The Confessional

The sky was heavy with dark clouds at dusk, like a weighty shroud pressing down on the small town. I gasped for breath as I strained to push open the heavy oak door of St. Maria's Church. In an instant, the setting sun's rays, as if torn asunder by some malevolent force, streamed through the church's stained glass windows, casting distorted and mottled shadows on the ground, which resembled a hideous, grinning face. Inside the church, the pungent smell of burning candles, the sickly sweet and oppressive scent of incense, and a putrid odor intertwined, like a pair of icy hands burrowing straight into my nostrils.

"May the Lord be with you." A gentle voice drifted over from behind, sounding like a ghostly wail in the cold night. I froze, my body going rigid, and slowly turned around. There stood a tall priest, emerging like a statue from the darkness. He was clad in a long, black robe so black that it seemed to swallow up all the light. The silver cross hanging around his chest, in this eerie atmosphere, exuded a faint chill. A kind smile played on his face, but those deep blue eyes were like two bottomless pools of ice, boring straight into me. I felt a chill envelop my entire body, as if he could see straight through my soul, leaving me with not a single secret to hide.

"I am Father Thomas." He extended his hand, which was as pale as that of a dead person, devoid of any trace of color. I shuddered involuntarily and, suppressing the fear in my heart, reached out to shake his hand. The moment our fingertips touched, a bone-chilling cold surged from my palm, freezing me to the bone. I couldn't help but shiver and quickly pulled my hand away.

"I'll show you to your quarters." Father Thomas turned and walked towards the depths of the church. His shadow, in the dim light, stretched out long, like a black shadow ready to devour someone at any moment. "Don't leave your room after eight o'clock in the evening. That's the rule," he said, his voice drifting back, carrying an air of authority that brooked no argument.

I followed behind him, walking through the long corridor. The candles on both sides flickered eerily in the draft, casting shadows that seemed to dance and writhe like a horde of evil spirits lurking in the darkness. As we passed the confessional, a faint sobbing sound reached my ears. The voice carried with it an overwhelming sense of pain and despair, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

"That's Sister Margaret," Father Thomas said without turning his head, his voice as flat as a calm lake. "She always has so many sins to confess." But I felt that beneath this calm exterior lay a secret unknown to others, like a whirlpool hidden beneath the surface of a seemingly peaceful lake.

My room was on the third floor of the church. When I opened the window, what greeted my eyes was the gloomy graveyard. The tombstones stood in a row, looking like silent ghosts in the dim light. Before Father Thomas left, he gave me a long, searching look. That gaze was full of meaning, as if it were a warning and an expectation at the same time. "Remember, don't leave your room after eight o'clock," he said. Then he turned and walked away, his black robe dragging on the ground, making a rustling sound that was like the footsteps of death.

Night fell like a huge black cloth, completely enveloping the church. I lay in bed, filled with unease, tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep. Suddenly, a strange sound came from downstairs, as if someone was dragging a heavy object, making a "creaking" noise, accompanied by low moans, one after another, as if they were cries for help from the depths of hell. I told myself it was just the wind, but the sound grew clearer and clearer, pounding on my heart with each passing moment.

"Ah—" A shrill scream, like a bolt of lightning, shattered the silence of the night. I sat up suddenly in bed, my heart pounding like a drum. I rushed to the window. The moonlight was like water, casting a pale glow over the graveyard. A dark figure was moving slowly. By the faint moonlight, I could make out that it was Father Thomas! He was dragging a bulging sack, step by step, towards the newly dug grave. With each step he took, a cloud of dust rose from the ground, as if it were the grievances of countless lost souls.

My heart began to race even faster, as if it were about to burst out of my chest. Just then, footsteps sounded in the corridor, "tap, tap, tap," getting closer and closer, and finally stopping outside my door. The doorknob turned slowly, making a "creaking" sound, like the cry of an owl in the night.

I didn't dare to make a sound, covering my mouth tightly and hiding behind the door. My heart was pounding wildly in my chest, as if it were about to jump out of my throat. The door opened a crack, and Father Thomas's voice came through: "Sister Mary? Are you awake?" His voice was particularly clear in the stillness of the night, carrying a faint chill.

