The Stained Glass Loop

I am 17, almost 18, and I have always had a strange connection to the unseen. Growing up in the Laurentians, north of Montreal, I’ve learned to distinguish the whisper of the wind from the murmur of something else. My childhood was punctuated by oddities—a cold spot in a warm room, a shadow that moved against the light, a voice calling my name when I was alone. But nothing prepared me for the winter of my sixteenth year, when the boundary between dream and reality began to dissolve.

We lived in a converted convent, a sprawling stone building that had been turned into apartments. My family occupied the top floor, where the high ceilings and arched windows still held the scent of incense and old prayers. My room was at the end of a long hallway, its walls adorned with faded frescoes of saints. The window overlooked a frozen garden, and beyond that, a forest of bare oaks and pines.

It started with the lights. Every evening at 11:11, the antique chandelier in the living room would flicker, casting stroboscopic shadows. I would turn to look, and for a split second, I’d see a woman in a gray habit standing by the fireplace, her face obscured by a hood. She was always gone when I blinked. But the feeling of being watched lingered.

The first dream came on a night of a heavy snowstorm. I was walking down a corridor I’d never seen before, lined with doors of dark oak. The floor was cold marble, and the walls were covered in tapestries depicting scenes of martyrdom. I felt an irresistible pull toward the last door, which was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and found myself in a vast chapel, illuminated by candlelight. At the altar stood a priest, his back to me. He was speaking in Latin, but the words were garbled, like a tape played backwards. As I stepped closer, he turned—and he had no face. Just a smooth, pale expanse where his features should be. He raised a hand, and I saw that his fingers were too long, ending in needle-like points.

I woke up screaming. My mother rushed in, her face pale in the dim light from the hallway. ‘It was just a dream,’ she said, but her voice wavered. In the morning, I found scratches on my arm—three parallel lines, like from a claw. I didn’t tell her.

nights passed, and the dreams became more frequent. Each time, I was in that same chapel, but the details sharpened. On the third night, I saw the stained glass window above the altar: a depiction of St. Michael slaying a dragon. But the dragon’s eye was a single, pupil-less orb that seemed to follow me. On the fourth night, the priest spoke a single word in perfect clarity: ‘Lilith.’ The ground shook, and the dragon in the window unfurled its wings, shattering the glass.

I began to sleepwalk. My parents would find me in the kitchen, holding a knife, staring at the wall. They stopped locking my door at night. My schoolwork suffered, and I stopped talking to my friends. I knew this was not mere imagination—the dreams were too vivid, too coherent, too insistent.

It culminated on the night of the winter solstice. I went to bed early, exhausted. I found myself again in the chapel, but this time the candles were extinguished. The only light came from a sliver of moon through the broken stained glass. The dragon was gone, but in its place, the faceless priest stood before me, holding a golden chalice. He offered it to me. In the cup was a dark liquid, almost black. I heard a voice in my head, soft and seductive: ‘Drink, and you will see.’

I took the chalice. The liquid was cold and tasted of copper. As I swallowed, the world lurched. The chapel twisted, and I was no longer standing but falling. I fell through the floor, through stone and soil, until I landed in a dark, suffocating space. I felt hands grabbing me—cold, thin fingers—and they pulled me into a narrow passage. I crawled for what felt like hours, my knees scraping against rough rock. Finally, I saw a light ahead. I emerged into a cave, and there, sitting on a rock, was a woman in a gray habit. She turned to face me, and this time, she had eyes—pitch black, like voids. She spoke, and her voice echoed with a thousand voices: ‘You have come. Now you must take my place.’

I woke up in my bed, gasping. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and there was dirt under my fingernails. I felt a strange weight in my chest, as if something had taken root. Days passed, and the dreams stopped. But I didn’t feel safe. I felt a presence within me, watching me from the inside.

Then, at 11:11 the next night, I saw the hooded woman again, but she was in my mirror. She reached out, and her hand touched the glass from within. I touched it back, and the reflection rippled. Her face became clear, and it was mine—older, gaunt, eyes sunken. She smiled, and I realized that I had become the dream, and she had become the dreamer.

Now, I am writing this from a room in the convent that I have never seen before. The walls are covered in my own handwriting, repeating the same phrase over and over: ‘Let me out.’ But I cannot leave. The door is locked, and outside, the corridor is lined with doors of dark oak. Somewhere, in the chapel, a priest with no face is waiting for his next victim. And I know that when I close my eyes, I will be in a room I recognize, living a life that is not mine.

I need guidance. But I fear no one can help me now. I have become the hunter’s prey, and the hunter is me.

If you have read this far, please do not try to find me. I will only drag you in. But if you ever see a hooded woman in your peripheral vision, run. Do not look into the mirror at 11:11. And above all, never drink from a golden chalice offered by a faceless priest. For the stained glass loop is a trap, and once you step inside, you are bound to it forever.