Page 304 of Sinister

My hands are now pressed into what is supposed to be the cheeks, but there’s a deep gap in between. The tips of my fingers dip inside until they’re covered fully in this viscous liquid—blood. And it’s still lukewarm.

“Dear God . . .”

It’s a dead body. I’m sitting on a goddamn corpse. And it has no face.

There’s brittle bone and blood, sticky, gooey blood.

Fucking hell. Whoever this is has had their face bashed in.

I scurry away from the body, though the blood follows. I plop down onto the ground and feel the way my pajama bottoms are getting soaked. I squeeze my eyes shut and instinctively start reciting a prayer, though I’ve never been religious in this life.

Nausea rolls in my stomach, and bitter bile makes its way up my throat. I lean forward and retch, emptying the contents of my stomach. Still, the sickness won’t leave me.

I may not be able to see the dead body, but I can imagine it has been disfigured—just like the others. And it hasn’t been too long since this person has been killed. There is no smell of death or decomposition. The body is cool to the touch, but the head area still retained some warmth. It’s likely only been here for a few hours.

Another murder. The fourth one.

And me being here means I am next.

If before the idea had terrified me, now, being confronted with what is going to happen to me makes me lose my goddamn mind.

“Why me?” I call out. “I never did anything wrong.”

Tears stream down my cheeks, my throat clogging with a myriad of emotions.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I continue on a hiccup.

No one answers me. Only the echo of my own voice.

With how big these tunnels are and how they feed throughout the city, there’s no way of knowing where exactly I am. The idea of trying to save myself goes out the window because no matter how much I’d like to try to do it, I simply cannot.

And there’s the other fact to consider. I’m pregnant.

This isn’t just about me being the potential next victim of this deranged killer, who most likely than not is Sister Agatha in some form or another, but there’s also my baby to consider.

He’s innocent. He never did anything wrong.

“Agatha . . . If you can hear me,” I start, fighting against my sobs. “I’m pregnant. I’ll have a baby soon. I know you understand what that’s like. You had your own little one, and you lost him. Please . . . I beg you . . .” I gulp down. “Spare us.”

No answer—not that I expected one.

“If you must kill me. Please do it in four more months after the baby is born. You can take me then, and I promise I will not fight you. Just let my baby have a chance at life. Please.”

This time, I expect there to be no answer, too. But a sudden noise startles me.

A loud thud followed by footsteps against the damp floor.

I draw my knees to my chest and sway from side to side, knowing my end is near. And if I am marked to die, perhaps I do deserve it for some unknown sin. But my son . . . he’s innocent. He’s the only innocent one.

Sin . . . if only you could hear my voice. I don’t even want you to save me. But our child . . . he deserves to be born, to live.

If there’s any god out there, any deity at all, please spare my child.

The sound of the steps intensifies. Whoever is out there is getting closer.

My heart rams against my rib cage, my breath out of control. I press my hands to my stomach, holding onto my baby tightly.

Someone is definitely coming.