Page 135 of Sinister

“Oh, I was just looking for the ladies’ room,” I reply awkwardly, my gaze lingering longingly toward the hallway with the paintings. But I know I won’t be able to return to it.

“Yes, of course. If you’ll follow me,” he says, and I trail after him. He leads me through a different section of the house and shows me to the guest bathroom.

“Thank you,” I say, stepping inside.

After I finish and wash my hands, I exit—but soon realize I have no idea how to get back to the drawing room. The house is a maze, filled with endless corridors and tucked-away rooms.

I try to retrace the path we took when we first arrived, but instead, I find myself somewhere near the cigar room: the one reserved for the men.

My first instinct is to scurry away before I’m seen. I already know my father is going to reprimand me later for speaking out at dinner, and the last thing I need is to be caught here. But just as I turn to go, the sound of voices inside stops me. Mr. Snowden is speaking.

“There are some things of grave importance we must discuss, and I didn’t want to bring it up at the table so as not to disturb the ladies’ sensibilities,” he says gravely. “I’ve learned more about that cult that’s taken hold of Radcliffe.” He pauses, then adds, “A student from the university, someone who was part of the group, came forward—for the right price. He said they call themselves the Ouroboros Society.”

“The Ouroboros Society?” my father repeats. “As in the serpent from mythology?”

“Yes. Apparently, we were right about the sigils; Arnoult was the one who acquired them. But they didn’t know how to use them. They wanted to test each to see which demon could be summoned. That’s as far as the informant would go. He didn’t want to get further involved once the stakes got higher.”

“Sounds like a man of good sense,” my father murmurs.

“Perhaps,” Snowden agrees. “But now we’re back to square one. We know little more than before, and I’m afraid there’s been a new development.”

“What kind of development?” my father asks.

“There have been more murders.”

“What? I haven’t heard anything about this,” my father says, shocked.

“The police are keeping it under wraps. They’re afraid that if word gets out, the townspeople will panic. Radcliffe has already begun to isolate itself. No one dares go out anymore.”

“But who were the victims?” my father presses. “Locals?”

“No. Outsiders. Strangers to Radcliffe. That’s how they’ve managed to keep it quiet. The bodies were discovered in a mausoleum—fifteen adult males.”

“Fifteen?” my father repeats, stunned. “And no one knows?”

“Only because the mausoleum kept them hidden. A gravekeeper noticed the smell and alerted authorities.”

“And how did they die?” my father asks.

“The same way as the others. A puncture wound to the neck.”

My father sighs heavily. “This is outrageous. One man couldn’t do all this: first twenty-five, now fifteen. And these were men, not children.”

“That’s where it becomes more complicated,” Snowden says grimly. “The medical examiner believes the wounds were self-inflicted.”

“What?” my father exclaims. “How?”

“I don’t understand it either. Why would so many kill themselves? Why publicly? And how could anyone convince them?”

“You said they were outsiders. Do we know anything about them?” my father asks.

“Some have been identified. All from reputable families. Men from upstanding homes, the kind you wouldn’t expect to dabble in arcane rituals. I’ve even done business with a few of their families.”

“Good Lord,” my father breathes. “How many more will die before this ends?”

“I don’t know,” Snowden says. “But I fear this will continue until they achieve whatever satanic goal they’ve set. And if these were suicides . . . we must ask what, or who, made them do it.”

“Mind control?” my father hedges.