Feature Writer:
Feature Title: THE ABBESS 1
Published: 09.08.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: Demonic possession of nuns, human sacrifice, weight gain.
Author’s Notes: The Abbess: (Chapter 1 of 9)
The Abbess 1
In medieval England, around the 11th century, stood a nunnery. The Holy Abbey of St Arissa occupied the centre of a fertile estate bordering on the town of Newcrofte in the Midlands. The nunnery was a peaceful and prosperous place, providing sanctuary to those who wished to devote their lives to the worship of God, or to those who had nowhere else to go. A good place, helping to improve the lives and fortunes of humanity.
Unknown to the pious and devout nuns of the Abbey however, the powers of darkness and their many eyes began to notice the goodness of this place. There were other plans laid for this land, and as a bastion of light, they Abbey warded against them, limiting the influence of the demonic agenda. Evil counsels were taken in the depths of hell below. A means was sought to undermine the good work of the Abbey. A weakness was looked for. Just one flaw in all that righteousness that could be exploited. A bad seed in the flowerbed. A snake in the grass. A weakness was looked for, and just possibly, just maybe it was found.
The Abbess lay on her bed. The room was bright with multiple windows and a glass panel in the ceiling. The white walls amplified the light and the spartan furnishings did little to absorb it. The effect seemed a little like being in a divine place, thought her assistant.
“You wished to see me, Sister Laiske?” the Abbess’ voice still held some of her old strength beneath the superficies of her recent illness.
“Yes, Abbess. I am sorry to trouble you during your illness, but there are a number of small matters that require your attention. Most urgently the tithe surplus for the year. We have an unusually large surplus, and there are a number of projects that it could be put to use on, for example —“just giving
“Sister,” the Abbess interrupted, “Our tithes are for the work of the Lord. Any excess we have is to be distributed amongst the needy of Newcrofte, as is our way.”
“But Sister! Think of what we could achieve if we spent the money on the Abbey! A new wing would mean we did not need to turn away supplicants! We could grow and expand; it would be —“
“Our glory is not the same as the work of God sister! Was it in vain that I hoped you might learn more compassion and less pride in my service? My time here is nearly through, Emelda.”
“Surely not, Abbess. By the grace of the Almighty may you live a hundred years! But just as a precaution, might it not be wise to name a successor? Our sisterhood needs certainty and security for the future.”
“I know what you want, Emelda,” the Abbess’ voice was fainter now, resigned and tired. “For a time I also wanted you to take over from me. I do not doubt that in your heart you desire what is best for the Abbey, but you are not ready. You need to learn compassion, humility. Next week I want you to go forth to the gardens and tend the crops with the novices. You must appreciate the toil of the humblest child of God before you can hope to lead them with a good heart.”
“But … but I …”
“I will keep my own counsel Emelda. The matter is decided. Now, to other business. This letter is to be taken to Newcrofte on the morrow. Seal it for me, would you?”
The Abbess produced a formal looking letter enveloped in the finest stiff paper, from somewhere within her bed. Emelda had no idea when she had written it — she had seldom seen her superior rise from her sickness in the last week. This was as nothing to her chagrin over the Abbess’ rebuke however. She had treated her as though she had sinned, when all she wanted was glory for the Abbey! It was so unfair that she was being held back. She would make an excellent Abbess. The old woman was senile, out of touch, a liability. Showing nothing of her thought, Emelda mechanically took the letter.
“Of course, Abbess, I shall do so at once, and thank you for sharing your thought with me. I shall strive to mend my ways.”
She went over to the writing desk and prepared a small candle to melt the wax.
In the darkness of unreality, daemons can sense the souls of the living in a manner akin to smell. This ability can give them an impression of the overall nature of their prey. In particular, they are very good at determining the scent of a flaw in the spirit. A minor character trait that might render an otherwise righteous soul vulnerable to their influence. Here and now such a spoor was scented amongst a bastion of impenetrable light. Dark, unholy influences clustered around this trail. Daemonic tendrils, feelers, tongues of a sort, reached out, tasting for a way to enter in.
That night Emelda Laiske sat in her cell wracked with frustrations. Her evening prayer and reflection had given way to bitterness. She had been at the Abbey for five long years, ever since the unfortunate affair within her family had forced her to be sent away in shame. St Arissa’s had given her a new lease of life however. She genuinely loved it, the order, the smart dress, the high, elegant architecture.
