22. Petra
PETRA
The day before the supposed ritual, I’m consumed by anger, fear, and paralyzing anxiety. My father is nowhere to be found, and I can’t stop wondering—where is he? What is he doing?
And while it’s still daylight outside, I’m locked inside the house, shut off from the world, clueless about what might be unfolding.
Is my father putting his plan into motion? Is Sin in danger?
And then I catch myself, and I scold myself for even thinking such things.
Why should I care anymore? He treated the entire situation like a game, laughed at my warnings, and demanded something I should’ve never given. All for what? A promise that he wouldn’t take part in that obscene ritual? A vow as flimsy as his morals?
He spoke of free will, didn’t he? If he truly wanted to listen, he could have. He didn’t need to barter for a kiss. And worse than him, worse, is me. I should never have agreed.
And yet . . .
When I got back last night, slipping inside just as easily as I’d slipped out, I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. My thoughts kept spiraling back to that kiss.
He was right: It awakened something inside me. Something I don’t have a name for. Something new and frightening and far too consuming.
I can still feel it—his lips, his hands, the heat of it. That kiss. My first kiss.
No, my inner voice corrects me, it was only a quarter of a kiss.
If that was a quarter . . . then what is a full kiss?
He was going to devour me, wasn’t he? That deranged man was ready to claim me, body and soul, in the name of a kiss. And perhaps I’m the more unhinged one because I can’t stop thinking about it. One taste of something forbidden, and now it’s all I can think of.
I pace my room, restless, unable to sit still. I wait, achingly alert, for any sound from below. Any sign that my father has come home. I need to know what happened.
But it doesn’t come. And so, I spend another night plagued by devilish dreams of a man named Sin and his sinful lips.
The next day, my father fails to return again. As the sun descends in the sky and the cloak of darkness covers everything in sight, my anxiety becomes unbearable.
All pretense of not caring disappears as I keep thinking about Sin, about whether he is all right, about whether he was there, summoning that creature. About whether . . . he sold his soul. And whether my father and his cronies fulfilled their macabre plan.
Another dilemma appears in my mind: Do I want my father to find them? Prevent them from summoning that entity? Or do I want them to get away and be successful?
I don’t know anymore. I only know that I do not want to see that infuriating man hurt. No matter how angry I still am at him, I just want him to be safe.
It’s not until late that night, long after we’ve retired, that I hear the front door creak open.
My father heads straight to his study, and a few others follow. I strain to hear and recognize the voices of some congregation members. And then . . . him. The strange man from before. The one who was plotting something alongside my father.
I wait. When the house is quiet enough, I slip out of my room again, my steps careful and silent. I tiptoe down the hallway, getting as close to the study door as I dare. I press myself to the wall and listen.
“They should have been there,” my father says, frustration sharp in his voice. “I had it on good authority they would be. One of the students in that seminar told me everything. They should have been there.”
I hear the sound of his fist slamming against the desk.
“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.
“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.
Then again . . .
He never told you, a voice whispers inside me. And you never pressed him about what the ritual would require.
He told me he couldn’t say. And I let that be enough.
Is this why? Because people were going to die?
Because they were going to kill themselves?
Who did this?
Did they sacrifice themselves?
Did the entity kill them?
Did someone else?
If they sold their souls for wishes . . . why are they dead? Shouldn’t they have gotten what they wanted?
No. Something is wrong here. This isn’t some university experiment gone wrong.
This is murder.
And the worst part is—
I’m afraid to ask who’s responsible.
Afraid to know who is guilty of this.
“He’s not among the dead,” my father’s voice reaches my ears.
I quickly gather my bearings and inch closer to where he’s standing, keeping my head down, veil covering my eyes in a sign of submission.
“Then there’s only one explanation,” an elder says, someone whose voice I recognize from my father’s study.
“He must have done it. He must have killed them for that demonic sacrifice,” he adds.
He? Who? Not Sin, right?
The reverend finds my father, his expression just as grim.
“We must fight back,” he says with determination, and a shiver runs down my spine. More violence.
My father grunts. “If you’d have listened to me, it wouldn’t have gotten to this.”
“When you came to me with your concerns, I thought you were overreacting. Misplaced worry. But now . . .” he shakes his head. “I see I should have listened. And I’m sorry for that. I can’t turn back time. I can’t undo what’s been done. And seeing these young men lying here like this . . .”
His voice cracks.
“You have no idea how deeply this wounds me. And I carry some of the guilt for letting it come to this.”
“We can still act,” my father insists, stepping forward. “We have the numbers on our side.”
“What are you saying?” the reverend asks.
My father straightens. “Gather the men. All of them. Everyone over the age of fourteen. Bring them to the designated place.” There’s steel in his voice now. “We’re going to drive this evil out of our town. Now.”
“But . . . he wouldn’t still be here, would he? Not after this? Not with the town already suspicious?” the reverend echoes.
I edge closer, straining to catch every word.
Who is this “he” they’re talking about?
The implication is heavy—Sin. My Sin.
The thought hits like a stone to the chest. Could he really be responsible for this? Could he be the hand behind this massacre?
Something breaks inside me at the idea.
The image of his mouth, of his kiss, still lingers in my mind—tender, warm. Not savage. And yet . . .
“No, he’s still here,” my brother says suddenly, cutting through my thoughts. “He’s holding a lecture right now.”
“That damn Arnoult the First’s going to pay,” my father growls. “We’re taking our town back. And we’ll drive those devil worshippers out once and for all.”
Arnoult? Who is Arnoult?