Page 113 of Sinister

Authorities have yet to name a suspect, and the circumstances surrounding Mr. Rutherford’s death remain murky at best. However, whispers abound regarding the deceased’s long-standing affiliation with St. Anselm Hall University, a venerable institution of learning with which Mr. Rutherford was intimately connected. He was, it is known, the most generous patron of the Theology Department, having contributed vast sums over the past two decades.

Of particular note is Mr. Rutherford’s much-discussed friendship with the reclusive and enigmatic Professor Arnoult, a figure both revered and feared in equal measure within certain intellectual and esoteric circles. Their association, described by many as “peculiarly devoted,” has long been the subject of parlor-room gossip and drawing-room speculation.

Dark clouds further gather over this tragedy in light of the recent, still-unsolved massacre of twenty-five students enrolled at St. Anselm Hall. The killings, which have shaken the foundations of the academic world, were marked by dreadful ritualistic elements, the nature of which this publication shall refrain from detailing out of respect for the sensibilities of our readers.

It is not yet known whether Mr. Rutherford’s demise is connected to these earlier atrocities, but speculation grows apace. Whether his murder is the work of a madman, a secret society, or some more unspeakable evil, only time—and Radcliffe—shall reveal.

Funeral arrangements for Mr. Rutherford have not yet been announced. Meanwhile, the local constabulary urges anyone with pertinent information to come forward.

More as this dreadful affair develops.

33

PETRA

PRESENT DAY

“Aaaaaa!” A shrill sound interrupts this vision as I sit up straight in my bed. A few more seconds pass before my throat aches and closes up from the sheer volume and force of my scream. It’s the second morning in a row that I wake up from the same nightmare.

Harry’s dead, my inner voice—of late uncharacteristically resigned—whispers urgently. He died. His head came off his body. He fell through the ceiling. And there was just so. Much. Blood.

Of course, the tears gather and roll down before I can stop them.

Of course, the morning sickness makes me rush to the washroom shortly after.

Of course, today is an overcast, rain-soaked day that’s only going to get worse.

It is the day of Harry’s funeral, and I am shivering from a mix of nerves, nausea, and numbness. His grief-stricken, devastated family has let it be known that anyone from St. Anselm Hall is welcome to join the service, yet I keep wondering if I can keep my wits about me when they put him in the earth.

Should I be going at all? But no, I have to go.

As has been happening of late, I lose track of my surroundings even as I find and put on the most somber black shirt-skirt ensemble in my wardrobe, walk down to the car, get driven to an understated cemetery, and stand amidst a sea of other black-clad figures.

A number of SAH students are also in attendance, and several of them are sporting the same “ALLY” badge that used to adorn Harry’s backpack. Sobbing family and friends stand in the front while the priest reads moving Bible passages over a closed casket.

Harry’s inside that box.

Do I say this in my head, or do I hear some other kid saying this? It doesn’t really matter because the thought itself is so horrific that none of us has managed to fully grasp it.

My eyes are raw from days of crying as I scan the crowd, and that is when it happens, as if almost in a montage from some artsy, A24 movie. My gaze lands on the kids of the five founding families that Sin had told me about in the crypt.

Daphne Underwood, with French braids and disdainful expression. Quinn Haas, donning a small, black, netted face veil covering a pair of cold green eyes. Elijah Rutherford, who looks bored and restless, shirt half tucked. Leonidas Snowden, with furrowed, bushy eyebrows over an aquiline nose and an expensive Armani suit in midnight black. And⁠—

My eyes instantly drop when they meet Sin’s. He’s been looking at me, too, it seems, and I can feel his glance slide over my skin like the hot tip of a burning piece of coal. But he has chosen to stand with the SAH Club, as I have started calling them.

The five of them appear rather formidable as they look on at the moving tableau of mourners with an impassive serenity that leaves me feeling very unsettled. Who the hell do they think they are?

At this point, I’m already untethered from the proceedings and riding the waves of my imagination.

What secrets are these five hiding?

Why was Harry’s body torn up in such a specific manner?

While I ponder, almost obsessing, over such dark theories, the priest’s words turn into a distant, echoing hum under the constant drumming of the rain.

The parents of my dead friend are almost crouching over their son’s coffin now, unwilling to let the pallbearers lower it into the ground. Their distress breaks my heart all over again.

In the end, Harry’s coffin, dark and glistening with rain, is slowly lowered into the ground, and it really hits home then—he’s gone.