Saint Babette

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear has torment. He that fears is not made perfect in love.” 1 John 4:18

La Nouvelle-Orléans, 1758.

Her eyes lingered on the crucifix above the altar, but it was the face staring down at her that held her captive— as it always did. The longer she stared, the more distant it seemed. Though His eyes were closed, they bore through her, seeing past flesh and bone. She tore her gaze away, clutching the rosary wrapped in her hands, unable to bear the weight of His anguish.

Head bowed in prayer, her lips moved obsessively over words she had spoken since childhood. She had learned to read scripture before she ever learned the thrill of a story that was not bound in sacred text. She sang hymns before knowing the sound of music played for joy alone. Every candle flicker in this hallowed space was rooted deeply in her sense of self, but as she knelt in the dim glow of sunrise, every part of it felt like a cage.

The rhythmic clacking of footsteps against the timber floor pulled her from her prayer. She lifted her head only slightly as the soft swish of robes approached. Closing her eyes, she prayed that she could somehow ward off the interruption by remaining focused on her thoughts. But with a soft creak of wood, someone sat down beside her. It was Father Jude— she could tell by the scent of incense clinging to his cassock. It was a familiar presence, one she had known for years. 

“Forgive me for disturbing you.” The priest's voice was soft, almost apologetic. “I thought I may afford you some company, if it pleases you.”

Without opening her eyes, she gave a faint nod. He always did this— sat next to her during moments of prayer, as if sharing the quiet somehow brought him peace. Her fingers tightened on the rosary, the cool beads pressing into her palms. She could hear him take a deep breath, settling into the pew.

The priest shifted, breaking the momentary stillness. “I see you are carrying your burdens, too,” he said quietly.

She had not expected him to speak so openly. The rawness in his tone — a vulnerability, almost a plea for understanding — made her pause. She wanted to turn to him, to offer the comforting words he so often gave to others. But she was not sure she could. She was not sure if she was even capable of offering solace in a moment when she felt so far from peace herself.

“…I do not know if I have the answers you seek, Father,” she whispered finally, her eyes still closed. The words felt too thin, too fragile.

The priest sat quietly, his gaze set on the altar in front of them, before he spoke again, this time with more certainty. “I know. I do not seek answers, child. Not from you.” Her heart sank at the unexpected honesty in his words. “It is rare to see you so early for prayer.” He observed. “Pray tell, what is troubling you?”

Her fingers fumbled over the beads as she looked up at him, her youthful face pale, her brown eyes dark and hollow.  “I could not sleep, Father,” she admitted quietly. “These nightmares… they will not let me rest.”

“Nightmares?” he gently repeated, “And so you have turned to prayer?”

“Yes, I thought perhaps if I prayed enough, if I sought God’s comfort, He may grant me peace in my sleep.” She looked back to the sorrowful face upon the crucifix. “But it does not come. It is as though my prayers are swallowed before they reach heaven.”

“And what is it that you dream of, child?” he asked after a moment.

She hesitated, staring down at her hands, afraid to give life to her dreams by speaking them aloud. “Darkness,” she said, the word trembling on her tongue. “That is all I see.”

Father Jude exhaled, his hands folding in his lap as he listened. “The trials of the soul are often difficult to bear,” he said quietly. “But, Babette, let not fear overwhelm your faith. Nightmares oft are the mind’s way of contending with doubts and hidden fears— burdens we have yet to lay fully before the Lord.”

“I am trying, Father,” she said earnestly. “I strive to surrender all unto Him, but the more I do, the more these dreams assail me. I fear I am not enough in His eyes.”

“No, child,” The priest said firmly, his voice steady and reassuring. “The very act of your being here, kneeling in prayer, shows the strength of your faith. Even Christ Himself endured great torment in the garden of Gethsemane. It is not the absence of fear, but the act of turning unto God amidst it that defines our devotion.”

