Page 250 of Sinister

I reach for the wooden handle and pull it out. It’s heavy, worn. The design is old—Georgian, maybe even older. I can’t date it exactly, but it certainly predates the Victorian era. I search for a lock and, surprisingly, it pops open with ease.

With slow, deliberate movements, I lift the lid, dreading what I might find and yet driven by a hunger to know.

To my surprise, the contents inside are almost perfectly preserved. Despite the humidity of the room, the damp, and the decay everywhere else, the suitcase seems untouched. Untouched by time. Untouched by nature.

I wedge my phone between the lid and the case, letting the light shine inside so I can sort through its contents with both hands.

There isn’t much.

The first item is a folded piece of dark fabric. I turn it over in my hands, confused—until the light catches on the collar.

A nun’s habit.

Next, a heavy silver cross. A worn Bible with yellowed, crinkled pages. A rosary.

And at the bottom, a journal.

With these tangible clues in my hands, I realize two things.

One: This belonged to a nun.

Two: There’s no way these items are from the 1800s.

No—scratch that. There’s no way they’re from the Victorian era.

The Bible alone proves it. The quality of the binding, the richness of the pages—this wasn’t made with cheap pulp paper like most nineteenth-century editions. This was carefully crafted to last.

And the journal . . . the journal feels just as old.

I carefully open the journal to its first page. The date jumps out at me: 1760.

I blink. Shock settles in. I expected something old, yes, but not this old. This is more than a hundred years before the first murders began.

So what is this journal doing here?

Why is there a secret room in these tunnels with belongings from someone who lived over 250 years ago? Are the tunnels really that ancient?

Before I can process it further, a loud noise from outside startles me, and the journal slips from my hands. Footsteps echo through the tunnel.

Heart pounding, I snatch up the journal and tuck it under my shirt. I shut the suitcase and slide it back beneath the bed, then hurry out of the room.

Pressing both palms to the wall, I push against the stone. After a few tense seconds, the hidden door seals itself shut.

The footsteps grow louder.

“Who’s there?” I call out, tone wavering from my nerves.

“Petra?” Sin’s voice echoes back. “Where are you?”

Making sure the journal is still hidden, I walk toward him.

“What were you doing here?” he asks, his face tight with concern.

“I was just wandering around. Curious if there was anything else hidden down here.”

“You shouldn’t be alone. It could be dangerous.”

“What kind of danger?” I ask.