Page 249 of Sinister

I move to another part of the wall, where yet another painting waits. This one is different. It’s not a depiction of death; it’s of someone kneeling in prayer.

The figure is shadowy, bowed before what appears to be an altar. And atop the altar is the same demon-like creature I’ve seen before.

Worship. Devotion. Sacrifice.

It almost looks like this figure is praying to the monster.

Is this meant to be Sin?

Is this a record of his deeds? Or a prophecy of what’s to come?

I reach forward and press my fingers to the cold, damp wall. The paint, if it even is paint, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Whatever was used, it’s immune to water, humidity, and even touch.

I scratch at one of the boldest lines with my fingernail—nothing comes off. I know my pigments, even historical ones, and nothing should be this permanent. Not in this environment.

It shouldn’t have survived this long.

I push harder, leaning into the wall—and suddenly, there’s a soft click.

Then a low, grinding sound starts, like ancient stone shifting. I stumble back just in time to see part of the wall begin to move. Slowly, two slabs of stone shift and roll apart, revealing a narrow opening.

There’s something hidden behind the painting.

A little spooked, but already too far in to back out, I squeeze through the narrow gap in the stone and step into what appears to be a hidden room.

I swallow hard.

This isn’t what I expected. But I wanted clues. And this, well, this is a clue.

Waving my phone around for light, I take in the space. It’s eerily similar to the room from my dreams—the one where Sin first took me after I wandered into the tunnel. The layout is the same: a small bed, a single table, and little else.

But this isn’t the same place. It’s different.

Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. The air is thick with neglect. The wood of the bed frame has rotted through in places, and at the first flash of light, cockroaches skitter across the floorboards.

I choke down a wave of revulsion and take a careful step inside. Who lived here? The walls are bare—no paintings, no carvings. Just stone and silence. It’s a modest space, stark, empty. Who would live like this, underground?

The mattress is damp and rotting, the smell of mold so strong it hits the back of my throat. I gag, turning my attention to the table instead.

There’s a single drawer.

I pull it open.

More bugs. Termites, beetles—tiny creatures that make my skin crawl—but nothing else.

Whoever lived here either owned nothing or took everything with them when they left. I’m about to turn around and leave, already queasy from the mold and the crawling things, when the beam of my flashlight catches a glint of something beneath the bed.

I freeze.

Of course it’s under the bed. Just like in every childhood nightmare. My brain flickers back to all the sleepless nights I once spent convinced there was something monstrous hiding beneath me.

And now, in a world where monsters do exist, I’m kneeling on a dirty, infested floor, about to see what lies beneath an abandoned bed in a hidden tunnel.

Come on, Petra. I steel myself, pushing through the nausea, and crouch down, aiming the flashlight underneath.

Not a monster. Though in some ways, it might have been simpler if it were.

It’s a suitcase. A very old one.