Her nod was slow, processing the meaning behind his words, though they barely softened the tension coiled inside her. “Come,” he said, rising to his feet and extending a hand to her. “Let us pray together. You are not alone in your struggle… And neither are you abandoned in your fear.”

“Thank you, Father.” She said, rising to her feet alongside him. She had not spoken of her dreams aloud before, yet somehow Father Jude had felt the burden she carried the instant he sat beside her. She still remembered the first time meeting the priest —the warmth of his smile and the gentle way he called her “sweet child.” Since then, Babette had always found comfort and solace in Father Jude.

His steady voice echoed in the quiet chapel as he led the prayer. “Lord, grant us peace in our hearts, strength in our trials, and the courage to follow your will in all things.”

Babette followed his words with her own, “We are your humble servants, Lord, seek us in our weakness and fill us with your light.” 

It was here that Babette often came to quiet her thoughts and connect with something larger than herself. On this particular morning, she had come to the chapel seeking answers to the dreams that plagued her. They had begun without warning— dark, suffocating visions that pulled her from sleep, drenched in cold sweat. She had tried to convince herself they were just ordinary nightmares; fleeting and harmless, destined to vanish with the dawn, like water slipping through her fingers. That was when she could push the fear aside, dismiss it as simply nothing more than dreams. But now, when she woke, the fear did not leave. It stayed with her. And the mornings had become just as unbearable as the nights. 

There was a restlessness she could not shake, a nagging doubt that followed her even into the quietest of moments. But here, in the stillness, she hoped for clarity. In this place where time seemed to stop. Yet, despite the crucifix and stained-glass paintings of the saints, they brought no peace to her.

Their prayer was interrupted by the low groan of the chapel door as it swung open. A small group of nuns, drawn to the chapel for their morning prayers, entered one by one. Their faces were soft with sleep, eyes still heavy with the early hour. Sister Mary, the eldest of the group, nodded in quiet acknowledgement as she passed them, her every motion imbued with a serene grace that Babette had long admired. Sister Mary’s voice came as a sweet sigh as she whispered, “Peace be with you.”

“And with you,” Father Jude responded, smiling warmly.

Babette exchanged a brief glance with the priest, who gave her a small, encouraging smile before turning his attention to the others. The nuns arranged themselves in the pews, settling into their places. The chapel now filled with the soft rustling of habit and the quiet murmur of prayers. She closed her eyes once more, reflecting on the consoling words she had shared with Father Jude, and she said a final prayer in gratitude.

“I trust in Your mercy, Lord,” She whispered.

♱

Behind the church, where the ivy-clad brick wall shielded them from the keen ears of the Reverend Mother, the nuns were granted a rare moment of privacy. The pungent, bitter odor of burning tobacco hung heavy in the air, and Babette could not help but wrinkle her nose in distaste.

“Sister, I do wish you would not smoke here,” She complained, “The smell... it is overwhelming.”

Sister Mary glanced over at her with a lopsided grin. “I am well aware it is not most becoming, yet at times, a touch of indulgence is the only thing that keeps me from descending into madness from the endless monotony.”

Babette could certainly sympathize with the sentiment. The tedious repetition of life in the church could grow wearying. So, she forced a smile, nodding absently as the acrid stench of the cigar twisted in her nose. The smell unsettled her, like something she had encountered before but could not place. 

Perhaps in the laundry room? No, that wasn’t it. The smell of wet linens and soap was comforting, familiar. Not this. Had it been in the garden? Maybe the musty odor of decomposing leaves or damp earth after a rainstorm? No, the garden always smelled sweet, like fresh herbs— nothing like this.

Her stomach churned, and she pressed a hand to her abdomen as if the smell might physically disturb her. Then it struck, swift and sudden, like a bolt of lightning that robbed her of breath. She had smelled that foul stench before— in her dreams. It had burned her lungs, just as this odor burned her senses now. Though the smoke in her nightmares had not smelled of tobacco. It had been the sickly, choking scent of burning meat— decaying, rotting flesh.

