"Open your hand," Mother said.
Maristela obeyed, extending her trembling palm.
The cut came fast. The blade, which the Mother pulled from inside her habit, sliced through the skin like butter.
The pain came a second later, and with it the blood dripping through her fingers, falling to the floor.
They turned a corner. The corridor stretched ahead, the saints' oil lamps flickering as if an invisible wind blew through.
Mother Teresa dipped her fingers in Maristela's blood. Without stopping running, she smeared a red stripe across her own face — from forehead to chin. Then on her habit, where the dark already stained.
"They can smell you," the Mother whispered, breathless, as she took more blood and spread it on Maristela's cheeks, on her veil, on her hands. "We'll use your blood to lure them straight to us."
Again being used as bait — the Orphan's voice whispered.
"If they follow us upstairs, they'll leave the rest of the convent alone."
Maristela ran behind, dipping her fingers in her own blood, smearing it on the walls, on the iron railing, on the steps. Her movements were clumsy, urgent — she had no practice spreading her own flesh across the walls of a convent.
They climbed. The steps creaked under their weight. Downstairs, on the ground floor, doors began to open. Confused voices of nuns waking up.
And then she heard it.
A roar.
It wasn't human. It wasn't animal. It was something between the two — a throat that shouldn't exist, a chest that didn't need air to scream.
The sound came from below. From the ground floor.
Mother Teresa climbed two steps at a time, pulling Maristela by the wrist.
"We don't have time, we don't have time, damn it." Mother Teresa's voice had nervousness and anguish in it.
Maristela's blood dripped down her hand as they climbed, leaving a bright red trail behind.
"Who are 'they'?" Maristela asked, her voice coming out in gasps.
Mother Teresa didn't answer, but ran faster.
They reached the landing. The Mother pulled Maristela left, down a narrower corridor, with fewer lamps. More shadows.
They climbed another flight of stairs, concrete steps creaked under their feet, there was only one room at the top of the stairs.
Mother Teresa's room.
The young novices secretly called it 'the Asylum.' No one ever entered that room.
The door was made of iron and always locked.
Mother Teresa took a key from her habit pocket. Her hand trembled.
She opened the door.
They entered. And the first thing Maristela saw made her step back half a pace.
Steel chains bolted to the wall. With strange symbols around them.
Far from the bed, far from the chamber pot. Two of the walls were still padded, with old, yellowed, disgusting rubber. It looked like it had never been cleaned.
Why did she have iron chains bolted to the wall?
Mother Teresa locked the iron door after entering and ran to an old chest, ancient, archaic. The same key that opened the door also opened the chest.
But Mother Teresa didn't open it immediately. She stopped, bent down, took out a nylon thread — the kind used for fishing — and carefully removed it from the chest.
It was a trap.
"Look for the hummingbird at the Pigsty. If you find it, you'll be safe. If you have money, they won't find you there."
Mother Teresa searched frantically inside the chest. Inside, there were old books, strange things.
"Then, you wait a few days. Don't go out. Don't go to town. Don't look for work. Don't do anything except hide. If you do that long enough, you can leave town in a few weeks."
"Here, hold this."
She took out a small wooden box and tossed it to Maristela.
Maristela managed to catch it in the air, but nearly dropped it.
Mother Teresa took out a crooked crucifix with a large loop at the top — exactly like the one on the coins.
Maristela swallowed hard. The Orphan stirred but said nothing.
She closed the chest, bent down, and put the nylon back.
Maristela heard a faint click. The trap, whatever it was, was activated again.
Anyone who opened the chest without removing the thread first…
"Maristela, listen carefully," Mother Teresa whispered, her voice so low Maristela had to lean in. "I won't repeat myself."
Mother Teresa placed the symbol on the floor, directly in front of the door. Then she pointed to the box. Maristela opened it.
And inside, she took out three glass marbles.
The size of pool balls. Perfect. Smooth. Maristela saw green smoke moving inside them — alive, spinning, as if trapped and trying to escape.
"What is that?"
"Your only chance. When you're in danger, throw one on the floor, as hard as you can."
Mother Teresa placed the marbles in Maristela's hand. The glass was cold, but the smoke inside was hot. Maristela felt the warmth against her palm.
"Pay attention." Mother Teresa held Maristela's face firmly, forcing her to look into her eyes. "These balls mask your scent. As long as you don't get wet, no one will be able to find you. Do you understand?"
Maristela nodded, her head bobbing.
"Mother, I…"
"Don't cry. We don't have time."
