Page 193 of Sinister

The walls are covered in creeping ivy and shadowed by gnarled trees, the stone façade weathered and forgotten. Today I am fascinated by the gothic lines, the sinister design meant to create a sense of foreboding.

Much like Ozymandias’ statue, Arnoult’s grave is dark with menace, announcing to the world the hateful nature of its entombed inhabitant.

The door creaks lightly as Sin pushes it, and we step inside into stale air thick with the scent of damp stone and decay. Thin columns of light shine through the small chinks in the ceiling, swirling with dust motes.

The faint sounds of dripping water echo from somewhere in the depths of the darkness. Our phone lights flicker against the cold, rough walls.

During our first encounter here, I didn’t have the chance to properly look around, but now that I do, engravings adorning the stone arrest my steps.

“I remember this place,” I say softly. “It felt different before, less . . . ominous.”

“Well, it is ominous. But we’ve come this far: might as well see this through.”

We start exploring the small chamber for any hidden clues, our footsteps echoing loudly between the stone walls.

Apart from the engravings that depict shadowy, multi-limbed apparitions with murky faces and sharp smiles, I can also see the hieroglyphic script of some unknown language—not Latin, from what I can tell—whose syntax appears to be rather crude and cruel, in a way.

Lost in my fancies, I inch slowly along the walls, my fingers brushing against the cool stone, tracing the symbols.

“What’s that?” Sin cries out suddenly, and I turn so fast I almost slip. “Underneath here,” he adds, pointing to a section of the floor that looks slightly raised, almost like it’s hiding something.

Sin crouches on the floor and pulls at the floorboards.

They open to reveal a trapdoor.

“Whoa!” I say with a note of excitement in my voice. “Is it just me, or does that floorboard look like someone recently moved it?”

“Perhaps,” Sin replies with a loud exhale.

He grasps the rusty wheel at the center of the door and starts turning it.

“Wait, should we be doing this?” I fling my hands to stop him, but he shrugs.

“What’s the harm? It’s not like we’re digging up his body or anything. Stand back!” he cautions before pulling open the door.

We look down to see a staircase spiraling into the depths of the earth—dusty marble steps that nevertheless look like they were walked upon recently.

“Do we go down?” I ask hoarsely.

“What do you want to do?” Sin replies in a casual tone, as if he’s asking me if I want to pick a spot for dinner.

“I guess we can take a quick peek . . .” my voice trails off as I step down first.

The initial pang of fear is followed by burning interest and a thrill at the prospect of inspecting a grave; I remain true to my idol Mary Shelley in that aspect, at least.

We watch our step over the chipped stairs and finally reach a space no larger than an anteroom, but somehow opulent in the use of a particularly fine mosaic tiling on the walls. Heavy velvet drapes the color of a bleeding heart are hung overhead, all bearing the same crest: a crown of knives in black.

The ceiling, arched high above us, is adorned with intricate carvings of vines intertwined with what looks like guardians—mythical creatures frozen in distorted postures, their faces worn yet noble, impassive yet somehow grotesque.

I can’t help but crane my neck to look for long enough that it starts to hurt, yet there’s something disconcerting about the way the figures loom over us.

To the left, an alcove houses a large, intricately carved sarcophagus made from dark marble.

The surface is etched with the same swirling patterns that adorn the walls: the strange sigils of a bygone era steeped in superstition and savage pursuit of power.

“Is that somebody’s grave?” I ask in an incredulous tone, clutching at Sin’s sleeve.

“Yeah, I think that’s where Arnoult, his lover, and their unborn baby are buried,” he replies, running his fingers along the etchings on the giant catafalque on which rests the despotic cult leader Sin’s lucky enough to call ancestor.