Page 82 of Sinister

“Oi! Oi!” he shouts. “It’s bad. It’s really bad!”

“What is it, Michael?” one of the men asks, stepping forward. “Where’s your family? Why aren’t they here?”

Michael stops in front of us, catching his breath. When he sees my father, his eyes widen.

“Oh my God, Mr. Jeremiah, you’re here, too. Come quick. The reverend—he’s in the town square!”

“Town square?” My father frowns. “He should be here for the procession.”

“No, no.” The boy shakes his head, breathless. “You have to see it. You must come. It’s bad.”

“Speak, child, what is it?” my father demands.

“My father said you have to see it for yourself. So you’ll believe it.”

With a tired sigh, my father starts after the boy. The rest of the congregation follows, so I fall in step, too, along with my mother. We walk for nearly twenty minutes, the mood heavy, silent—until we reach the square.

Just like the last time I was here, there’s a crowd gathered at the center, a thick ring of people encircling something. Low murmurs ripple through the air, words like blasphemy, devil’s work, and sacrilege.

We press forward.

One by one, those reaching the front drop to their knees, making the sign of the cross, clasping their hands in urgent prayer as they lift their eyes to the sky. I push forward, unable to stop myself, needing to see what has brought everyone to their knees.

But nothing could have prepared me for what I find.

There, beside the obelisk—the long-standing cultural symbol of our town—lie bodies. Corpses. Young men, lined up in neat, deliberate rows.

Dead.

At first glance, there must be over two dozen of them, all no older than thirty. All killed brutally. The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, and my knees buckle beneath me. My legs tremble with shock.

And I’m not the only one.

All around me, people faint. Women wail. Some try to shield their children’s eyes. Others kneel, whispering prayers through tears.

Seeing it in daylight makes it all the more horrifying. The bloodless bodies, the gaping wounds at their throats—clean, deliberate. My first thought is the ritual.

My second: Did Sin participate?

Is he among them?

I push forward, trying to get closer, even as my stomach churns. The front rows are filled with men from the congregation—eyes fixed, praying loudly, condemning what they see. I inch forward, scanning the bodies, trying to study each face, even as bile rises in my throat.

One.

Two.

Three . . .

I stop counting at twenty-five.

Twenty-five corpses. All young men. All drained of blood, each with a puncture wound at the jugular—clean, precise, like a ceremonial knife had been used.

The way they’re arranged, positioned around the obelisk like spokes of a wheel, feels intentional. Ritualistic. This wasn’t chaos. This was planned.

But . . . how?

Sin never said anything about death. About sacrifice. He never said the ritual would involve this.