The Empty Cots at Saint Magnus

I was twelve, in the eighth grade, when our school hauled us off to a three-day retreat at the old Saint Magnus retreat house, perched on a cliff overlooking a gray, churning sea. The building was a relic of another century, its gutted corridors smelling of salt, dust, and something faintly sweet, like rotting flowers. We were all buzzing with excitement, because this wasn’t a day trip; we were staying overnight, and for the first time, we’d be sleeping in the same dormitories as our friends, away from our parents.

We arrived late in the afternoon, and the priests—Brothers, they were called—herded us into the main chapel for an opening session. The chapel was vast and cold, with stained glass windows that let in the dying light in hues of blood and amber. I remember fidgeting on the hard wooden pew, my friend Liam poking me in the ribs, whispering jokes about the ghoulish paintings of saints that lined the walls. As the Brothers began their droning lectures, I noticed the windows had gone dark. The sea outside had turned from gray to black.

Then, without warning, the lights died. The chapel plunged into absolute darkness, and a collective gasp rose from the students. Someone shrieked, and I felt a clammy hand grab my arm. After a few minutes—or maybe it was seconds—the lights flickered back on, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The Brothers smiled nervously, blaming a generator issue, but I saw one of them cross himself.

Later, after a bland dinner of lukewarm stew, they led us to the dormitories: long, cavernous rooms lined with rows of iron cots, each with a thin mattress and a woolen blanket. The windows were tall and arched, and the sea moaned beyond them. We were told to settle in for the night, and the lights were dimmed. I was exhausted, so I fell asleep almost immediately, despite the excited whispers around me.

I woke to the lights blazing. My eyes stung, and I was annoyed—I’d been dreaming of something warm and safe. I blinked, expecting to see the usual chaos of kids tossing pillows, but the room was silent. I sat up, rubbing my eyes, and looked around. Every cot was empty. The blankets were neatly folded, the pillows fluffed, as if no one had ever slept there. I called out for Liam, for anyone, but my voice echoed off the bare walls.

I got up, my heart pounding, and walked down the row of cots. Each one was perfectly made, but I began to notice something odd: the name tags on the beds were wrong. They weren’t the names of my classmates. They were names from another era—Mary, Thomas, Agnes, all in faded block letters. I reached the end of the room, where a heavy oak door stood ajar. I pushed it open, and it led to a corridor I didn’t recognize, lined with doors. I tried one. Inside, a cot with a body, covered in a white sheet. I pulled back the sheet.

It was my friend, but not her. The face was pale, waxy, with a serene expression, and her hands were folded over her chest. I ran from door to door, throwing them open, and each one revealed a body of someone I knew—my classmates, the Brothers, even the chaperones. All dead, all smiling. The corridor grew longer, the doors multiplied, and I ran until I burst through a final door into a dark chapel. At the altar stood a tall, faceless silhouette, dripping with brine, and it pointed a long finger at me. I heard a voice, not from a mouth, but from the air itself: ‘You were never meant to wake.’

I woke up screaming. The lights were still on, and the dormitory was full of students, all staring at me. I was lying on my cot, soaked in sweat. Liam ran over, asking what was wrong. I tried to tell them, but they all just looked at me with empty, knowing smiles. The next morning, we were told we had to leave early because of a sudden storm. As we boarded the buses, I glanced back at the retreat house. In every window, I saw a silhouette—tall and still—watching us go. I counted: there were more windows than there were students.

To this day, I cannot sleep with the lights on. And whenever I see a row of made beds, I feel the urge to peel back the blankets, to make sure no one is lying beneath them.