The White Habit

Our school stood on the edge of Bacolod, a sprawling complex of concrete and glass that had once been a leper colony before becoming a general hospital. The stories were as much a part of the campus as the cracked hallways and the smell of formaldehyde from the biology lab. Every freshman heard the tale of the nun who still walked the third floor corridor, counting the tiles with her beads, and the janitor who swore he saw patients in the basement morgue, their skin flaking like old paint.

It was the first Friday of the month, the day we were all to wear white for the morning mass. The rule was absolute: white tops, white skirts or trousers, even white socks. But there were always the few who ‘forgot’, their uniforms a tapestry of brown and white, and they would be sent to the back of the chapel, forced to kneel on the bare stone floor as penance.

That particular Friday, I was late. I had been lingering in the art room, tracing the outline of a skull in charcoal when the bell for the assembly rang. I hurried through the empty corridors, my footsteps echoing off the walls, the silence oppressive. The chapel was on the other side of the campus, near the old wing that was now used for storage, its windows boarded up, its doors always locked.

As I passed the girls’ bathroom on the second floor—the one with the cracked mirror and the flickering light—I saw a figure emerge. It was Elena, a quiet girl from my class, her dark hair pulled back, her white uniform pristine. I called out her name, but she didn’t respond. She walked slowly, her head bowed, her feet barely making a sound, as if she were gliding. I shrugged and entered the bathroom, the air thick with the smell of bleach and something else, something metallic.

I was washing my hands when I noticed it. The reflection in the mirror was wrong. The tiles behind me were a different shade, the pattern twisted. I blinked, and it was normal again. I told myself it was the lighting, the stress of the upcoming exams.

I left the bathroom and made my way to the chapel. The mass had already started, the chant of the priest echoing through the speakers. I slipped in at the back, finding my seat among the rows of white-clad students. I looked for Elena, but she was not in her usual spot. I scanned the crowd, hoping to catch her eye, but she was nowhere to be seen.

After mass, I approached our classmate Liza, who was Elena’s closest friend. ‘Did you see Elena? She was coming out of the bathroom as I was going in, but she didn’t seem to notice me,’ I said.

Liza’s face went pale. ‘Elena didn’t come to school today,’ she whispered. ‘She texted me last night that she was sick.’

A cold shiver ran down my spine. I tried to laugh it off. ‘Maybe I saw someone who looked like her.’ But the image of her face, so pale, her eyes half-lidded, lingered in my mind.

That afternoon, during break, I decided to go back to the old wing. I had always been curious, and now I felt an inexplicable pull. The door to the old wing was ajar, a chain hanging loose. I slipped through, into a hallway lined with peeling paint and dust-covered windows. A sign on the wall read: ‘Morgue – Restricted Area.’ I froze. The bathroom where I had seen Elena was directly above this spot.

I shouldn’t have gone further, but I did. The door to the morgue was heavy, metal, with a small window. I peered through. Inside, on a gurney, lay a figure covered in a white sheet. The sheet was stained with a dark, spreading patch. I pushed the door open, the hinges groaning.

The figure stirred. The sheet lifted slightly, revealing a hand, pale and thin. I stumbled back, but my foot caught on a loose tile, and I fell. When I looked up, the sheet was gone, and Elena was standing beside the gurney, her white uniform now streaked with what looked like rust.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said, her voice hollow. Her eyes were black, like the voids in the mirror.

I scrambled to my feet and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the principal’s office. I burst in, panting, and told them what I had seen. The principal, a stern woman with a crucifix around her neck, listened calmly.

‘We’ve had reports like this before,’ she said. ‘That wing was sealed after the incident in ’89. A nurse died there, under suspicious circumstances. She was found in the morgue, her uniform soaked in blood. They say she still walks these halls, waiting for a new body.’

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept seeing Elena’s black eyes, hearing her hollow voice. The next morning, Elena was back at school, wearing her white uniform, acting as if nothing had happened. But I noticed she never smiled, and her eyes, once bright, were now dark and lifeless.

Weeks passed, and the memory faded, but every first Friday, when I saw her in that white uniform, a cold dread settled in my chest. I started to avoid her, but she would find me in the hallways, her gaze fixed on me, her lips moving in a silent prayer.

One evening, as I was leaving the library, I saw her waiting for me at the end of the corridor. She smiled, a thin, cold smile, and opened her mouth. A whisper, barely audible, carried on the draft: ‘You were supposed to take my place.’

I turned and ran, but the hallway seemed to stretch, the doors all locked. I looked back, and she was gone. I heard a drip, drip, and then a wet hand clasped my shoulder. I spun around, my heart pounding, but there was nothing.

I am writing this now from my hospital room, the same hospital that once stood on these grounds. They found me in the old wing, unconscious, my uniform soaked in something that smelled like iron. The doctors say I had a seizure, that the shock of my fall caused a concussion. But I know the truth. I saw the thing that wore Elena’s face, and it wanted my body to replace the one it had lost.

The first Friday of next month, I will be discharged. I will go back to school. I will wear my white uniform. And if I see Elena, I will not run. I will not scream. Because I know, deep in my bones, that the thing under the white habit is not Elena anymore. It’s waiting for its next host.

And this time, it will not be me.