Beneath the confession

“Father! Come quickly!”

I pulled on my cassock and followed the novice through the darkened halls into the infirmary wing. Sister Agnes stood by the cot; you could see worriness all over her face. On the mattress lay Sister Perpetua, one of the oldest nuns. Her habit was soaked dark with blood, and her breathing came in wet, ragged rattles.

I dropped to my knees besides her. “I’m here, Sister. Speak if you can.”

Perpetua’s eyes fluttered open. She reached up with surprising strength, her hands clutching at my neck and pulling me closer. Her breath was hot and laboured against my ear.

“Forgive me, Father… I lied to God.”

My pulse spiked. “What did you lie about?”

Her lips trembled. “The saint buried beneath this monastery… isn’t a saint.”

Her grip loosened. A final, shuddering exhale escaped her, and she went still, her eyes fixed on the ceiling beams.

I made the sign of the cross and gently closed her eyelids. The room fell silent except for the distant drip of rain from the eaves.

By morning, the body was gone. The cot was stripped bare – no blood, no stains, absolutely no sign that Sister Perpetua had ever lain there. Only the faint imprint of her head remained on the thin pillow.

Who took the body? We don't know. Was the dying woman telling the truth? We couldn't tell.

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I stood in the empty infirmary as the first light of dawn filtered through the narrow arched window. The silence pressed down on me. I had barely slept after the night’s events—Perpetua’s final words kept turning over and over in my mind.

Sister Agnes entered, carrying fresh linens. “The bishop wants to see you after Prime. He’s not pleased.”

“About the body?” I asked.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “About the disturbance. We don’t speak of such things here.”

I nodded but said nothing. I had only been at St Eudoxia for three weeks, yet the weight of the place already felt familiar in my bones—the long stone corridors, the constant smell of wax and old paper, and the way voices carried strangely through the walls.

I made my way to the chapel for morning prayer. The novices and priests knelt in rows, habits and cassocks rustling softly. My gaze found Sister Caterina near the front. Even in the dim candlelight, she stood out: dark hair tucked beneath her veil, sharp green eyes focused on the altar. She had arrived six months before me, and something about her had pulled at me from the very first day.

After the service, she lingered as the others filed out. “I heard about Sister Perpetua,” she whispered when we were nearly alone. “Is it true she passed in the night?”

I glanced around before answering. “She did. But her body… it’s missing.”

Caterina’s eyes widened slightly. “What do you mean… missing?”

I nodded. “We need to be careful what we say. The bishop is already uneasy.”

We walked together down the cloister. The morning air was cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth from the gardens. Her sleeve brushed mine, and the contact sent a spark through me that I tried to ignore.

“I’ve been having doubts,” she said quietly. “About my place here… and everything.”

I stopped near a pillar. “Doubt is not the enemy, Caterina. It can lead us closer to truth.” My voice softened. “If you ever need to talk… my door is open.”

Her gaze held mine a moment longer than it should have. “Thank you, Father.”

The rest of the morning passed in duties. I heard confessions in the small wooden booth near the library. Most were ordinary, petty jealousies and minor lusts. But one young seminarian, Brother Thomas, seemed agitated.

“Father… I saw something in the tunnels last week. Lights and unrecognised voices. I think someone was digging.”

I leant closer. “Digging for what exactly, Thomas?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But Sister Perpetua warned me not to speak of it.” He crossed himself quickly and left.

By midday, word of the missing body had spread in hushed tones. I found Detective Luca Moretti waiting in the rectory parlour, looking out of place in his rumpled coat.

“Another one," he said without greeting. “This makes four unexplained incidents in two years. "Are you keeping count, Father?”

I poured water for us both. “The Church handles its own matters when possible.”

Moretti snorted. “Convenient. I’ll need access to the infirmary and the tunnels.”

“I’ll speak to the bishop.”

As the detective left, I noticed Safiya Brick in the courtyard, notebook in hand, talking to one of the lay workers. The journalist had been circling the monastery for weeks, and her presence made me uneasy, though I couldn’t say exactly why.

Afternoon brought more rain. I retreated to the ancient library, where shelves towered around me, heavy with leather volumes, to prepare my sermon. I pulled one down at random: a history of the monastery’s founding. The pages smelled of age. As I flipped through, a loose sheet fell out, containing handwritten notes, dates, names, and a single underlined phrase: “The saint who is not.”

I gripped the paper tightly.

That evening, after Vespers, I sought Caterina again. We met in one of the lesser-used cloisters, where the candles burnt low.

“Tell me what you know about Perpetua,” I said.

She hesitated, then spoke. “She used to work in the archives. She once told me the miracles that made this place famous… she questioned them. Said some things were better left buried.”

I stepped closer. The space between us felt charged. “And you? Why did you come here, Caterina?”

Her breath caught. “I thought it would save me… from my past… from questions I couldn’t answer.”

Our hands brushed. Neither of us pulled away. The silence stretched, heavy with things neither of us dared name yet. I could smell the faint soap on her skin and see the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath the habit.

“I should go,” she whispered, but didn’t move.

My voice was low. “Stay a moment longer.”

I leant in. Our lips met hungrily. Her fingers gripped my cassock as I pressed her gently against the cool stone wall. The kiss deepened, turning urgent. My hand slid to her waist, pulling her closer. A soft sound escaped her throat as our bodies aligned.

We broke apart, breathing hard.

“This is absolutely wrong, Jordan,” she said, eyes bright.

“Perhaps,” I replied, my thumb tracing her lower lip. “But it feels like the truth.”

Footsteps echoed somewhere down the corridor, and we separated quickly.

Later that night, I lay in my cell, replaying Perpetua’s dying words. The saint beneath the monastery, the missing body, and the loose page in the library.

Sleep came slowly, filled with fragments of candlelight, Caterina’s mouth on mine, and the sense that some

thing ancient and hungry was waking beneath the stones.

I woke again near midnight. This time, there was a note slipped under my door.

“Meet me in the tunnels at 2 a.m. — C.”

I dressed quickly.