The mother stood up. Her hands were dirty with dried blood — Maristela's, the priest's, maybe her own. She wiped them on her habit, unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world.
But she didn't.
Downstairs, the roar came again. Closer. And now accompanied by a new sound: nails dragging on stone. Something climbing the stairs.
"They know where we are. Get ready," Mother Teresa said quietly.
"If they're so frightening, why haven't they arrived yet?" Maristela whispered.
"Because they're playing with us."
PAM. The door shook.
Not a knock — an impact. As if a massive body had hurled itself against the iron.
Maristela stepped back.
PAM. PAM.
Then a worse sound. Nails — or claws — scraping down the metal. Slow. Forceful. The screech cut through the room like a nail being driven into Maristela's teeth.
She covered her ears with her hands. It didn't help. The sound came from inside her now, vibrating in her skull.
And then came the scream.
It wasn't human. It didn't try to be. It was raw, wet, torn — something between a beast's bellow and a baby's cry. A sound that shouldn't exist. That no throat should be capable of producing.
Maristela wanted to run. Wanted to curl up. Wanted to tear off her own ears.
PAM.
"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, NUN!"
The voice was wrong. Too deep for a human chest, dragged as if the mouth were full of broken glass. Each syllable came with background noise — a hiss, a gurgle.
Mother Teresa didn't move. Her right hand gripped the crucifix around her neck. Her left was open, extended behind her — not to protect Maristela. To keep her where she was.
"Don't make noise," she whispered. Her lips barely moved. "Don't move. Let me do the talking."
PAM.
The iron groaned. The hinges creaked. The door wouldn't give — not on the first try, not on the tenth. But the creature pounded as if it had eternity.
"OPEN UP, WOMAN!" The voice was pure metal now. Rust and blood. "I CAN SMELL HER!"
Maristela held her breath.
Her heart beat so fast she felt the blood pulsing in her temples, her fingers, behind her eyes.
And then, silence.
The creature stopped pounding.
Maristela heard only her own heart, the footsteps of the other nuns downstairs, the frantic bells.
For one second, two, three.
Then, a new sound.
Scraping.
Nails — or claws — sliding down the iron door. Slow. Not with violence. With patience. Almost delicate. Like a caress.
The voice returned.
But different.
It wasn't crushed stone anymore. It wasn't grinding metal. It was something calmer. More articulate. More…
Human.
"Teresa," it said. The pronunciation was perfect now. "I know you're in there."
Maristela looked at Mother Teresa. The Mother didn't blink.
"I know the girl is with you. I can smell her blood. Still warm. Still alive."
A pause. The scraping continued.
"Open the door. Give me the girl. And I swear no one else in this convent will die tonight. Not you. Not the novices. Not the little one you call little rat."
Maristela felt her blood turn cold.
Clara.
The creature knew Clara's name.
How?
The silence stretched.
Mother Teresa closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were dry and tired.
"He's right. We won't be able to hold the door."
"Mother, I…"
"He'll come in here, kill me, take you, and then they'll burn the convent down with us inside."
"I don't want to die," Maristela said, tears in her eyes.
"Neither do I, child."
The creature laughed.
It wasn't a gentle laugh anymore. It returned to that broken, wet sound, a throat full of broken glass.
CRACK.
The sound was different from all the others.
It wasn't a dry impact. It was the high-pitched groan of metal giving way — a creak that rose in pitch until it became a wet snap, like a bone breaking inside flesh.
And then Maristela saw it.
The iron door — that thick, heavy door she herself had tried to push open without success — had dented inward.
Not much. A few inches. Enough to create a concave shadow in the metal, a violent depression that distorted the engraved symbols around it.
A mark.
The shape of a hand.
Lengthened fingers, pronounced knuckles, the palm slightly deeper than the fingertips. It wasn't the hand of an ordinary man — the fingers were too long, the nails left thin grooves in the metal, like claws.
Mother Teresa began to whisper, looking around. 'I have a really bad idea... You're really not going to like it.'"
"I'm going to count to three, Teresa. And then I'm going to tear this door off with my bare hands."
For a second, Maristela thought the hand would stay there, embedded, like a grotesque sculpture.
And then the voice returned. Not as a whisper — as a roar.
"One," the creature counted.
"Maristela, I'm going to hand you over," the Mother's voice regained its earlier confidence, speaking quietly in Maristela's ear.
"Just a little bit."
And on Mother Teresa's face, Maristela saw the same mad confidence of the nun who had asked her to die, moments before.
"Just a little bit."