Page 186 of Sinister

True to the nature of anxious thoughts, one is rapidly followed by a host of others.

I remember how Arnoult the First looks strikingly like Sin’s father. What if there’s a genetic anomaly on the Arnoults’ side? Then I remember the crypt and its grisly murals: If Arnoult and his followers were the members of the Ouroboros Society, that means they had drawn those gruesome images on the cold stone walls of St. Anselm Hall’s hidden crypt.

This chilling realization is followed by the most unsettling speculation I have had so far: What if the child I’m carrying is a reincarnation of Arnoult?

At first the thought seems too absurd to even entertain for more than a moment. But gradually, I remember more of the information we had unearthed in the basement of Sin’s house.

“Blood moon,” I mutter to myself. “When’s the next blood moon?” I start searching online, my fingers typing rapidly.

My eyes widen at the answer: four months. That’s when I’m due to have the baby.

“Please, no,” I whisper, as my heart starts racing. “This can’t be happening.”

Desperate panic courses through me as I sit down at the edge of the bed, my hands cradling my stomach instinctively.

“Sin . . .” I start to say, but I catch myself just in time. I don’t want to burden him with this fear. Not yet. Not when he’s been so supportive through everything.

And so, I keep my freshest fears to myself, wondering when my life became so unpredictable that I have to look to the stars and the moon to know where it’s headed. Yet it’s not just my waking moments that give me stress. My dreams are becoming weirder and weirder, to the point where I’m actually starting to question my sanity.

What the hell was that monster from my dream? That undead creature that was fucking a living person? Does that count as necrophilia, because what the actual fuck?!

If I’d been binging horror movies day after day, perhaps I could understand why my subconscious would choose to show me such images. But I haven’t.

Is it that deep down I’m still traumatized by Harry’s death? From seeing his head roll on the floor right in front of me?

Maybe . . . In the past, I would have relegated everything to just that and my pregnancy hormones. But after the OB-GYN visit and the additional information we found on Arnoult and the Ouroboros Society, I have to start asking myself if . . .

If perhaps the supernatural is real, that there is something deeply wrong with this town, and that I may have unwittingly found myself in the midst of it all.

I just want my baby to be fine.

Tears of fear and frustration cling to my lashes. I may have been in denial for months now regarding this baby, but the truth is that I do want it.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve never had anyone to love me unconditionally before, and this baby might be the answer; or perhaps it’s the fact that I have so deeply fallen in love with Sin, and this baby is something we made together—something to tie us together. Forever.

I’m not going to let some creepy, long-dead Victorian man steal my baby. No, no! That isn’t going to happen. Not on this blood moon, nor ever.

I’m not going to allow it.

How do you plan on stopping him, though? my inner voice asks.

Careful not to wake Sin, I get out of bed and head to my art room. I turn on the light and rummage for a pen and some paper.

Before I forget, I start tracing the lines of the sigil from my dreams. The image is a little muddy, but I think I get most of it right: at least enough to be able to reverse image search it online.

More images flash in my mind, from the past, from my dreams, now more clear than ever.

Why does my dream-Sin look so much like present-day Sin? Did my mind conjure that because I’m in love with him, or is there something more to it? Then there’s the resemblance between his father and Arnoult the First. These can’t be mere coincidences.

Dream-Petra had been a part of that puritan community, so I doubt I would be able to find any records on her—if that was even her name. But maybe I can find something about the Snowdens?

They were rich and influential at the time. There should be records on them.

I stare back at the drawing I just made. Though not perfect, the symbol is striking. It’s almost hypnotizing in the way those lines flow and coil around each other, all converging in the middle where my initial is.

My body hums with unreleased pressure, and I press my hand to my chest where the dream sigil had been. I rub against that spot, feeling an unusual heat build up inside me.

Why does this symbol seem so familiar and heart-aching at the same time?