We May Not Leave

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The windows were covered in black curtains and we were given provisions enough to last the full week.

But don’t open the door.

No matter what we heard from outside the abbey: friendly voices, loved ones long gone, screeches and denunciations, the singing of the angels…

Don’t open the door.

On the first night, Brother Damien told us he heard scratching at the old slab of wood, like something feral was trying to claw its way in. The temptation to look was unbearable. But the rule was:

Don’t open the door.

On the second day, Brother Felix found drawings by a previous acolyte in the attic. He had looked out the window, it seemed, and gone mad with what he saw. Brother Felix became unwell that day and went to bed early.

On the third day, Brother Felix told me he felt the food was going sour. He said at night God’s voice had come to him and said the food was poisoned. “Throw it all away, my son. Save yourself.” We had to restrain him on the sofa.

On the fourth day, I heard the voice too. Clear as church bells. Plants grew from the floor. Some grew through Brother Felix’s feet. Mushrooms grew from his eyes.

Shrieks last night. This morning, I found Brother Damien gone. The flowers have grown through Brother Felix. Still he chatters away, even though they grow through his mouth. We were here, us three, to be blessed. A week to avoid the temptation to look outside and see the face of God staring at us.

But oh, the wind howls. And my stomach growls. And I wonder now if God is not very, very far away.