Days passed, but the girl never came back.
No one spoke about it. Not even in whispers. Elira searched the faces of the children during meals, hoping to find some hint of rebellion, fear—anything. But their expressions were hollow, like they had forgotten how to care.
But Elira hadn't.
One night, as rain tapped the windows like fingernails, she followed a trail of damp footprints in the hallway. Small, barefoot. They led to a door she hadn't noticed before—tucked behind a rusted cabinet near the laundry room.
She pried it open.
The stairs behind it led down into darkness.
A stench hit her like a wall—mildew, rot, and something sweeter… like spoiled meat. She held her breath and descended, one step at a time, until the dim glow of candlelight came into view.
The basement was wide and damp, with stone walls that oozed moisture. In the center stood an altar, carved from old wood and stained dark. Around it—bones. Dozens of small bones, piled in the corners like discarded toys.
Books lay open on the floor, pages warped with blood. Symbols she couldn't understand covered the walls—circles, eyes, teeth.
Elira stepped closer.
Her foot landed on something soft.
A child's shoe.
Then she heard it—a faint chanting. Low. Rhythmic. Coming from deeper inside.
She followed the sound, pressed against the wall, until she saw them.
Sister Helena, robed in ceremonial black, stood at the head of the altar. Beside her, three other figures knelt, their faces hidden by veils. And in front of them—
A small bundle.
Wrapped in white cloth.
Moving.
Elira's stomach turned as Helena raised a blade carved from bone.
She didn't scream.
She couldn't.
All she could do was run—quiet as shadow—back up the stairs, into the choking silence of the panti.
But that night, she dreamed of the altar.
And when she woke, her hands smelled like blood.