Page 248 of Sinister

Once we arrive at the bunker, Sin excuses himself, saying he wants to stop by his house to grab some extra clothes and groceries for the next couple of days.

I nod and encourage him to go, assuring him everything will be fine—because with him gone, I’ll finally have the freedom to explore on my own and hopefully uncover something useful.

As soon as he leaves, I return to the map of connections I made the day before, trying again to figure out a possible motive for the murders.

Why would he kill those students?

I’ve already come to the conclusion that Sin is immortal. And that must mean—at some point—he sold his soul, right?

But then, that theory starts to unravel. If he’s been alive for over a hundred years, why would he still need to kill?

Unless . . . maybe in order to maintain his immortality, he has to continue committing these atrocities?

It’s the only explanation that makes sense, at least for now.

With a frustrated sigh, I slip on my shoes and head out of the bunker, making my way deeper into the tunnels. Maybe another look at the wall paintings will reveal something I missed. There’s also the lingering mystery of who painted them in the first place.

It takes me a few wrong turns before I finally find the tunnel that leads toward the school rather than the cemetery. It’s surreal to realize this whole underground system connects the entire city, and yet nobody seems to know it exists.

Well, nobody except Sin.

Armed with the flashlight on my phone, I walk deeper into the shadowed corridors. The walls are slick and speckled with mold. Everything smells musty and damp. The whole atmosphere feels like something out of a horror movie.

But I push the fear aside. I have to.

Somewhere in here, there has to be a clue. Something to point me in the right direction.

I keep walking for what feels like forever. Until eventually, I have no idea where I am anymore. There’s nothing but darkness ahead of me and the smell of cold, rotting stone.

The deeper I go into the tunnel, the colder it gets—so cold I can see my breath fog up the beam of light coming from my phone. I walk for what feels like forever, surrounded only by silence and the echo of my footsteps.

Then, out of nowhere, a loud screech erupts ahead of me. Before I can react, a swarm of bats rushes straight at my face.

“Ah!” I scream, stumbling backward and falling hard onto the damp floor.

It takes a moment to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. My chest is heaving. My heart’s racing. But when I glance around, I realize the bats are gone. They’ve moved on—none of them are around me, and more importantly, not on me.

The last thing I need is to get bitten and contract rabies or some other horror my panic-fueled brain keeps conjuring up. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through it.

Come on, Petra. You can do this, I encourage myself.

I grab my phone, get back on my feet, and raise the flashlight in front of me. One step at a time.

A few minutes later, something catches my eye—bits of color breaking through the monotony of moss-covered stone. I quicken my pace until I’m standing in front of another cave painting. But this one I don’t recognize.

“What?” I whisper, sweeping the light across it.

A pool of vivid red blood is painted on the ground, with severed body parts scattered within it. Head. Hands. Feet cut clean at the ankles.

Is this supposed to be François?

It doesn’t match exactly. In the real murder, his entire body had been mutilated. This seems more focused on disembodying the victim. Could this be a different murder? One that hasn’t happened yet?

As I scan the wall further, I notice another painting—this one even more disturbing. A wraith-like figure bleeds from every orifice. A torrent of blood pours from it, flowing like a river until it merges with the red puddle in the first scene.

Two deaths, one river of blood.

Are they connected? Are these two victims somehow linked?