Feb 9
Dylan & Caitlin by Manic Street Preachers featuring The Anchoress
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Dylan & Caitlin by Manic Street Preachers featuring The Anchoress
Patterns by worriedaboutsatan featuring The Anchoress
⚠️Vote for whomever YOU DO NOT KNOW⚠️‼️
Round 3
The Anchoress (Fallen London)
The Cornstalker (Touch Detective)
I know both/neither
THE ANCHORESS
The key to the old chapel was kept in a drawer in the rectory, under a tangle of rubber bands and holy cards. Father Guillaume had not touched it since seminary. He took it now, without asking.
The road to Saint-Sulpice had long since broken into gravel and weeds. At the gate, a crow watched him unlock the rusting chain and push open the door with his shoulder. Inside: rot, silence, dust. A chapel that had not heard Mass in twenty years.
And yet.
He heard the singing before he reached her.
There had been no true anchoresses for centuries, but thirty-two years ago, Sister Véronique had insisted—no, demanded—to be walled in behind the altar. She had begged the bishop in person, barefoot in snow. They granted it, somehow. The bricked-in room was only eight feet wide, with one narrow window into the sanctuary and a slit for passing food. She had taken final vows from inside that cell.
For the first decade, she had written letters.
Then silence.
And now—the singing.
It was not beautiful. The notes were thin, scraped raw by age or distance. A threadbare chant, Latin half-forgotten, vowels stretched too long. Still, it rang clear in the empty nave, echoing faintly against the stone.
Jesu, salvator saeculi…
He approached the wall.
“Sister?” he said.
The singing stopped.
No answer.
The little shutter—meant for the Eucharist—was sealed shut. The bricks had gone dark with years of candle smoke and mildew. He touched the stones. Cold. Undisturbed.
He had not come to exhume her. That was the bishop’s concern. He only meant to look. To see. To know.
But the singing returned that night.
He stayed in the rectory, barely more than a shack. No electricity. Just a cot, a crucifix, and a lamp that smoked when lit. He dreamed of prayers muttered backwards. Of dry fingers tapping wood. Of someone brushing his hair from his face with reverent care.
In the morning, he returned to the wall.
“Sister Véronique?” he said again.
Silence.
He knocked once. The bricks answered, hollow.
He stood still. Prayed. Waited.
A sigh, barely audible. Then: “Not long now.”
He reeled.
It was a woman’s voice, low and slow, as if pushing words through mud. It was not the voice of the nun he remembered, sweet and clear. It was hoarse. Thick. But undeniably human.
“Sister,” he managed. “You live?”
The pause stretched long. Then: “No.”
He fled the chapel.
He tried to leave.
He truly did. Packed his things, threw the key into the weeds. But the car refused to start. The gas gauge flickered wildly. The crows gathered.
He walked back.
He needed to be sure.
He brought tools.
The bricks broke like teeth.
He worked in silence, jaw clenched, ears straining for any change in the voice beyond. She had not spoken again. Had not sung. He began to wonder if he had imagined it. If some old guilt from seminary—the way they had mocked her, whispered she was mad—had finally borne fruit.
Then the last brick fell.
He did not see her, at first.
The cell was not dark. It glowed with a faint bluish light, cast from a thousand beeswax candles—untouched by time, though burned down to stubs. Icons covered the walls. Hand-painted, trembling brushwork, eyes too wide, mouths open as if mid-breath.
She was kneeling in the corner.
Face hidden. Head bowed. Motionless.
He stepped in.
The air was wrong. Thick, hot, like a greenhouse or a mouth. It smelled of wax and iron. He took another step. The floor crunched beneath his shoe.
He looked down.
Teeth.
Just one. Then more.
Dozens, scattered across the stones. Yellowed, some cracked. Human.
“Sister Véronique,” he said again.
She raised her head.
Her eyes had been eaten away.
Not by rot, but by light. Her sockets were raw and glistening, as if something had burned them clean. Her lips moved, but no sound came. He knelt—unthinking—and leaned close.
She whispered into his ear.
The words did not enter his mind.
They entered his soul.
They found him two weeks later, when the bishop finally sent others.
The cell was sealed again, bricks old and firm, as if never touched.
No one remembered giving Sister Véronique final vows.
No one remembered her name.
But Father Guillaume remembered.
He lives now in a quiet convent, cared for by gentle sisters.
He does not speak.
He only sings.
Jesu, salvator saeculi…
doodles of the anchoress & jdb, love tjem so much i haven’t drawn in ages
Manic Street Preachers at Cardiff Castle
One of the absolute best nights of my life
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The Gracious Widow vs the Anchoress
The Gracious Widow
The Anchoress
Anchoress art by @anyboli.
