Page 178 of Sinister

I take a deep breath and turn around—only to freeze when I hear it.

That same shrieking sound from before.

It’s faint, barely perceptible. But it’s there.

My heart leaps into my throat. I close my eyes and focus. Another shriek, closer this time, comes from my left. So I follow it.

Maybe one day I’ll regret this decision, but right now I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality. I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. These dreams—are they even dreams at all? They seem so real. And yet, every time I wake up, everything is back in place. It’s as if I never left my bedroom.

Still, something in me says it’s not just imagination. That something is truly happening to me in those hours of sleep. And the only way to confirm it is to find out if the so-called creature really exists.

So, against my better judgment and all reason, I march forward.

The sound grows louder, no longer a shriek but a wail—low, pained, and strange. Step by step, I follow it until I reach a door. Pressing my ear to the wooden frame, I listen.

A moan, ragged and strained, echoes from behind it, like someone in deep pain.

My fingers tremble as I grip the handle. I open the door.

But it doesn’t lead to a room.

It reveals a staircase.

A long, narrow staircase that descends into pitch-black darkness.

There’s no light down there. Nothing.

Do I dare?

Sin warned me against this. But if this is all just a product of my imagination, then what harm could come of it?

If it’s only my mind conjuring wild, delusional scenarios—born of loneliness and dissatisfaction—then I’ll find nothing. And maybe then, I can finally admit that I’m simply going mad.

So, though afraid, I steel myself and descend.

I count the steps. One . . . two . . . ten . . . eleven . . . twenty . . . twenty-five.

At the twenty-fifth step, I reach a landing. The chamber is utterly dark. I take a tentative step forward, trying to make out anything, but I’m surrounded by nothingness.

“Guess it really was just a dream,” I whisper aloud, almost relieved.

But then, I feel it.

A gust of wind brushes against the back of my neck—cool, sharp, unnatural. I shiver.

I turn quickly, heart racing.

“Who’s there?” I call out, voice wavering.

No answer.

I try again. “Who is it?”

Still nothing.

I stand frozen for a moment, trying to see through the suffocating dark. Another gust of air hits me—this time over my face. My eyes sting, and I raise my hands, reaching blindly for anything solid.

But there’s nothing.