The Glass Hall

We had been on the road for ten days, weaving through the red earth and eucalyptus of the south-west, my mother’s battered Camry groaning under the weight of our luggage and the heat. My brother, Sam, was sprawled in the backseat, earbuds in, eyes half-closed. I was in the front, map unfurled on my lap, though my father insisted he knew the way. We were heading to a town called Wattle Creek, a name that sounded quaint and forgettable, which was exactly what we wanted after the crowded coast.

Our accommodation was a converted convent, a sprawling red-brick building set back from the road, surrounded by a riot of overgrown roses and native bush. As we pulled into the gravel drive, I saw the dining hall first—a long, glass-walled room facing the lawn, tables set with white linen and silver cutlery, as if expecting a banquet that would never come. The late afternoon sun turned the glass into a blazing mirror, so I couldn’t see inside, just our own tired reflections. My father turned off the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening.

The owner, a woman named Margaret, greeted us at the heavy oak door. She was thin, with a face like crumpled paper, and her eyes were too blue, too bright. She spoke in a hush, as if the convent were a library. ‘You’re in the East Wing,’ she said, handing us a brass key. ‘The sisters used to have their cells there. It’s quiet.’ She smiled, but her lips barely moved. ‘Dinner is at seven. I’ve left the hall open if you want to look around.’

We settled into our room—a sparse, whitewashed space with two narrow beds and a crucifix above the door. The air smelled of lavender and old wood. Sam dumped his bag and immediately lay down, groaning. I wandered to the window. Below, the dining hall was now a lit fishbowl, the tables glowing warm. I saw a figure—a woman in grey—standing at the far end, perfectly still, facing the glass. She didn’t move. She didn’t turn. I blinked, and she was gone.

At dinner, Margaret served a hearty stew, and we ate in the glass hall, surrounded by the dark lawn pressing against the panes. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the wind rattling the frames. Sam asked about the history, and Margaret’s face tightened. ‘The convent closed in the seventies,’ she said, pushing her plate away. ‘The sisters left… suddenly. No one knows why. The Church sold it to a series of owners, but none stayed long. Something about the drafts.’ She laughed, a dry, hollow sound. ‘But you’ll be fine. Just be sure to lock your door at night.’

I couldn’t sleep. The room was hot, airless. I cracked the window, and a gust of cold wind swept in, bringing with it a whisper, like a name half-spoken. I lay in the dark, staring at the crucifix, until I heard a noise from the dining hall—a heavy scrape, as if a chair were being dragged across the stone floor. I crept down the corridor, my bare feet cold, and peered through the glass. The tables were empty, but one chair had been pulled out and turned to face the lawn. As I watched, the chair slowly moved back, inch by inch, as if being pushed by an invisible hand.

I woke Sam the next morning, but he just laughed. ‘It’s an old house, creepy noises. Go back to sleep.’ But I couldn’t shake it. During breakfast, I asked Margaret outright: ‘Were there any… incidents here?’ She set down her coffee cup, her eyes narrowing. ‘Why would you ask that?’ I told her about the chair, the figure. She was silent for a long moment, then she leaned in, her voice barely a murmur. ‘The sisters’ cells are not the only rooms. Beneath the hall, there is a passage. It was used for the dead. They would lay them out, prepare them for burial. But one sister—Sister Agatha—she refused to go. She said she had unfinished business. They found her one morning, locked in the preparation room, having scratched the walls until her fingers bled. They had to tear the door down. And when they did… she was gone. But they say she never left. She watches over the living, waiting for someone to see her.’

That night, I couldn’t ignore it. I armed myself with a flashlight and went to the dining hall. The moon was full, casting silver light through the glass. I walked to the far end, where I’d seen the figure. The floor was cold stone, and near the wall, I noticed a crack in the plaster—a door, almost invisible, covered in peeling paint. My heart thudded. I pushed, and it swung open with a groan. A narrow staircase descended into darkness, the air thick with dust and decay. I started down, the flashlight beam cutting through blackness.

At the bottom, I found the room. It was small, windowless, with a stone slab in the centre, stained dark. The walls were covered in scratch marks—long, jagged lines clawed into the plaster. The room was freezing, as if the cold came from the earth itself. In the corner, a figure stood, shrouded in grey. I couldn’t move. She turned, and her face was a void, but I felt her gaze. She raised a hand, finger to her lips, a silencing gesture. Then she pointed to the slab. On it lay a piece of paper, yellowed and brittle. I picked it up. In neat, faded ink, it read: ‘They will return to finish what I started.’

I stumbled back up the stairs, my lungs burning. The door slammed shut behind me, and I heard the sound of a lock turning. I stood in the empty hall, shaking, the paper crumpled in my fist. The next morning, I showed it to my father, but he dismissed it as a prank. Margaret, when I confronted her, just smiled and said, ‘You’ve seen her. Now you understand why I never stay the night. Consider it a parting gift.’ As we packed the car, I looked back at the convent. In the dining hall window, I saw the figure again, standing at the glass, her hand raised in a wave—or a warning.

We drove away, and I didn’t look back. But that night, in a motel, I unpacked my bag and found the paper, still in my jacket pocket. The ink had deepened, as if fresh. And beneath the original words, another message had appeared, in a script that was not mine: ‘You are the chosen one. Return.’ I burned the paper in the sink, but its words stayed seared in my mind. I knew, with a cold certainty, that my life was no longer my own. Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. And the sister is still waiting for her unfinished business.

I have never spoken of this to anyone, because who would believe me? But I know the truth. The convent has a claim on me, and one day, I will have to go back. Not because I want to, but because she will not let me go. The glass hall will be the last thing I see.

And I will see it soon.