Mourir, Décéder (To Die) (Ch. 1)

The year was 1996 and I was working a dead end job reporting for some local paper. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t exactly easy either. In our small town it was the same thing every week. You go out and interview someone much older and wiser, or talk and wish someone a happy birthday, and collect obituaries after someone in the community died. The only thing that wasn’t overly consistent was the new women that would come to town to join the nunnery. No one really paid any mind to them though. They all dressed the same...I mean they dressed like nuns. Some of the girls I went to high school with graduated and decided to join it. Apparently, it was their dream. Weird dream if you ask me.

One day, in late December, the quiet serene town we lived in changed. Around 1 AM on December 15, people began flowing in and out of the nunnery in quick and concerning movements. I’ve heard of this kind of thing happening before, way before I was born. The rumors say that it’s because one of the nuns were being judged and the flow of people in and out were those coming to judge to decide the fate of the girl or woman that disgraced their image. The rumors also say that the last girl who was judged was Scarlett Truie, but I don’t see how that's true because as far as I know, she lives a few streets over from the nunnery and is in her late 60s now. She is awfully different from many others in the town. People don’t know much about her other than the fact she graduated high school and disappeared only to return years later when her parents died and she moved back into the house she grew up in.

On December 16, 1996, at 3 AM, there was a scream. It was loud and piercing. Immediately cops arrived on the property that the scream was heard from, which was oddly enough coming from the nunnery. Outside the front door of the nunnery, there was blood lacing the fresh snow that had fallen the night before. After further investigation, they could tell it was still fresh. When the cops questioned the nuns awake they were emotional and full of surprise...except one. Elizabeth Procureur’s only words when questioned by the police was, “We don’t tolerate impurity officer.” The officer shook his head in understanding and let it go saying that he took it to mean they would never be responsible for something of the sort.

A week went by and with no leads, they couldn’t do much. For the most part, people forgot about it. Time drug on and then on January 3, 1997, at approximately 5:55 PM we got a call at my office. The number was private and I answered. There was shuffling in the background and the person was having exasperated, short and quiet breaths as if they were trying not to be found while playing a competitive game of hide-and-seek.

“Hello?” I said into the phone.

Her voice was soft and trembling as she began to speak, “Look...I...I don’t have long, but I need to tell you...that...that trail...the trail of blood leading out of the...out of the nunnery...it’s no accident...this place... I mean...I mean the nunnery...its evil...I...I….”

The line went dead. Hands shaking I wrote down what the scared young girl said. A few hours later while sitting at home I heard police sirens driving quickly past my house. Stepping outside I see them headed in the direction of the nunnery. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I immediately grab my jacket and keys and race out of the house still in my loungewear. The drive there is silent other than the sounds of more police rushing to the scene.

When I arrive there is blood covering the ground outside the nunnery once again. The police keep yelling for everyone to stand back. On the opposite side of the crowd, I see Scarlett Truie, her frail hands are shaking as she's clutching something close to her chest. Slowly, I make my way to her.

“What's wrong?” I ask her as I rub her back trying to comfort the scared and upset old woman.

“I...I...I shouldn’t have given in so easily...she’s gone now...it’s my fault...it’s all my fault...she...they..they threatened me and I...I...it’s my fault.” She stumbled over her words while tears streamed down her face.

“I’m sorry, but um Ms. Truie...what are you talking about?” I ask slowly.

“My...my daughter...she's dead…” She whispers.