Blood Stains

The following is a story that was told to me by one of my high school teachers. To my knowledge it is entirely true.

Back in the early 1900s, it wasn't uncommon for young men to choose to enter the priest hood at a young age. Many males would focus on a life of devote religion in order to avoid going to war. The grandfather of my teacher (for the purpose of the story we'll call him John) was one such man. Because he was living in England at the time of WWI, he decided to join a monastery at an early age. Little did he know that the death and blood of war that he sought to escape would follow him into the holy temple.

During John's second year at the monastery, a very tragic incident occurred. Another monk, one that had been studying for several years and had not shown any signs of suicidal intent, was discovered dead early one morning. He was sitting on the floor of his chamber with his back resting against the end of the bed. Both of his wrists had been slashed numerous times, most obviously from the stained piece of broken glass that lay nearby. His blood was everywhere. It had covered the stone floor like a crimson blanket.

The death shocked everyone, for it was unheard of for a man of such religious stature to commit this ultimate act of sin. The body was disposed of, personal belongings were shipped back to the family, and the blood was mopped up from the floor.

A week or so later a few new students arrived. This was common practice, as the monastery was quite popular and many people were joining at this time period. One of the new students was given the room of the dead monk. When he opened the door to put down his belongings, he realized that the floor was covered in fresh blood. The monk showing him around was mortified. He instantly called for others to come clean up the mess that had been left, and apologized to the new comer for their lack of preparations. The new monk was then left to his room.

He was dead the next morning. Seated in the same position as the former monk, both wrists slashed by a razor blade, blood everywhere. The entire monastery was panic stricken. No one knew what to do. The body was given a proper burial, and the unpacked belongings were sent back to where they came from. In fear of a lingering spirit, the monks performed an exorcism on the room. They moved the furniture around, and blessed the room with holy water. But no matter how hard they scrubbed and washed the floor, a permanent stain of red was always visible.

Weeks later, a new monk was shown into the now blessed room. He was a little surprised at the sickening stain beneath the bed, but really took no notice of it. Unfortunately, the blessing did nothing, and the third monk to occupy the room of blackness was found dead the next morning. Same posture, same form of death, same stain.

The monastery was in an outrage. Every piece of furniture from the room was taken out and burned. The room was blessed again and again, new furniture was brought in, and then as a final touch, wooden floor paneling was installed to cover up the ever present blemish. When the monks returned to the room the next day they were absolutely horrified at what they found. The blood stain was not to be concealed; it had seeped up from below the brand new paneling and begun to pool in the center of the room.

This was the final straw for the monks. The room was boarded up and bricks were laid in the doorway. A tapestry was hung where the door had once been, and the room was forgotten. No one spoke about of it. Everyone tried to forget it, but no one really did. To my knowledge, the room is still there. Concealed from view maybe, but waiting. Always waiting.