I closed my eyes tightly, not even daring to breathe too loudly, for fear of being discovered. After a long time, the footsteps gradually faded away, but my heart was still pounding, and fear washed over me like a tidal wave.

The next morning, I met the other sisters in the dining hall. Their faces were as pale as paper, their eyes empty and lifeless. They mechanically ate their breakfast, like puppets whose strings had been cut. Sister Margaret sat alone in the corner, her body shaking uncontrollably, like a withered leaf fluttering in the cold wind.

"Last night..." I had just opened my mouth when all the sisters, as if they had been cast with a spell, suddenly raised their heads and looked at me with terrified eyes. The fear in their eyes sent a shiver down my spine.

"Silence during meals," Father Thomas appeared behind me out of nowhere. His hand rested on my shoulder, and immediately I caught a whiff of a pungent smell, the odor of formaldehyde, mixed with the stench of death, which almost made me retch.

That afternoon, while I was organizing books in the library, a tattered diary in the corner caught my attention. I opened the diary, and it was written by the former sister, Anna: "Father Thomas is not the real priest. He killed the original priest and took his place. He is conducting some kind of evil ritual, using the blood of young girls..." When I read this, my hands couldn't help but tremble, and the diary ended abruptly here, as if it had been deliberately cut off, hiding countless secrets and fears behind it.

"Sister Mary," Father Thomas's voice suddenly sounded behind me. I was so startled that I almost dropped the diary. "It's time for vespers," he said. There was still that kind smile on his face, but in my eyes, it was scarier than the face of a demon.

I followed him towards the chapel. As we passed the confessional, the sobbing sound came again. This time, I heard it clearly. It was Sister Margaret's voice, tinged with sobs and full of despair. "Help me... He did something terrible to me..."

Father Thomas suddenly pushed open the door of the confessional. Inside, it was empty, with only dim light and the lingering smell of decay. "You're too tired, Sister Mary," he said gently, but there was a hint of a creepy chill in his gentleness. "Come to the confessional tonight, and I'll dispel these illusions for you."

I knew in my heart that I had to escape! But the church door was locked tightly with a large lock, and the walls were as high as the sky, like an insurmountable chasm. And Father Thomas seemed to be everywhere. His figure and his voice haunted me constantly.

Night fell again, and the darkness was as thick as ink, wrapping the church tightly. I huddled in the corner of the room, not daring to make a sound. Footsteps sounded in the corridor, getting closer and closer, and finally stopping outside my door.

"Sister Mary," Father Thomas's voice came, like a call from the depths of hell. "It's time for confession." I stared at the slowly turning doorknob, my heart almost stopping, and fear completely engulfed me.

Just then, the shrill sound of police sirens suddenly came from the graveyard. Father Thomas cursed and his footsteps quickly faded away. I rushed to the window and saw police cars parked outside the graveyard. The police were digging up the newly dug grave.

Later, I learned that it was Sister Margaret who had secretly called the police. They found the bodies of three young girls in the grave, all of whom were missing sisters. The bodies were buried in the cold soil, their deathly expressions terrifying, their eyes wide open, as if they had suffered great pain and fear before they died.

When Father Thomas was arrested, he was still laughing maniacally: "Their blood will give me eternal life!" That laughter echoed in the night sky, like the roar of a demon, sending chills down my spine.

But the most terrifying thing was yet to come. When the police searched his room, they found a roster. It was densely filled with records of churches all over the country, and there was a "Father Thomas" in each church. And my name was written in the position of the "next sacrifice," the handwriting bright red, as if written in blood, exuding an eerie glow.

Since then, every time I pass by the confessional, I can always hear faint sobbing sounds. Sometimes it's Sister Margaret's voice, full of endless pain; sometimes it's Sister Anna's voice, filled with despairing cries; and sometimes, the voice is exactly like my own, as if it's the fear deep within my heart crying out.

Because I know that those "Father Thomases" are still lurking in some dark corner, hidden in churches all over the country, waiting for the next sacrifice. They wear the guise of priests but carry out evil deeds, offering innocent lives as sacrifices to their twisted beliefs.

