Sisters of the Crimson Vine by P.L. McMillan

Author:P.L. McMillan [McMillan, P.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gothic, Thriller, Convent, Nuns, Folk Horror, Horror, Cult, Ritual, Occult
Publisher: Timber Ghost Press
Published: 2022-12-05T16:00:00+00:00

Sister Morgan May’s feet were silent on the stone steps that led down into the darkness of the convent’s cellar. She darted a look over her shoulder at me and I could see she was blushing again.

“Th-this was really small before, just for—for staples like pickled vegetables and canned fruit,” she said. “Watch your head, Mr. Ainsworth.”

I ducked beneath a wooden beam and my good foot slipped on the edge of a stair sending me to the dirt floor with a jolt. I hopped, trying to catch my balance, but fell against the rough-hewn wall.

“Are—uh.” Morgan took a step towards me, her hands clasped, then flinched away.

“I’m fine! Just fine,” I said, laughing a bit, sheepishly. “I’m accident-prone, hence the crutches!”

I balanced on my good foot and, with the crutches beneath my arms, gave her hearty jazz hands. “Tah-dah!” Her hands flew to her mouth, covering a smile and a laugh.

“This way, Mr. Ainsworth, and be careful. Sister Helena Rose would never forgive me if you hurt yourself… again,” the nun said and, lighting a lantern, she led me deeper into the cellar.

“You said this used to be smaller?” I asked.

“Yes, it was much smaller and, after the bombing, it had also partially collapsed. When the vineyard grew, we dug it out again and created this space.”

The light of her lantern revealed a low room that swept off to the right, filled with wine racks ladened with bottles. Shelves along the stone walls did hold jars of preserves, pickled vegetables, bags of flour, and corn, but the majority of the storage space was occupied by the winemaking tools—barrels, tubing, containers—and the ripe stench of chemicals and aging grapes.

“This is where we separate and clean the grapes, here we extract the juice, here we ferment them.”

Now in her groove, the shy sister’s free hand fluttered about in front of her as she went on and on about the various tools hanging from the stone walls and stacked on the dirt floor.

“We use this press for crushing the grapes,” she continued, laying a hand on what looked like a large wooden barrel with a handle on top. “But on special days, like the Sabine Solstice, we crush the grapes the old way.”

I placed my hand on the top of the wooden presser. It was sticky with old grape skins and stained a deep, deep red along the rim.

The crusher sat on polished metal legs, as tall as my chest, and smelled of a ripe sourness from the old juice.

“The old way?” I asked.

“With our feet,” the sister laughed behind a hand.

“Oh!” I said, looking down at her dirty feet, toes deep in the dirt.

She leaned in close, I felt her cool breath waft across my lips, tasting of hints of wine.

“Don’t worry, we wash them first, Mr. Ainsworth.”

Then she was away, taking her light with her to the far end of the cellar, leaving me to hop after her with a blush on my cheeks.

“After that, we add the yeast—we get that

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