes walked ahead, her tone light, practiced — the way one might speak to a visitor they hoped would stay. "We rise at the first bell. The second calls for prayer, the third for work. Meals are taken in silence. The east wing holds the library and archives. You may read the approved texts there — only those marked with the seal. "They turned down a narrow hallway. The air grew colder. Agnes stopped before an arched doorway sealed with iron bars. The keyhole was filled with wax.
Clara frowned. "What's in there?"
"The lower cloister," Agnes said. "It is not to be entered. Not by us."
She smiled again, though her fingers tightened on the edge of her sleeve. "Those who serve below pray in their own way."
"Below?" Clara echoed. "You mean there are more sisters there?" Agnes didn't answer. She only turned, her voice softening. "The Holy Death watches over all who dwell in Saint Caritas. But some serve Her more closely than others."
Before Clara could ask, the bell tolled again.
This time, it didn't sound from above.
It came from beneath the floor.