Page 265 of Sinister

I take another swig. I’m not used to drinking spirits, and I feel the effects of it quickly—the spinning in my head, the fog settling in my vision.

I rest my head on the sofa next to Sin, taking deep gulps of air.

“It’s fine. Everything is fine. We’ll be fine,” I whisper to myself.

But then, from the corner of my eye, I see something. A shadowy figure, moving too fast to track.

One moment, it’s there—the outline of a man. The next, through hooded eyes, I see a presence standing right in front of us.

My body is too sluggish from the alcohol to react. I just sit there and wait as the hairs raise on my skin.

Is this a hallucination? I wonder. I’ve never been drunk before. I can’t tell what’s real. Is the alcohol feeding my paranoia?

My limbs feel locked, frozen. I can’t move a muscle. I can’t even look up; I can only see the lower half of this figure.

It’s a man. He stops in front of Sin, crouching slightly, inspecting his wounds.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t speak. I want to yell, to scream at him to leave Sin alone, to not touch him—but I’m a prisoner in my own body.

Is this what alcohol does to you? I wonder again as fear grips me.

All I can see is the man’s wrist as he splits it open and then leans toward Sin. I don’t see exactly what he’s doing, but the next time I blink . . . he’s gone.

Did I imagine it?

I must have. My body is too exhausted. My mind, even more so.

Before I know it, I fall into a deep sleep.

It’s through the haze of slumber that I think I hear two voices arguing around me. I hear the words, but I can’t quite grasp them.

“What did you do, Sinclair?”

Is that Sin’s voice? I think it is.

“What did you do with the body?” he presses.

“It’s safe,” the other man answers, who I presume to be Arnoult.

“Safe? She’s dead! She needs to be buried.”

“Not yet.”

“What the hell do you mean, not yet?”

“I won’t allow it. She can’t be dead. She will not die.”

“Sinclair, this is going too far. She is already dead. You cannot do anything else for her. Please, for God’s sake, don’t. Give me the body, and I’ll give her a proper burial. Somewhere safe, where you can visit her tomb whenever you want.”

“No,” the man argues. “I won’t do it. She’s mine.”

“She’s dead,” Sin repeats.

“In our world, that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Nothing truly dies,” Arnoult challenges.

Sin sighs.

“What you’re trying to tell me now is . . . what? You want to use her body and turn her into a grotesque creature like the one Snowden created? Is that what you’re saying? Do you hear it yourself? That was not a person. Her soul is long gone.”