Story 1108: The Nun Without Eyes

The bell at Saint Elitha’s Chapel hadn’t rung in over twenty years. The steeple had collapsed, the stained-glass windows shattered, and the stone walls were strangled in black ivy. Locals whispered that the chapel still breathed. They warned Evelyn Blackmoor not to enter.

She went anyway.

Her lantern cast long, trembling shadows across the nave as she stepped through the ruined archway. The pews were split and warped, arranged like ribs in the corpse of a once-sacred place. Cold draft curled through the air, carrying with it the faint scent of old myrrh—and something fouler beneath it. Burnt fabric. Rotted blood.

The altar remained intact, but something new now stood behind it.

A statue. Or what looked like one.

A tall woman in a nun’s habit, head bowed, hands folded in prayer. Her face was blank marble—except for two long, hollow sockets where her eyes should have been. From them, waxen tears had dripped down the statue’s cheeks and solidified into the stone.