Whispers Of Mercy

CHAPTER 2

The following morning, Saint Matthew’s Convent seemed different. The usual morning prayers were drowned in an eerie stillness, as though the walls themselves had absorbed Mercy’s death and refused to speak. Birds avoided the old oak trees, and even the wind seemed hesitant, trembling along the corridors.

Sister Agnes, Mercy’s closest confidant, was the first to notice. She moved through the halls with a practiced grace, but her eyes betrayed unease. Something had changed overnight, though she could not say what.

It was the absence. The weight of absence.

She found Mercy’s small desk empty, the belongings she always left meticulously arranged now in disarray. A candle, half-burned, flickered weakly, as if trying to tell a story no one wanted to hear.

Agnes knelt beside the desk, her hands trembling. The envelope Mercy had carried was missing.

“Mercy…” she whispered.

The sound echoed through the hall, bouncing off the stone walls like a faint cry. And for a moment, it almost seemed as if the air itself answered.

A whisper, too soft to be caught by human ears, curled through the convent:

“They cannot hide the truth.”

Agnes froze, her breath hitching. She looked around, but the halls were empty, the sun struggling to pierce the heavy clouds.

She remembered Mercy’s words from the night before: “I will not let them silence me.”

And now, in the stillness of morning, the threat of that silence was broken.

Agnes rose to her feet, moving toward the chapel. Perhaps a prayer could restore calm. Perhaps it could bring guidance. Perhaps it could bring Mercy back.

But as she entered the sacred space, the air chilled unnaturally.

The candles along the altar flickered violently, though no draft stirred the room.

The shadow of the crucifix stretched long and twisted across the floor, bending in ways that made the familiar seem unfamiliar.

And then she heard it: a soft, deliberate movement behind her.

Agnes turned slowly, her eyes wide.

Nothing.

But the faintest impression of a figure lingered at the altar’s edge. Not human. Not fully. Just… present. Watching. Waiting.

A cold sensation crawled along her spine. It was Mercy. She was there.

Agnes knelt and whispered a prayer, knowing that some forces could not be held back by simple words. Protect her. Keep her spirit safe. And guide her until the time comes.

Outside the chapel, unseen, the first shadow stirred — a warning. The Reverend had been the orchestrator of Mercy’s death. And now, the darkness she carried would rise.

Saint Matthew’s Convent had awakened. And evil had just been challenged.