She drew in a sharp breath and shook her head, trying to push the thought away. It is only Mary's cigar, she told herself. It is but a coincidence. But it felt too real, too vivid to dismiss. Then, a sharp tap on her shoulder caused her to stiffen.

“Babette?” a low, knowing voice said beside her. Blinking, she turned, her eyes settling again on Sister Mary, who leaned lazily against the outside wall of the church. A wisp of smoke curled from the cigar perched between her fingers. Burning meat, she thought. Babette held her breath. 

“You look as though you have seen the Virgin herself,” The older nun laughed, lifting a brow as she took a slow drag from her cigar. The ember glowed red for a moment before she exhaled, the smoke swirling between them. Mary smirked, tilting her head. “Careful, Babette. If you stare too long into the dark, it may stare back.” her voice edged with something unreadable— amusement, perhaps, or understanding. 

“Oh hush.” Lucia, a novice like Babette, interjected, scowling at Mary as she waved a hand through the air in a futile attempt to dispel the smoke. “Will you spare us a measure of grace and hold your tongue for once?” 

“Certainly not,” Mary scoffed, tipping the cigar to shake off its ash. The two women were seldom civil with one another, their exchanges often laced with sharp-tongued barbs. Babette had long grown accustomed to Mary’s antics, but Lucia— having joined the convent only a few years prior— had yet to do so.

She must have looked as shaken as she felt because Mary's smirk faded just slightly. “Are you well?” She asked. Babette swallowed, nodding quickly.

 “Yes, I only…” She paused, pressing her lips together, uncertain of what truth to offer. She felt as though she had been caught trespassing somewhere she should not be, even if it was only in the depths of her own mind. “I was lost in thought.” A quiet laugh came from the Sister and Babette offered a weak smile back, unsure whether Mary was teasing her.

“I am fine, truly.” She reassured her friend.

Mary did not seem convinced, but she chose not to press further. Instead, a smile tugged at her lips as she shifted their conversation, “Anyhow, did you ladies see Tilly at Mass? Her habit was askew— clearly distracted, poor thing.” 

“Ah, I saw,” Lucia’s gaze swept the garden before she leaned in closer. “And the way she was gazing at my cousin— flustered, as though she had forgotten her prayers.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief, and Mary cackled loudly. 

If there was one thing Lucia and Sister Mary could set aside their differences for, it was gossip about the newest novice— a timid young girl whose blonde locks forever slipped free of her veil. They never spoke of her with unkindness; after all, she was to be their sister in faith. Rather, they found the lovestruck girl amusing. 

There is great comfort in knowing that no matter what, these women are my sisters. This place is my home. She thought, smiling at the sound of their shared laughter. 

Babette laughed along with them, her heart felt full, the weight of everything she had faced— her doubts, her struggles— lightened by the simplicity of the moment. It was rare that she allowed herself to simply laugh, to simply enjoy. But here, surrounded by the women who had become her family, it felt easy, natural.

Yes , she thought, this is enough. This is what makes it all worthwhile.

“I tell you, Sister. If Tilly persists in casting such looks at my cousin, I shall be obliged to offer her some guidance on how to better direct her focus during Mass.” 

Mary gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Oh, leave her be. She is young, after all. Love makes fools of us all.”

“Sisters,” Father Jude’s voice rang out from behind them. He stood at the edge of the garden path, his arms clasped behind his back. “I trust you are not neglecting your duties in favor of idle gossip?”

Sister Mary straightened immediately, quickly crushing the cigar beneath her heel. “We were only... discussing the readings for the week, Father,” She offered sweetly.

 The priest raised an unamused eyebrow. “Indeed. Well, I am certain the Lord would prefer you to discuss your chores, which remain undone.” He looked pointedly towards the doors of the church. “I believe there is dusting the pews, washing the linens, and perhaps a few other tasks that require your attentions.”

The women shared a brief, silent nod, their eyes meeting in quick, conspiratorial glances as they filed past Father Jude, their laughter hindered but still lingering in the air.

