The Night Nurse: Glenwood Springs, 1888

By Patrick Dorn

When the mysterious Night Nurse at a hospice for dying miners selects Sister Angela as her successor, the young nun must walk the fine line between faith and fear to discover the truth about the Night Nurse's dreadful Gift. This is a Western Horror short story with a Catholic twist. Approximately 7,500 words. NOT APPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Mar 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386669357

Patrick Dorn

Patrick Dorn used to write weird westerns set in Old California, New Mexico, and Colorado, but then he visited Ireland. Now his supernatural fiction alternates between The West and The Emerald Isle, but is always, always weird. He's also an Anglican priest and a full-time chaplain. Check out Patrick's blog, stories, plays, musicals, children's books, and more at www.PatrickDorn.com. You can reach him at [e-mail]

Book preview

The Night Nurse

The Night Nurse

Glenwood Springs, 1888

Patrick Dorn

Contents

The Night Nurse

Afterword

About the Author

The Night Nurse

Glenwood Springs, 1888

By Patrick Dorn

Sister Angela knelt in the convent chapel, asking God for a sign.

The only response she’d received in the last hour was a chilly early-October wind that whistled through the gaps in the hastily erected plank walls of St. Francis of the Springs convent, and the flickering of the cheaply rendered tallow altar candles.

Lord Jesus, hear my prayer. You are the Lord of life, the conqueror of death, the healer of body and spirit. Is it your will that I should become the new Night Nurse? Is this how I may best serve you?

Silence.

Sister Angela heard the side door open. The new arrival cleared her throat. Sister Angela unclenched her eyes and turned. Sister Hilda, one of the older nuns, stood in the doorway, filling it with her girth.

Father Downey will see you now. Sister Hilda’s voice was strained. Tight.

Thank you, Sister.

The big nun turned and stepped back into the hall. The rough plank floor creaked in protest.

Sister Angela made a hurried sign of the cross, stood up from the wooden kneeler and slipped her bare feet into her sandals. She glanced up at the crucifix that hung above the tabernacle containing the Blessed Sacrament and the Oils of Healing and Exorcism.

Well, you had your chance. I suppose I’ll have to decide for myself.

The guest room accommodated families of the dying who visited the convent’s Living Water Hospice. Since taking the stage to Glenwood Springs was expensive, distant relations rarely visited the boomtown. Local families had their own residences, from canvas tents to brick two-storied buildings fitted with gas lighting. Since it was so often vacant, Father Edward T. Downey availed himself of the simple quarters while on his pastoral visits from St. Mary’s Church in Aspen, forty miles up the canyon.

She smoothed the stiff white scapular over her black serge habit, adjusted the drape of her veil across her shoulders, then knocked on the half-closed door. It swung open.

Father Downey