This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheWelshWitch on 2025-07-17 00:00:07+00:00.

“I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in Me, although he be dead, shall live: and every one that liveth, and believeth in Me, shall not die for ever.” — John 11:25 – 26

Each toll of the church bells was a year of my sister’s life.

The bells tolled sixteen times in honour of her sixteen years, which were as ephemeral as spring flowers. Although I was physically present, I was elsewhere in spirit during the Requiem Mass. Nothing—neither Fr. Simard’s mournful voice, nor the marble floor, nor even the bells which tolled the death of my sister—seemed real to me. Reality itself did not feel real. The casket, the unbleached candles, and the black–clad mourners all faded away. Even the choir, whose voices always made a strong impression on me, sounded distant and far off.

May the angels lead you into Paradise. May the martyrs receive you at your coming, and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, who once was poor, may you have everlasting rest.

All of it came crashing back as I felt a nudge of my aunt’s elbow, announcing my sister’s procession to our family plot in the adjacent cemetery. As six pallbearers lifted her casket onto their shoulders, I closed my eyes softly, tears trickling down my face. The procession was interrupted by a series of loud noises heard throughout the church. Opening my eyes, I saw the pallbearers had abandoned their posts, running away from the sanctuary while my mother screamed in horror. My father made the Sign of the Cross as he held her close to him, his mouth agape. What was going on? Three more thuds drew an audible gasp from the congregation. Where were they coming from? Weaving my way through the congregation to the sanctuary, I discovered the noises’ source, but I could hardly believe my eyes and ears.

The noises were coming from inside the casket.

“Dominique,” my mother cried. “Stay away!”

Ignoring my mother’s cries, I walked cautiously toward the casket until its lid abruptly opened. I came to a sudden stop as my sister, clothed in her favourite periwinkle blue dress, sat up in her casket.

She was alive.

“Chris?”

She turned her head toward me.

“Nikki?”

There was a deafening silence as Christina manoeuvred herself out of the casket, her kitten heeled feet clacking on the marble floor of the sanctuary. Our father ran past me and embraced my sister, crying and laughing at the same time. He was followed by Dr. Desmarais, our family doctor, who tried with his ear to get a sense of her vitals. Yet Christina wrenched herself away from them, holding her hand over her nose as if she smelled a foul odour.

“Christina?”

“I can smell them,” she said. Pointing to the congregation, she cried, “The stench of these wretched sinners!”

Not only the congregation, but the curé himself was shocked by her words. There was another gasp among the congregation as she collapsed into our father’s arms. After my mother composed herself, she ran to my father and sister. She and Dr. Desmarais helped my father escort Christina out of the church to the hospital. Even after a battery of tests, Dr. Desmarais and his colleagues were unable to explain Christina’s apparent resurrection from the dead. In defiance of natural law, she was not only alive, but she was in perfect health. Her asthma, which indirectly led to her death, was gone. She did not need her inhaler anymore. She was allowed to go home after three days of observation in hospital. At a loss for words, Dr. Desmarais and his colleagues could only describe what happened as “nothing short of miraculous.”

It was not long before our home became a site of pilgrimage.

The townspeople would ask my parents to see the “risen Christina,” which offended my pious mother’s sensibilities. My father was more confused than appalled, but both of my parents agreed that Christina was not to be viewed as a tourist attraction. However, Christina chose to receive visitors, who besought her to tell them what awaited them after death, since she had been there and come back. She once spoke briefly of angels who accompanied her to meet their Lord.

“The angels took me on their wings,” Christina said. “They took me to the Lord. I saw him, face–to–face, surrounded by light. Not only was he beautiful, he was glorious. If you saw him only once in your life, you would willingly die to see him again.”

She never said more of her experience.

Rumours spread about supposed supernatural signs of her holiness. She was found levitating during prayer by our mother, while she also displayed fluency in German, a language she did not know, to speak with a family of Swiss tourists who heard her story. When she spoke with them, she held a handkerchief to her nose, blaming the stench of an unforgiven sin on their souls. The family rebuffed her, claiming to be faithful Catholics, but Christina revealed the fact that their eldest daughter was born out of wedlock. The father blushed in embarrassment, while the mother fell to Christina’s knees, holding onto her skirt, sobbing as she begged for her forgiveness. Placing her hands on the mother’s head, she appeared to grant her absolution.