“Sister Mary?” The priest called out from behind them. “Perhaps you could refrain from such indulgences .”

“Of course, Father.” She flashed the priest a wink before walking away, the ember of her cigar glowing briefly from where it lay smooshed on the cobblestone.

Father Jude shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he turned back to the church, leaving the nun and novices to their daily chores, their whispers and giggles fading as they returned to their tasks. He knew the girls well— their love for the church was genuine, but everyone needed a little distraction now and then. Even in the quietest corners of faith, a little gossip wasn’t so bad.

♱

Babette made her way toward the altar, gathering the spent candles onto a tray, the wax still warm as she prepared to dispose of them. She held her breath, the candles carrying the stubborn scent of lingering smoke. Burning meat. 

As she moved, she saw Tilly near the far end of the chapel, mindlessly dusting the ornate columns along the walls. Her veil was slipping, though this time, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Have you traded words with Gabrijel yet?” Babette asked with a smile as she approached her. 

The novice jumped, eyes widening in surprise as her round cheeks flushed. Tilly was a fair girl, her face easily turning the brightest shade of rouge when she had been embarrassed or inconvenienced. “Of course not!” she squealed, her veil slipping once again as she adjusted it absentmindedly. 

“Oh, come now. Do not tell me you have not thought about it. He seems to have quite the effect on you. Not to mention he is quite kind.”

“I do not know what you are referring to,” Tilly muttered, twirling a feather from the duster around her finger.

“You are allowed to fancy him, there is no rule forbidding it.” Babette resolved that she should be the one to share this with her. Tilly was young, and Babette understood that no harm would come from a fleeting crush. Moreover, she preferred it to be her rather than Lucia, whose sternness could be rather intimidating.

The blush deepened on Tilly’s cheeks, resembling a ripe tomato. “But... nuns are not permitted to marry,” she protested.

“I did not mention marriage,” Babette said simply, “I merely said that you may fancy him. The heart is free to feel, after all. It is only our actions that we must govern.” 

“But is it right?” she asked softly.

Babette's smile relaxed, and she gently placed the tray of candles on the nearby table before stepping closer. “What is right is often a matter of the soul, Tilly. It is not forbidden to appreciate the beauty and goodness in others.” 

The words were not her own; she was merely recounting a scolding she had overheard years ago, when Father Jude had caught Mary flirting with an altar boy. But Tilly still seemed torn, her eyes flickering with confusion. “There is no harm in affection, as long as it remains just that—affection. Perhaps you might speak with him. Not of love or desire, but simply as two people sharing a conversation.” 

Her eyes widened again in disbelief. “Speak with him? What shall I possibly say? I do not believe I even possess the courage!”

Babette reached out, giving her friend’s hand a comforting squeeze. “You are stronger than you believe, Tilly. You will find the courage, I have no doubt. Now, let us hurry with our chores. The Reverend Mother will not look kindly upon us shall we delay any longer. We cannot risk her reprimands this evening.”

Tilly’s face broke into a small, nervous grin. “You are right, of course. We ought to finish lest we find ourselves in trouble.”

♱

The woods around her were dense, shifting, their twisted branches weaving into one another like the smoke from Sister Mary’s cigar. She spun in place, her habit swirling around her. Even as her pulse pounded in her throat, even as her breath came in quick gasps, her body refused stillness, compelled to turn. Each movement only deepened the sense that she was being watched. Babette could feel it, a presence that thrummed just beyond her perception. She could not see her own hands, only the sensation of them trembling at her sides. 

Each rotation blurred the world into a dizzying swirl of gray, her boots kicking up the damp leaves beneath her feet. Babette tried to call out— to pray— but her voice vanished before it could leave her lips. Her eyes darted from one shifting shadow to another, searching for movement, for proof that she was not alone.