Truly it was glorious and worthy of her devotion. She had worked her way up through the ranks with ambition and zeal, becoming the personal assistant to the Abbess faster than any previous nun. She had plans to improve the Abbey further, to expand, gain more prestige. It would become a thing of great beauty. The old Abbess remained stuck in the past and could not see her vision. She was going to squander the opportunity.
Emelda’s thoughts turned to the letter, now kept with her to be sent to the town in the morning. What was it about, anyway? The address was plain enough, the old tower behind the market square, although she was unfamiliar with its resident and there was no name on the front. The Abbess seldom communicated by letter anyway. To whom was she writing, and why? Was she sending for a replacement from outside? Could she be sending some sort of bad report about Emelda herself?
Although she struggled to see who in Newcrofte would care about such a report, paranoia gnawed at her. That was when she noticed a small discomfort in her habit. Something was digging into the side of her slightly chubby stomach. Investigating, she found the wax block and seal of the Abbey stuffed beneath the fabric. Had she put them there? She must have been distracted after sealing the letter. The blame squarely rested on the old Abbess – how could she concentrate on her duties while being morally judged by the unpredictable old fool?
There was nothing for it. The accidental taking of the seal was plainly a sign from – Emelda’s mind slipped around a concept — a barely noticed space in her thoughts – providence. She had to be sure that the Abbess was not doing anything foolish, for the good of the community. Emelda broke the seal, knowing that she could now easily reforge it with no-one the wiser.
“Absalom, I regret to inform you that I am dying. I have kept the items you sent, secret for all these years, excepting your men from time to time. I have failed to find a suitable replacement whome I can trust with thys, therefore I ask ye to take back them for another keeper, or to destroye them as I will so order if I hear no response from you within the moon. Against your advice I confesse I have looked on them and fear they will be temptation even to the wise. Please visite to discuss this at your earliest.
Yours in Christ, Sister Assumpta Crilley, Abbess.”
Scandalous! The Abbess keeping secrets? Consorting with strange men via cryptic messages? Emelda was intrigued. What could these ‘items’ be? Could this be something that she could use to persuade the Abbess to nominate Emelda as her successor? She tried hard to banish that thought. It would be a wicked deed to blackmail anyone, let alone her superior sister.
The thought persisted though, lingering in her mind like an itch that she could not scratch. Could it not be justified for the good of the Abbey? She hastily re-sealed the letter, but then placed it in one of her drawers, hidden beneath spare clothing. Perhaps it did not need to be sent immediately. It could easily take this ‘Absalom’ some days to respond anyway; who would notice a slight delay?
There was something else she had noticed about the letter besides. The Abbess’s writing was remarkably similar to Emelda’s own hand. Perhaps uncannily so. That led to places Emelda did not want to consider even in the safety of her own mind right now, so she suppressed the idea. It was time to take the Abbess her evening drink. On a sudden whim that she did not think about too deeply, she retrieved the envelope and seal, and took them with her, concealed in a small bag of the type commonly carried by the nuns.
In the darkness, daemonic tendrils thickened and multiplied. Converging on the flaw they teased it open, gently caressing the selfish desires that bounded it, worming into the soft flesh of the soul, tasting its essence, finding it fertile to their needs. The dark organs pulsed and throbbed with an unholy energy, and small seeds of corruption were embedded within the plush softness of innermost thoughts. There they began to grow, creeping and expanding, pushing filaments of wickedness deeper into the fabric of being …
The refectory was quiet at this time of evening, just a few sisters cleaning up. Emelda greeted them perfunctorily as she prepared the warm milk that the head of the Abbey preferred in the evenings. She took a few minutes to see what food had been left over from the day — a few cinnamon buns and some bread and cheese — she finished these off while waiting for the milk to warm — no sense in letting them go stale after all.
On her way from the refectory to the Abbess’ quarters, Emelda’s attention was drawn to the door to the apothecary, set close to the kitchen but around a corner, in a little-used corridor. The sisterhood seldom had need for locks and bolts, and Emelda knew the door would be unsecured. She slipped inside. The Abbess has been very erratic recently. It was not really her fault.
