Page 30 of Sinister

Two weeks pass in silence.

And that is when I give up hope of ever hearing from him again.

It is early morning when I prepare to go into town with the other girls from my congregation, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Jenkins. We are heading to the town fair, where vendors have set up their stalls, displaying the bounty of the new season. With spring’s arrival, everything feels renewed, fresh—a stark contrast to the heaviness lingering in my heart.

Flowers bloom, and even the trees bear the first tender buds of life.

We wander through the fair, taking in the sights, the chatter, the lively bustle. With the little money I have, I purchase a new pen.

A strange choice, isn’t it? Especially given that I have no one left to write to. And yet, the moment I saw it, my mind drifted to him.

I shake my head, pushing away the thought. I must stop thinking about him.

The other girls are deep in conversation, sharing the latest church gossip. Mrs. Jenkins haggles over a hairpin, her attention fixed on bartering. Once we’ve made our purchases, we begin walking through the town square.

That’s when the commotion erupts.

A loud noise rings through the air, drawing attention. Mrs. Jenkins immediately tenses.

“Ignore it,” she says. “Perhaps it’s best we return home.”

But the girls are too curious. They point toward the crowd gathering ahead, and after some urging, they take off toward the scene.

Mrs. Jenkins shouts after them, but she doesn’t seem particularly determined to stop them.

Perhaps she is curious, too.

So, I follow.

I weave through the growing crowd, pushed forward by the throng of onlookers, until I find myself at the edge of the circle.

In the center, a fight rages. Two men, both finely dressed, locked in struggle. One grips the other by the throat, his expression dark with violence. The other man, equally well-dressed, looks terrified.

And then I see him.

The man strangling the other. It’s him.

My stranger.

A cold wave crashes over me. He is not mine, I remind myself. He never was.

But he is here.

People shout around me. Their voices blend into a fevered chant.

“The devil.” “The devil must be vanquished.” “Cast him out.” “Cast out the devil!”

A chill creeps down my spine.

I turn to an older woman beside me, her face twisted with concern. “What devil?” I ask, my voice low.

She glances at me, intrigued, then leans in conspiratorially. “You don’t know?”

I shake my head.

She scoffs. “He’s the new professor at St. Anselm Hall.”

Confused, I ask, “Why does that make him a devil?”