Her footing faltered, the ground unsteady beneath her, but she kept turning. Each attempt to stop sent the world tilting once more, an endless, dizzying spiral. Desperation took hold, driving her to spin faster, faster— her body frantic, fleeing something unseen, something impossible to fight. She screamed, the desperate sound echoing through the surrounding trees. And then, her spinning stopped— it all halted in an instant. She stood still, and the world had fallen silent. 

A gasp escaped her as she opened her eyes, sweat trickling slowly down her face. The familiar brick walls of the convent surrounded her, but the terror of the woods still clung to her like a second skin, seemingly impossible to shed.

A sudden shout tore through the silence, a terrified sound that shattered the stillness of the room. It was high-pitched, raw with fear, and echoed through the walls. The cries only grew louder as she scrambled to her feet, and with it was the unmistakable sound of footsteps pounding down the hall. Panic gripped her as she hurriedly moved toward the door, throwing it open. 

Dread settled in her when she saw several nuns huddled together just a few doors down, their faces ashen with fear. Among them stood the Reverend Mother, her posture rigid. 

Babette’s feet had carried her forward before she could stop herself, her body seized by fear and a morbid curiosity. The air felt scarce as she neared the open door. The nuns behind her whispered in hushed, fearful voices, but Babette paid them no mind. She had eyes only for the room ahead. She knew before she even reached the threshold. She knew whose room this was. The space was dimly lit by a single candle that flickered on a table by the wall. But it was not the dim lighting that stole her breath. It was not the modest furnishings, nor the eerie quiet that made her blood run cold. It was what lay in the center of it all.

Sister Mary, naked and lifeless. 

Her skin was stark against the wood floor, her limbs twisted beneath her, and hair splayed out like a dark halo. Her face— God, her face — was twisted in a grotesque grimace, bursted capillaries in eyes that were frozen wide— trapped in the final moment of terror. 

A hand flew to her mouth, but it did nothing to stifle the strangled cry that tore from her throat. Babette lurched backward, the room tilting around her, her mind refusing to grasp what lay before her. The cold brick met her spine with a dull, sickening thud, stopping her retreat. Slowly, she sank to the floor, her limbs leaden, the breath stolen from her lungs. Tremors overtook her hands as they clutched at her chest, desperate to quiet the frantic pounding of her heart.

The Reverend Mother shouted for someone to fetch the priest. Her voice sounded distant and warped to Babette, as if it were drifting up from beneath deep water. 

♱

The hallway seemed to close in around her as the Reverend Mother moved toward Mary’s body. Babette’s hands shook as she pushed herself up from the floor. Her legs felt like lead.

This was not the gentle hand of God.

The Reverend Mother stood over the body, her hands clasped in prayer, but even she could not mask the fear in her eyes. Her face, usually so composed, was now etched with lines of shock, of dread. She whispered something under her breath, too quietly for Babette to hear, but it was clear that the woman was struggling to maintain her composure. She knelt beside Mary, her hands shaking as she reached for the nun’s cold, lifeless fingers, trying to comfort what could not be comforted.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”

Father Jude came rushing down the hall, his night robes billowing behind him as he pushed through the gathered nuns. He did not hesitate, did not even pause as he stepped into the room. The Reverend Mother stood abruptly, her prayer cutting off when she saw him.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

“Father...” The elder woman's voice cracked as she stepped away from Sister Mary. She could hardly bring herself to look at the naked girl lying on the floor. 

The priest sank to his knees beside the body, his fingers hovered over Sister Mary’s face. The cruel, cold finality of it all was enough to make him nauseous. He turned his gaze from Mary to the Reverend Mother, seeking her counsel, but her face was unfocused. 

“What happened?” he asked again, his words tight with disbelief, “She... she was not ill. She should not be—” He broke off, running a hand through his long dark hair that was usually pulled back. The priest's voice dropped to a frigid whisper as he spoke, “We must bless her. We must perform the last rites…”

The Reverend Mother nodded, but she did not speak. The nuns standing in the doorway talked anxiously among themselves. Some of them clung to their rosaries, while others simply stared at the floor, too afraid to meet each other’s eyes.