Not once did Christina mention God.

It was then that I began to have my suspicions about “La sainte de La Prairie.”

“Ms. Boucher?” Dr. Desmarais called.

Rising from my seat, I walked with him back to his office. He sat in his chair opposite me. Sitting on his desk was a framed picture of his family in their Sunday best.

“How are you, Ms. Boucher?”

“I’m doing well,” I answered. “Please, call me ‘Dominique.’”

“Dominique,” Dr. Desmarais smiled. “Why did you come to see me?”

“I wanted to speak with you about my sister.”

“Yes?”

“How is she alive?” I asked. “I know it wasn’t able to be definitively determined, but I still don’t understand.”

“It was nothing short of a miracle,” Dr. Desmarais answered. “From God Himself.”

“What?”

“Your sister was raised from the dead by His hand,” he said. “Like Lazarus.”

Was Dr. Desmarais himself a devotee of my sister?

“But. . . .” I started.

“No ‘buts,’ Dominique,” Dr. Desmarais interrupted. “Do you have no faith?”

What?

“Yes, I do, but. . . .” I trailed off. “I can’t make sense of it.”

“What do you mean?” Dr. Desmarais asked. “Don’t you believe in miracles?”

Realising I would prevail nothing by seeking Dr. Desmarais’ counsel, I pinned on a grin and I ended the conversation as soon as I possibly could.

“I don’t know,” I answered. Lying through my teeth, I continued, “You said she was raised like Lazarus. Perhaps I should read the story of Lazarus again. It could help me through this crisis of faith.”

“It should,” Dr. Desmarais beamed. “You will soon see that your sister is a living saint.”

“Yes, I believe I will,” I replied. With a feigned sigh, I looked at the clock behind him and I said, “I apologize, but I should be going. Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Please, give my regards to your family, especially Christina.”

“I will.”

Walking home from Dr. Desmarais’ office, I saw the curé of our church greeting the parishioners at the end of Vespers. Believing I had nothing else to lose, I walked up the steps to the church and asked Fr. Simard if I could speak with him in his office.

“I understand your scepticism, Dominique,” Fr. Simard said. “I have to admit that I have had my own doubts about ‘La sainte de La Prairie.’”

“Yes, but I want to believe, Father,” I replied. “Shouldn’t I?”

“Not everything is worthy of belief,” Fr. Simard emphasised. “As St. John writes in his First Epistle, ‘Believe not every spirit, but try the spirits if they be of God.’”

“How?”

“Prayer and Scripture will be your sword and shield,” he answered. “They will help you discern the fruits of your sister’s labour.”

“Thank you, Father,” I said. “I have to be going, but I’ll reach out to you again if I have any further questions.”

“You’re welcome, Dominique,” Fr. Simard replied. “I’ll do likewise.”

After I spoke with Fr. Simard, I walked home, where I found Christina praying in the den with the townspeople, wearing a new dress, an immaculate white dress, giving her the ethereality of an angel. She prayed the first half while the townspeople prayed the second half of the Rosary. Having amassed a following, Christina started to pray with the townspeople on a regular basis. Despite their initial reservations, our parents slowly began to believe in Christina as the townspeople did, implicitly if not explicitly, and they embraced their status as the “parents of the Risen One.”

The local faithful declared Christina a saint, perhaps even a new Saviour.

Miracles were also attributed to her intercession. Mrs. Caron, who was chronically ill, regained her health after Christina laid hands on her. Mr. Delisle, who was physically disabled, stood from his wheelchair as she led him by the hand. The youngest daughter of the Laberge family was cured of her epilepsy when Christina followed the example of Jesus Christ by rebuking the “unclean spirit” which she said dwelled within the girl. All of them were devotees of my newly sainted sister. None of the healings attributed to her were authenticated by the Church, but they contributed to her popularity regardless. My doubts continued to eat away at me. It came to the point that I finally had to consider what was almost unfathomable.

Was it a lie?

Whatever was going on with Christina was not of God.

*Or was it something more si…

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1m1sq0e/and_jesus_wept/