And the scars on my wrist, like a series of ugly centipedes, constantly remind me of that terrifying night. Those scars didn't come from Father Thomas; they were self-inflicted in a moment of extreme fear, when I scratched my wrist with my fingernails. Each scar is a testament to the despair and helplessness of that night.

Now, whenever I see a priest in a black robe, I can't help but tremble all over. Even on a sunny day, that faint smell of formaldehyde lingers in my nostrils, bringing back that unbearable and terrifying memory.

The church has long been closed, with its doors tightly locked. But sometimes late at night, I can still hear the sound of the choir coming from inside. The voices are ethereal and eerie, singing hymns in a language unknown to anyone. The notes float in the air, like a group of invisible ghosts, telling the secrets and grievances that have been buried.

I know that it is the voices of those dead sisters singing. They are forever trapped in that church, becoming victims of Father Thomas's evil rituals, their souls unable to find peace.

Although I managed to escape that nightmare, every month on the night of the full moon, I dream of myself wearing a nun's habit, standing in the confessional. Father Thomas's voice comes from behind the partition, deep and sinister: "Confess, my child. Your sins... will be purified by me."

Then I will wake up with a start, only to find myself standing in the empty church. All around is deathly silent, and there is a new scar on my wrist. Blood trickles down my arm, spreading on the ground like a blooming blood flower.

I moved away from that small town, thinking that I could finally get rid of this nightmare. But it has followed me like a shadow. Wherever I go, whenever I pass by any church, I can hear that familiar voice calling my name in the dark. Sometimes in a bustling supermarket, sometimes in a peaceful park, and even in my dreams in the dead of night, Father Thomas's voice always rings out unexpectedly, like a death knell.

I began to collect information everywhere and study this evil cult organization. It turned out that they called themselves the "Brotherhood of Eternal Life" and absurdly believed that by sacrificing the souls of the pure, they could achieve eternal life. Each member took the alias of Father Thomas and lurked in churches all over the country, carrying out the deeds of demons in the name of God.

Although the police have raided several strongholds, most of the members are still at large. Even more terrifying is that they leave a special mark on each victim—a barely visible cross-shaped scar, usually on the back of the neck.

I reached up to touch the back of my neck with trembling fingers. There was a tiny bump there that I had never noticed before. The moment my fingers touched it, a chill ran down my spine, and fear once again enveloped me.

Last night, I had that dreadful dream again. This time, I saw more terrifying details: beneath Father Thomas's altar, there was a hidden chamber. The chamber was filled with the pungent smell of formaldehyde and piled high with glass jars containing an unknown liquid. Inside each jar, a human organ floated, with a label attached, bearing the name and date of the victim. Those names and dates were like curses, shimmering with an eerie light in the darkness.

I woke up from the nightmare to find myself standing in the bathroom, holding a pair of scissors in my hand, pointing at the back of my neck. In the mirror, my eyes were tightly closed, and my face was contorted with pain and struggle, as if I were being controlled by some evil force.

Since that day, I have started receiving anonymous letters. Inside the envelope were dried flower petals, exuding the pungent smell of formaldehyde. On the letter paper, written in dark red ink, were the words: "Sister Mary, your soul is so pure... We will meet again." The handwriting was crooked, as if written in blood, exuding an overwhelming sense of eeriness and horror.

I know that this nightmare is far from over. Just yesterday, downstairs in the apartment where I had just moved in, I saw a tall figure in a black robe. He slowly raised his head, revealing a face that I will never forget—Father Thomas! But this time, his eyes were no longer deep blue; they were blood red, like two balls of ghostly fire, filled with boundless madness and evil.

I turned and ran, my heart pounding wildly in my chest as if it were about to burst out. But behind me came countless footsteps, dense and continuous, like a surging tide. The pedestrians on the street suddenly stopped in their tracks and turned their heads in unison, staring at me with blood-red eyes. Those pairs of blood-red eyes were like the gazes of countless demons, making the blood in my veins freeze.

It turned out that they were everywhere...