The Orphan of Saint Olette

Eleven

The Cathedral was silent when Aoife returned. None of the candles were lit, enveloping the place in darkness. Forgive her for thinking it, but the young orphan couldn't help thinking how sinister the place looked without light. That the candles weren't lit had her worried, though. It was possible that evening mass had dragged on longer than usual, but surely there would still be signs of life in the place? The young woman managed to find a candle and a match as she fumbled around in the dark, listening for any other sound as she lit the candle. Nothing. Absolute silence, save for the blood pulsing through her ears as they strained to hear anything.

The orphan knew the candles should be lit, and while duty pushed her to light the rest around the Cathedral, she knew she needed to find the priest first, or even one of the Sisters. The light from her candle barely illuminated the path before her, and her free hand clung to the wall beside her instinctively. Feeling her way through the Cathedral, a sense of fear began to wash over her. What if something had happened? What if someone had taken her friends? Her family? Heartbeat increasing, she could hear its steady thump, thump, thump in her ears. And still that silence.

"Sister Ciara?" she called out weakly.

Before her sat the nave, a vast wall of pitch blackness. Too thick and too dense for the meagre light of her candle to permeate, the space filled the young orphan with a sense of dread. But Aoife was naive, and optimistic. Everything would be fine. She would cross the nave, make her way into the underbelly of the Cathedral, and she would find someone. She would likely trip along the way, but that was only to be expected in the rising darkness.

She inched her way along the pews, taking tiny steps that spoke of her anxiousness. And then suddenly she slipped, the hard stone of the tiled floor rushing forward to catch her, and she knew she would have bruises later. Worrying about bruises would have to wait, though. Something wet touched her hand. It was lukewarm, and sticky to the touch, and she could feel it seeping into her skirts. She righted herself, rescuing her candle from the pew it had rolled under, and turned to face the mysterious wetness. The naive part of her wanted to believe it was nothing but rainwater. The Cathedral had had leaks before, but there hadn't been a rain for weeks.

A quiet gasp—somewhere between shock and fear—escaped her when she caught the red hue of whatever it was staining her hands. Blood. It was blood. She could try to convince herself that it was wax, or something equally as innocent, but she was a woman, and she knew blood better than any man. Her stained hand rushed to her side, trying in vain to wipe the blood off onto her skirt, candlelight illuminating the puddle on the floor. More blood. Pooled across the tiles, smeared away from the nave. It was everywhere. No matter which way she turned, all she could see was red.

Panic began to set in. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts that left her dizzy. Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears. And still there was all that blood. Her body moved for her. The orphan wandered further into the depths of the Cathedral, following the drying trail of blood. The further she walked, the more she could smell it. That tangy, metallic scent that followed shortly after whenever blood had been spilled. The air was ripe with it, and it made it hard to breathe, but the orphan did not cover her nose. Her actions were no longer her own. Instinct and fear were the only things moving her, and they were moving her in the wrong direction.

Her feet stopped her as she reached the dormitory. A wall of darkness stood before her again, and she had used up all her nerve just reaching the place. Blood seeped from the room in a torrent, or at least it had, before the liquid had started to coagulate. Now instead of a river, the orphan was faced with a thick pool of red coloured jelly.

"Niamh?" she breathed out, voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing. Just more silence, and more darkness. She took a deep breath. She willed herself forwards again, crossing the threshold of the room, footsteps wet as she walked through the blood. The flickering candle shed light on the walls, casting grotesque shadows as she walked. And then her foot hit something solid. Aoife froze. A quiet, muffled bleat of panic escaped her, and the orphan forced herself to look down. A hand. A child's hand. Small and frail and covered in blood.