Page 81 of Sinister

“They must have found out about our plan somehow,” the other man says. “Either your source lied to you, or someone tipped them off.”

“No,” my father replies firmly. “He wouldn’t lie to me. He’s a good friend—I’ve known him since he was a boy. I trust him. If the plan failed, it wasn’t because of him.”

“Then someone else must’ve warned them,” the man counters.

“But who?” another voice chimes in. “Only the five of us here knew about it.”

“I don’t know,” the first man says. “But someone must have leaked it. Otherwise, why would they suddenly change the ritual’s location at the last minute? It doesn’t make sense unless someone gave them a warning.”

No. No, no, no . . .

I swallow hard and begin inching away from the door, quiet as I can. Now that they’re suspecting an insider, the last thing I need is for them to catch me eavesdropping outside the study. My heart pounds as I slip back upstairs, careful not to make a sound.

Still, I can’t help the small rush of relief. Whatever their suspicions, the truth remains—I stopped the plan. Sin wasn’t harmed. And more importantly, my father and his men didn’t commit a grave sin themselves.

Right?

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I lie in bed and try to fall asleep.

29 March 1896

On Sunday, everyone gathers for church. As is tradition, the members of our congregation meet at the designated spot to walk in procession toward the chapel. It’s a custom older than I am, meant to strengthen our bonds by giving us time to speak before and after the sermon.

But today feels different.

My family walks in silence toward the meeting place. My father is still tense from last night’s events. He doesn’t speak a word. My brother, too, seems on edge—his jaw tight, his movements rigid.

I say nothing, not daring to break the silence, especially after hearing how furious my father had been about his failed plans.

My mother, of course, remains oblivious.

It’s my brother who keeps drawing my attention. I remember my father mentioning that he had shown curiosity about the university students dabbling in the occult. Watching him now—his tight shoulders, clenched hands—I wonder if he might be the “source” of information my father had referred to.

Had he made friends at the university? Had they told them something?

My thoughts scatter when we reach the assembly point.

Something is wrong.

Only about half the usual number of people are there. At this hour, the spot should be full. My father scans the area, his expression darkening.

“Where is everyone?” he snaps at one of the elders.

“I don’t know,” the man replies, brows furrowed. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. This isn’t like them. These are good, loyal people. They wouldn’t just stay home.”

Something must have happened.

At those words, I watch the color drain from my father’s face. He parts his lips slightly and hurriedly makes the sign of the cross over his chest and forehead.

“Dear Lord,” he mutters. “This is what I feared from the beginning. This is the end of our congregation. It’s happened.”

My brother steps closer to him and whispers something I can’t quite catch. But from the way they begin speaking in hushed, urgent tones, I can guess what they’re thinking: that the reason half the congregation is missing must be tied to the ritual they believe happened last night.

“We must act,” my father says suddenly, turning toward the other elders. “We must not let this stand. This is because of them, those pagans, those demons⁠—”

He doesn’t get to finish.

A young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, comes sprinting toward us. I’ve seen him at service before. His face is flushed, his breath ragged.