Night of Terror At St. Augustine’s

The rain had been relentless for three days. Heavy sheets of water lashed against the towering Gothic structures of St. Augustine’s Boarding School for Catholic Youngsters, drumming on windows and pooling in the stone-paved courtyards. The sky had been dark for so long that it seemed like night had stretched into infinity, and the rolling thunder was an ever-present companion. 

Father Tristan Greene had been expecting the power to go out. The generators were old, and storms like this tended to test their limits. When the lights flickered for the fourth time that afternoon, he barely looked up from his desk. A few students had already been peeking into his classroom, hoping that class might be dismissed early. 

Then, with a final sputter, the lights went dark. 

A groan echoed through the halls, followed quickly by excited murmuring. Within moments, the emergency bells rang—a signal for students to return to their dorms and common rooms until further notice. 

Tristan sighed, closing his copy of The Aeneid. He was in no mood to break up whatever mischief the students would inevitably get into, but he supposed it was part of the job. With his cassock flowing behind him, he stepped into the corridor, where students were already beginning to disperse, their laughter bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. 

“Father Greene,” a voice called. 

Tristan turned to find Benjamin Llewellyn, a senior and one of the school’s more responsible students, standing nearby. “This is going to be a long night,” Ben said with a smirk. 

Tristan chuckled. “I trust you’ll keep the younger ones from setting anything on fire.” 

“No promises.” 

The halls grew quieter as students retreated to their dormitories. But within the confines of Magdalene Hall’s common room, the real fun was just beginning. 

The Magdalene Hall common room was dimly lit by a collection of candles and flashlights. Shadows flickered on the wood-paneled walls, stretching ominously over the old bookshelves and religious artwork. 

“I’m just saying,” whispered Matthew Ramirez, a sophomore, “if this storm goes on much longer, we’ll probably have to eat each other.” 

“You’d be the first to go,” said Anna Foster, smirking. 

“Why me?” 

“Because you talk too much,” she teased, “and we’d get sick of it.” 

Laughter rippled through the room, but it quickly faded when a new voice cut in. 

“This is the kind of night she likes,” murmured Thomas Gallagher, a junior, leaning forward so that the candlelight cast eerie shadows over his face. 

“She?” Matthew asked. 

“The nun,” Thomas whispered. “The one in Magdalene Hall.” 

A hush fell over the group. The storm raged on outside, wind howling through the old stone corridors. 

“They say she was a teacher here once,” Thomas continued. “Back when this school was a convent. Sister Mary Benedicta.” 

“Why is it always a nun?” Anna muttered. 

“She wasn’t just any nun,” Thomas said. “She was an exorcist—unofficially, at least. It was a time when the Church lacked volunteer exorcists. No priest worth his salt would do the job. So she was taken on in an unofficial capacity. For the time being.” 

A few students exchanged uneasy glances. 

“They say she helped the priests cast out demons. But one day, something went wrong. Horribly wrong. She was called to help a girl—a student—who had been acting strangely. Screaming in Latin, levitating, all that classic stuff. Sister Mary Benedicta went into the room with her crucifix and her holy water, just like she always did. But this time…” He leaned in even closer. “She never came out.” 

A loud BANG sounded from the hallway. 

Several students jumped. 

“What was that?” Matthew whispered. 

Another BANG. 

Then—silence. 

“I dare you to check,” Anna said. 

Matthew hesitated, but then, seeing the expectant stares of the others, he rolled his eyes and got up. He crept toward the heavy wooden door and, with a deep breath, pulled it open. 

Nothing but darkness. 

The hallway stretched out before him, barely illuminated by the dim glow of the emergency exit signs. The flickering candlelight from the common room barely reached past the threshold. 

Matthew took a step out. 

Something shifted at the far end of the corridor. 

He squinted into the darkness. For a brief moment, he thought he saw something—a figure in a black habit, standing at the end of the hall. 

His breath caught. 

The figure moved. 

Matthew yelped and slammed the door shut, scrambling back toward the group. 

“There’s something out there,” he gasped. 

Anna scoffed. “You’re messing with us.” 

“I swear!” 

Another BANG. 

This time, it came from the other side of the common room—near the windows. 

Everyone turned. The rain was pounding against the glass, lightning flashing in quick bursts. 

And then… 

A dark shape passed by the window. 

The room erupted in screams. 

Someone knocked over a candle, nearly burning the cloth on the coffee table, and a rush of movement followed as students scrambled away from the windows. 

Just then, the door burst open. 

“WHAT in Saint Patrick’s name is going on in here?” 

The commanding voice of Father Tristan Greene brought the chaos to a sudden halt. Students froze mid-scream, wide-eyed and breathless. 

Tristan’s gaze swept over the disheveled group. “I could hear you from halfway across the hall. What happened?” 

Matthew pointed a trembling finger at the window. “We saw… something.” 

Tristan sighed. He had dealt with enough ghost stories over the years to know better than to entertain them. But the storm certainly made the atmosphere more unsettling than usual. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s take a look.” 

The students hesitated. 

“Or do you want me to tell the headmaster you all lost your minds over a shadow?” 

Grumbling, they followed him to the window. The rain continued to pour, and another streak of lightning illuminated the courtyard. 

There was nothing there. 

Tristan turned back to them with a raised eyebrow. “See? Just your imaginations.” 

“But I saw something,” Matthew insisted. 

“Perhaps you did,” Tristan said, “but that doesn’t mean it was a ghost.” 

The students exchanged uncertain glances. 

“Get some rest,” Tristan said. “No more ghost stories.” 

He left them with that, shaking his head as he returned to his own quarters. The storm was still raging, and he knew sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight. 

But just as he reached his door, he paused. 

A chill ran down his spine. 

Down the hallway, past the flickering exit sign, a figure in a black habit stood watching him. 

Lightning flashed. 

And she was gone.