Page 192 of Sinister

Is he . . . Arnoult the First?

And yet, in all of my dreams, he’s never introduced himself that way. Never once hinted at it.

But if he is Arnoult, then what does that mean for me?

For my Sin—the one who holds me when I cry, the one who whispers promises in my ear?

Oh God, I’m really starting to lose it.

None of this makes sense.

There’s Snowden, who seems to be killing people.

There’s Arnoult’s old group, who convinced others to commit mass suicide.

There’s that creature, roaming the past, and possibly even the present, taking more lives.

Or maybe it’s none of that.

Maybe we just have some psychotic murderer on the loose who’s using the town’s creepy history to confuse townsfolk and the police.

All I know is that every day, I feel more afraid.

And it’s not just for myself anymore.

It’s for my unborn baby, too.

Because what if these dreams aren’t just dreams?

What if they’re warnings, trying to keep me safe?

What if I did something wrong in a past life, and because of that . . .

I might be the next one to die?

But I’m not the only one feeling out of sorts today.

A pall of unease seems to have permanently settled on the SAH crowd, perhaps because of the temperatures dropping, perhaps because of the ghastly incidents in the town’s recent history, or perhaps due to a mix of both.

The school counselor has seen a visible increase in the incoming traffic to his office, and we have had a couple of more qualified (read “more expensive”) therapists come and talk to us in class.

A lot of empty talk about how life is precious and grieving is natural and we have to shoulder on regardless and “get those college applications ready!”

The lady who was conducting this particular seminar had looked quite stumped when this crisp statement was met with a couple of dry laughs and mostly impassive faces.

After classes are done, we head to the town cemetery where Harry is buried. Sin’s warm hand in mine keeps me from lingering too long on that dreadful, leaden thought.

It’s been raining on and off, and a damp afternoon gloom lingers around us as Sin and I stride through the graveled paths heading toward the mausoleum.

The overcast sky has dimmed the world around us, and I can’t shake the sense that we’re venturing into the heart of darkness, prospecting for that glinting stone of cruelty on which a tradition of savagery has been whetted.

“Are you sure about this?” I can’t help but ask, voice wavering slightly.

We pass between rows of headstones crouching over the sleeping dead. Coming to the greener part of the plot now, the wealthier parts where the influential families repose in the lap of luxury, even in death.

“What if we get in trouble?” I insist.

By now, we have reached the angular archway.