She was probably in too much pain from her affliction. Emelda could help with that though. She had some knowledge of the use of herbs stockpiled in this room and their applications. Hemlock was, in small doses, an effective painkiller, and would help her sleep. Maybe she would be less unreasonable come morning and reconsider her demotion of Emelda. She poured a generous dose of the powdered herb into the milk. It dissolved readily with no obvious change to the drink. Perhaps a little more, just to be sure it was still potent. She doubled the dose, and then added an extra spoonful for good measure.
When she arrived in the Abbess’s quarters she was already asleep. That would not do – Emelda gently stirred her to wakefulness and gave her the drink.
“Thank you sister,” she said, as she drank deeply, “I hope you were not upset by my treatment of you this afternoon.”
“Not at all Abbess,” Emelda responded — after all did it not count as the truth if it was to spare her feelings? “Though I do feel strongly that it was the wrong decision. Without my assistance you will find managing the Abbey more difficult. Nobody wants what is best for our sisterhood more than I do, and I —“
“Hush, Emelda. I will manage; the Good Lord will show me the way. I don’t want you to feel resentful of my decision, as that would not be good for you. You will be back by my side eventually, or perhaps even in charge, when you are ready … uh …oh …”
The Abbess seemed to lose focus, her head lolling on her shoulders as she sat propped up to the headboard of her bed. Moments later she came back to alertness though.
“Emelda, I feel … strange.”
She came over to the bed to help the Abbess, as she inspected the small amount of milk remaining in her cup. As she tilted it, a sludge became visible in the bottom.
“What … what is this … what have you done to me?”
“Oh Sister, it is nothing, just a little medicine to help you sleep. Think nothing of it.”
“But l … but … no …”
“Hush now, Abbess, you need rest; sleep now.”
Emelda took the cup from her and helped her to lie down.
“No, help me, help!” the Abbess’s voice was raised now, still weak but beginning to carry beyond the room.
She was plainly becoming delusional, a consequence of her long illness, thought Emelda.
“Calm down Assumpta. Everything will be well, I have taken care of it all for you. You just need to rest now.”
Emelda’s hand covered the Abbess’s mouth, muffling her cries, as her weight leaned over her body, pinning her down (for Emelda was blessed with an ample, heavy build and was fond of snacking when able). This was all for her own good. She was doing the only sensible thing to help matters, for the greater good of the Abbey.
Eventually the Abbess’s struggles ceased and she relaxed into what Emelda could convince herself was a deep sleep.
“Yes, sleep now Abbess. You have earned your rest.”
Emelda took the cup — she had better fetch it for cleaning in the refectory to save the Abbess the bother in the morning — and prepared to leave. However, her attention was first drawn to the writing desk. There was still a stack of paper, and in a drawer, she knew there would be envelopes. Thoughts wriggled into her mind. The Abbess would certainly change her mind when she awoke refreshed in the morning.
She would most assuredly want Emelda to become the new Abbess. The best way would be to have it in writing, just in case. She produced the Abbess’s letter and once again unsealed it. Their handwriting was almost identical, and Emelda had another document as reference. There was even an indent of the Abbess’s heavy signature in the topmost sheet of paper on the desk – plainly she had written this letter on top of the stack.
It would surely be a minor naughtiness, assisting the Abbess with this without her knowledge or direct permission, but there were many in the priesthood who could produce scrolls of indulgence, permitting limited transgressions and rendering them void in the eyes of … the eyes of … anyway, nobody would know, and she probably would not need it anyway, but just in case, and for the good of the Abbey.
Emelda spent several hours carefully forging — no, writing — a letter from the Abbess commending her as her designate as a successor. After all, she thought, if she was the new Abbess, she would be authorised to write such a missive anyway. There was no sin here. Everything was perfect. Eventually after sealing the new letter she left, making sure to replace the writing equipment as it had been, and removing the cup and tray she had served it on.
Emelda was very quiet as she returned to her cell, and happened to avoid any meeting with her fellow sisters, even taking a detour to avoid a pair up late, though she put any possible reasons for her evasion from her mind.
