Page 170 of Sinister

“Sin, it—it’s just too horrible.”

By now, I have already skimmed through enough of the article to know what it says.

“It says here that her father . . . killed her because he believed she was pregnant.” My voice breaks down at this last bit as my hand automatically moves to shield the you-know-who. “He thought she was—” I break off again to draw in big, gasping breaths.

“Petra, what’s wrong? Please, calm down. You’re scaring me.”

Sin strokes my back and shoulders, trying to calm me. But how can I be calm when I’ve just read that . . .

“He thought she was carrying the child of the devil! The entire community turned against Arnoult and his disciples.” I finally manage to force all the words out.

“Petra, it’s okay, all of that happened in the past,” Sin says in a voice that’s failing to sound calm. “Try and relax, please.”

“I’m fine,” I reply in a firmer tone. I have my dignity, after all.

“It doesn’t end there,” I continue, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible, even though my fingers are gripping the newspaper tightly. “This says that Arnoult killed Snowden and Leah.”

49

PETRA

May 1896

The townsfolk thought that Arnoult and the Ouroboros Society had summoned the devil and . . . and gotten the girl pregnant.”

My voice starts faltering again, and a part of me is astonished at how personally I’m taking all this. I avoid looking at him directly since this is about his family, who, it turns out, are descended from a homicidal maniac.

“So the town turned against Arnoult and his men. And get this—” I glance at Sin warily. “Arnoult died shortly after.”

“What? How?”

“That’s the strange part.” I answer in an absent-minded tone again because I’m already scanning through the rest of the article. “There’s no mention of how he died, and all witness statements are kind of vague. But it says here that before he died, he vowed to return and take revenge on those who had hurt him and his . . . his beloved.”

There is a long silence between us while we try to wrap our heads around this long train of tragic deaths.

Parents killing children, entire families dying together . . . there seemed to be some foraging force that swept up these people’s spirits into a state of murderous frenzy, into a death-desiring obsession that had to end with self-sacrifice.

Dark thoughts like these chase each other through the eerily silent corridors of my mind. I find a dusty chair and sink into it as my knees buckle and give way under all the information we have unearthed.

“Petra . . .” Sin begins in a tactfully neutral tone. “Did you know that Radcliffe is still home to a big Christian cult?”

The non-sequitur jolts me out of my horror-filled imaginings, and for that I am grateful.

He adds, “Though they don’t call themselves that. The official name is The True Doctrine.”

“The True Doctrine?” I repeat in a hollow tone, forcing myself to pay attention so I won’t dwell on the grisly images that keep flashing across my mind’s eye, or the fact that I’ve heard that term before—in my dreams.

“What’s that about?”

“They’ve been around for at least two centuries. They are a puritan branch of the Catholic Church, though most people just call them puritans because they don’t drink, party, or do anything that’s seen as ‘fun.’”

“Yeah, I think I’ve heard my parents talk about that community,” I continue, after a brief spell of silence. “Mom doesn’t like them, says they are too secretive and secluded, almost cultlike. I’ve heard people joke about them at school, too, but I wonder how much of it is actually true.”

“I think it’s more than just rumors. They’re . . . well, they’re just odd, aren’t they?”

There’s a distant look in Sin’s eyes, as if he’s putting together a jigsaw puzzle without a reference image.

“I’ve seen them at the local farmers’ market, and they are always on guard, somehow. Always in their groups, dressed in plain clothes, and the women wear these lace veils that cover their faces. They don’t interact much with the rest of the people around here.”