Page 92 of Sinister

“Yeah. My family’s apparently related to one of the professors at the University in the 1890s. If it makes you feel any better, I have never heard my mom and dad planning or discussing the semicentennial family jamborees where we worship demons and sacrifice people.”

The last sentence is a desperate attempt at jest, and he looks uncomfortable enough that I don’t press him further on the topic.

Instead, I say, “And the other families? They’re all still around?”

“Yup. And they still wield substantial power over the town,” Sin replies. “The Underwood family owns most of the businesses downtown, all those strip malls, bodegas, burger joints, etc. The Snowdens are major stakeholders in the local government—every generation sees at least five Snowdens in the town council. Then the Rutherfords are well-respected and widely feared attorneys, and the Haas family has significant real estate.”

“But you’re not . . . involved, are you?” I ask hesitantly, the question feeling necessary and ridiculous and dangerous. “With the rituals, I mean.”

“No, Petra, of course not!” Sin insists with such an earnest and anguished expression that I turn my attention back to the paintings.

We proceed farther into the crypt, the air growing colder with each step. Yet the complete silence and calm atmosphere make me feel physically fine, a rare event these days.

“These paintings,” I whisper. “Do you get the feeling that they’re not just ritual depictions or snapshots of the past? Like, they’re instructions instead.”

Sin pauses to examine the mural more closely as I take a few more photographs. “You know what? I think you’re right. These images are showing them how to perform the sacrifices.”

I turn back to the mural before us, trying to process how intricately the horrors of our present are linked to a long line of evil deeds that have darkened Radcliffe’s history.

It’s true that I can’t help but admire the pure artistry of these paintings: The blending of colors is so skillful, the gradience between blacks, greys, and reds creates such a unique atmosphere of dread. Even the grisly context of the artwork cannot retract from its savage beauty.

Another mural, another macabre depiction of ritual sacrifice, catches my eye. My gaze zeroes in on a specific section, and my stomach twists in recognition.

“Sin,” I say quietly. “Look at this.”

He steps closer, his eyes following my pointing finger. It’s a grim image: a person lying on the ground, obviously dead, with blood pouring from their eyes, nose, mouth, ears—every orifice. The scene makes my skin crawl, but the brushwork makes me hold my breath.

“Jesus!” Sin mutters. “That’s just sadistic.”

“Now compare it to this one,” I say, having moved beyond bowel-churning repulsion and arrived at intrigue. “This is like Edwin’s death, right?”

“Yes, and?” Sin looks skeptical and wary, as if bracing for something really bad.

“And this one.” I point back to the bleeding figure. “It looks like the second in a sequence. Edwin’s was the first death.”

“Petra, are you sure? You’re saying that the next . . . death will look like that?” Sin points a shaking finger at the painting before us.

My heart pounds as I nod in agreement. We don’t know what else to say, so we keep walking. The mastery evident in the drawings keeps me engaged as we pass from one damp wall to the next.

At the same time, I can’t help but be impressed by Sin’s knowledge about art. He points out small details that I would have missed, even explaining the underlying connotation of various symbols and patterns.

“Look at this symbol here.” Sin points to a concentric, looped sigil drawn, or almost branded, onto a ritual scene. “Did you notice that it’s repeated in multiple places? Maybe it refers to a seal, as in a sealing of the pact with the demon?”

“Oh, wow, that sounds really cool, Sin,” I reply with utmost sincerity. “You really know a lot about this stuff.”

“Comes with the territory of being an Arnoult, I guess.” After a few more minutes, Sin steps back and stretches his arms. “I don’t know about you, but I could really use a break from squinting at all these wonderfully brutal depictions.”

“I agree.” In fact, my feet have been killing me for a while now.

“Excellent!” Sin says, rifling through his backpack. To my surprise, he pulls out a blanket and some snacks. “Here,” he says, spreading the blanket on the cold stone floor. “Time to rest those legs, darling.”

I smile gratefully and sit down on the soft fabric.

Sin hands me a small bag of chips and a bottle of water. “Figured we might need some nourishment.”

“Thank you, Sin. This was really thoughtful of you.”

“Please, it was the least I could do,” he says graciously, sitting down beside me—much closer than I expected. But I am not going to complain. The perfumed warmth of his body is a welcome respite from the crypt’s relentless chill.