In the complicated depths of the void, the various daemons clustering around a certain singular point were impressed. Despite being effectively immortal, few had seen the seeds of wickedness and sin take root and grow so quickly. Souls do not have a shape in terms that mortals can understand, but to give it a parallel by way of illustration, this soul was already becoming blotchy, slightly swollen and misshapen with dark patches and bulges within that sometimes seemed to move around of their own accord, causing pulsing ripples on the surface. The clear light that once emanated from it was now tinted with a sickly kind of yellow, and still the process was accelerating.
The void itself did not even have a geometry as we would understand it, but now that the soul had responded so ‘well’ to the demonic ministration, it was moving ‘towards’ them, becoming easier for them to access, to interact with, to violate. To the demon who could control it would go the rewards, the glory, their power to influence mortal affairs, and ultimately the right to consume it when its usefulness eventually ceased.
The demons watching squabbled and fought, sending ripples of conflict through the firmament, until one, the strongest there present, gained dominance and the lesser devils took flight. Septuthiroth, the Great Corruptor, Scourge of the Light came forth.
A powerful demon-lord, his chief weapons were pride and delusion, but there was no sin he was not proficient in turning to his own ends. Metaphorically salivating over his prize, he wrapped his essence snake-like around the captive soul, tainting its material further with his malevolent presence, sinking deep into it, learning its secrets, whispering into its dreams, her dreams.
The next day Emelda was rudely awakened by a novice who had entered her chamber uninvited.
“Oh, sister, please wake up! Come quickly! It’s the Abbess, she is not breathing!”
Despite herself, Emelda felt the need to chastise the novice for her rude entry. There were standards of behaviour to maintain after all. Following that, she proceeded to the Abbess’s room. Everything was as she left it last night, with the exception of the gaggle of agitated nuns in the room, and the blue tinge to the features of the now rigid Abbess Assumpta Crilley.
Emelda wasted no time in taking charge. There were procedures to follow. The nuns were organised. Rites were performed (by one of the novices — Emelda was far too busy at that time). Funereal ceremonies were prepared. Emelda was certain she felt only grief over the death of the Abbess. Not a deep-down feeling of intense pleasure and triumph. She suppressed such thoughts completely. Even if there were such feelings, nobody would ever know about them, so they didn’t count. A letter was found in the old Abbess’s room making her intentions for a successor clear, and so, following a few weeks wait while a senior clergyman was summoned to officiate the ceremony, Emelda became the new Abbess of St Arissa’s.
On the evening following the ceremony, once she had shooed out well-wishers and guests from what was now HER personal chamber, she sat at her desk planning the future. There were big changes to make now. The potential for glory that the Abbey could achieve had barely begun to be tapped. She would need more money. Tithes would have to be increased, and there were other ways to bring in wealth.
Any approach could be justified for the greater good of the Abbey. The evening was warm, and she felt a desire to disrobe now that she was not observed by anyone. Why not — her habit could be slipped off easily, although she found it slightly harder than she expected. When she was sitting naked (apart from her plain undergarments) on the chair, she probed her familiar body, feeling around her chubby stomach, buttocks, thighs, breasts with her hands. Perhaps she had put on a little weight recently — hence her habit’s more snug fit than usual. Still, it was a sign of good health after all. It would not do to waste away with the stress of her position. She would have to get one of the Abbey’s seamstresses to let them out a little.
As she thought of her plans to enhance, expand and perfect the Abbey, a strange feeling of euphoria washed over her. She felt an uncontrollable urge to laugh. What if some of her sisters were listening at the door though (not that they should be, and she would discipline any sisters who wasted time like that harshly)? The only solution she could think of was to retreat to her bed and pull the blankets over herself.
There in her warm sanctuary she laughed long and passionately, and as she did so, her fingers found their way down her belly, through the interface between flesh and underwear, to her intimate regions where she pleasured herself repeatedly. She was sure this was simply justified relief that she had been successful in steering the Abbey to the right choice for its future prosperity, and besides, she had worked hard for the Abbeys good — what she did in private was surely a minor indulgence beneath anyone’s notice. It didn’t really even count as happening.
Her mortal senses could not see the demon Septuthiroth, his spirit form coiled around her body, forked tongue sliding into her mouth, fat demonic member penetrating inside of her. If on some level she could sense a wrongness about the evening, Septuthiroth’s corrupting whispers provided plenty of ways for her to avoid acknowledging this deviancy, and she took these deceptions to heart without hesitation.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE