Page 91 of Sinister

The weak beams of our phone lights fall on a scene of robed figures standing in a circle around a shadowy, spectral form at the center. I’m halted in my tracks at the ghostly figure’s face: a smooth orb of a head with large black eyes and a bloody gash for a smile. A smile that will eat into my already thinning sleep and latch on to even more of my dreams now.

“Tha-that’s the demon?”

I don’t need to look at Sin to know that he’s nodding or that he looks spooked out of his brains.

“According to what I heard, the first murder spree began sometime in the 1890s, and although some people were accused of those crimes, people suspect that some got away with it or were never accused in the first place.”

“What do you mean?” I frown.

“There were people who were said to be directly involved who disappeared and were never brought to justice. But there were also people who were on the Board of Trustees of the University who, soon after it closed, became extremely rich.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything,” I say, the skeptic in me rising to the surface. “It could all be a coincidence. There could have simply been some deranged serial killer who decided to put a Biblical spin on his murders. Maybe a lunatic like Jack the Ripper.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But a lot of the people in this town don’t believe that. In fact, they think the people who got away with it are still doing it.”

“By doing it, you mean—” I gulp down. “The sacrifices?” I still can’t tear my eyes away from the perfectly circular black-eyed face of the abomination.

“While the first sacrifice was meant to summon the demon, once the hellion granted their wishes, they had to keep the . . . tradition alive.”

“Wha-what do you mean?”

My eyes shift to the robed and hooded figures surrounding the fiendish form.

“Every couple of decades, those descendants must sacrifice a number of people to appease the demon and keep their wealth,” Sin continues.

26

PETRA

“What the actual fuck?” I exclaim, taking a step back. “You’re telling me they⁠—”

“Kill more people, yes,” Sin says. “At least, that’s how the story goes.”

And now, my perspective on the painting before us is completely changed: Now it’s the robed figures that invoke fear. I wonder how they look behind those hoods. Are they twisted in agony, like the sinners burning in Dante’s eight circles of hell? Are they triumphant and filled with unslaked bloodlust?

“So you’re telling me that Edwin was one of those sacrifices,” I murmur. “Meaning there might be more to come.”

“If we are connecting his death to the paintings here, then yes,” Sin says in a tight voice.

“And they do this every few decades?” I know I’m repeating myself, but no matter how hard I try, it’s impossible to wrap my mind around the bloodcurdling revelations. He nods, so I quickly continue, “When was the last odd murder? Did anyone else die strangely in town?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure some people died.” He pauses, looking pensive. “Although not as bloody as Edwin, as far as I know. I don’t think they were flagged as anything overly suspicious, though there are a lot of townsfolk who claimed the deaths were sacrifices, that it was the third cycle. The police didn’t think so, though, and dismissed the claims as myths.”

“But they’re not myths, Sin!” I cry out. “They’re fucking real, aren’t they? What happened to Edwin was real. And oh God . . . we’re living in the fourth cycle.”

Some other fact has been tugging at my attention this whole time, and when we lapse into a frightful silence again and peer at the gruesome scene on the wall, I get an epiphany. My own family had moved to this town when I was fourteen. We’re relative newcomers. Does this put us—me—more at risk?

“Sin,” I begin in a tone laced with pure, cold terror, “my parents and I . . . we moved here when I was fourteen. We’re technically new people in this town. We’re not connected to any of the old families.”

His eyes flicker with guilt as he says, “That’s good to know, isn’t it, Petra? Looks like your family are not human sacrificers and satanists!”

“Who are the main families, then? The ones people suspect of being the devil worshippers?”

“Ah, I was really hoping you wouldn’t ask that question,” Sin replies with a nervous smile that turns solemn when he continues. “If you must know, the five families are Arnoult, Underwood, Snowden, Rutherford, and Haas. I know those names sound familiar . . .”

“Wait, Arnoult?” I exclaim again. “Your family?”

Sin nods sheepishly and tries to avoid my eyes as he adjusts his phone camera to take a picture of the painting.