Page 85 of Sinister

“They were formed in the 1800s, apparently. And get this—” her voice drops lower, as if trying to heighten suspense— “their 150-year anniversary is coming up this year! And the same year Edwin turns up dead and stuffed with rats? That cannot be a coincidence.”

Though I’m disgusted by the way she speaks of Edwin, the hairs on my neck stand on end when I realize that the truth will probably be way worse than whatever tale Sierra Nelson cooks up.

“No way,” another girl gasps as the blood drains from her face. She actually believes this local legend nonsense. “You mean like those secret cults you see in horror movies?”

Yeah, right, like St. Anselm Hall is cool enough to have its own Midsommar staged in these hallowed halls. My annoying inner voice is back in full force, and even outwardly, I don’t bother to hide my scorn for all the melodramatic theories. Yet the fact that my mind conjured up something similar in my nightmare gives me pause.

“Exactly,” Sierra says with not a shred of irony, bless her. “And get this—there were similar murders exactly a hundred years ago. Bodies found all torn up and missing organs and all their blood.”

Well, at least there’s that—in my dream, the bodies were only drained of blood.

As if that makes it any better.

“Dude, that’s fucking insane,” the other guy whispers. “And you’re saying it’s happening again?”

The talk is getting really cheap at this point, so I try to focus on my iPad instead, jotting down random lines and observations about today’s reading material to keep my mind occupied. But the chatter in the classroom is impossible to ignore, each horrific theory gaining wind and swirling around like a dark cloud.

I bury my face in my hands. Edwin’s death is becoming a grotesque piece of gossip, and it feels so wrong and disrespectful to the memory of that sweet boy.

I take deep breaths again, trying to block out the voices around me.

At that blessed moment, the teacher finally enters, and the room eventually settles down. The rest of the class passes in a similar subdued vein, and I do my best to pay attention. In another half hour, the lunch bell rings, and I’m happy to put some space between myself and the chatty Sierra.

“And everyone in Radcliffe knows about the Society, too. I’ve heard my parents talk about them when they think I’m asleep,” she’s saying to the group gathered around her.

I shake my head and stride toward the cafeteria. Maybe I will feel less homicidal toward that mouthy idiot after I’ve eaten some bread.

Then again, the cafeteria resounds with its own cacophony of conversation and clattering dishes.

My nerves still on edge, I pile a tray with French toast and fruits, some of the safer foods that my sensitive stomach can handle these days, and scan the room for a familiar face.

That’s when I spot Harry near the buffet. He catches my eye and waves me over. I’m only too happy to comply.

“Hey, Petra,” he says as I approach. “Want to sit together?”

I nod gratefully. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

We find a table near the back of the cafeteria. There is less noise here, and the ugly gossip doesn’t quite reach my ears.

“I heard the announcement yesterday,” Harry begins. “What happened?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I respond in a frustrated voice, finally glad to be asked a normal question. “I got called to the principal’s office so the detectives investigating Edwin’s death could interrogate me about the time we spent together and if I knew who might have killed him so brutally and if I could just give them the culprit’s IG or Twitter handle, that’d be great, too.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and then his face changes color when he realizes I’m not entirely serious. “Why would they interrogate you, though? You just had one class with him.”

“I don’t know! That’s why it was so irritating.” I take an angry bite of the fluffy French toast and almost immediately feel better. “It’s just been rough,” I continue. “All the rumors and then the graphic details . . . it’s all just too much.”

Not to mention my dreams that are riddled with satanic rituals and charming rakes that want to sell their soul to the devil for a kiss.

I take another bite of my toast, the dream-memory of that kiss suddenly arising in my brain.

“Yeah, no, this whole situation is beyond messed up,” Harry replies. Though he has selected an appetizing dish of baked ziti, he’s barely eaten any of it. I don’t have any bracing words to offer, so we just sit in silence for a while.

But soon I notice a flurry of voices whispering very close to us, and not long after, I see that Sin has just entered the cafeteria with a bunch of his friends.

Even though the girls and guys around him are talking and joking among themselves, his eyes are fixed on me, or rather, on me with Harry.

Again, a dark pool—of malice? or anger—glistens in his eyes. I feel my skin prickle at the expression on his face. So singular is his focus, so concentrated is his gaze, that even the crowd can sense its tangible presence.