30. Petra
PETRA
For a week now, the authorities have been trying to track down the main suspects—several professors connected to St. Anselm Hall University. But I haven’t heard any mention of Sin.
My father keeps repeating one name: Arnoult. There were a few others implicated, too, names I don’t recognize.
Still, my thoughts can’t stay away from Sin.
What if those bodies weren’t the only ones?
What if he really was involved in the ritual and is now lying dead somewhere, abandoned in a ditch, forgotten?
What if something happened to him?
After our so-called bargain, I thought he would at least find a way to let me know he was safe. Some sign. Anything. But there’s been nothing.
Easter came and went, but no one celebrated. The town feels too heavy, too shadowed to embrace joy. Everyone’s on edge, waiting for something awful to happen again.
The murders still haven’t been solved. No arrests. No explanations.
Now, we’re not allowed to leave the house alone. Not even with Mrs. Jenkins. No one from the congregation is permitted to go into town, and from what I hear, the same rules apply to the outsiders. They’re just as afraid.
People whisper that if they leave their homes, they won’t come back alive—that something is lurking out there in the dark, waiting to grab them and offer them up in sacrifice.
No official statement has linked the killings to a ritual, but that hasn’t stopped the rumors. What started with our congregation has spread like wildfire. Now the entire town believes the university was hiding some kind of occult group. One that tried to summon the devil himself.
The university gates have been shut ever since. No one knows if or when they’ll reopen.
Day after day, I keep asking myself if I could have done more. If I should have tried harder to stop Sin. Tried harder to save him. The idea that he might be dead gnaws at me. It doesn’t feel right. I won’t believe it.
And so, slowly, my sanity begins to unravel.
Until one night, I can’t take it anymore.
I escaped once. I can do it again.
I just need to know, once and for all, if he’s alive. If he’s safe.
If Sin is still out there.
I wait until the entire household has gone to bed before I begin to seriously consider my plan. Like before, I head straight to the window, unlatching it quietly and peering outside. I can see the security outpost, the sheds where the dogs sleep. The world is still.
I’m about to climb onto the windowsill when I pause.
Is this the right thing to do?
If Sin wasn’t involved, then someone else out there is responsible for the deaths of twenty-five young men. A killer is still loose. And by going out alone, I’d be putting myself in danger.
But the conviction burning inside me is stronger than fear. I have to know. I have to see with my own eyes that he’s alive. That he’s not responsible. I don’t know why it matters so much—it just does.
I can’t stay suspended in this state of not knowing. Of waiting.
Taking a deep breath, I climb onto the windowsill and begin my descent. Like last time, it’s surprisingly easy to make my way outside. Almost too easy. It feels as though the shadows themselves are helping me—wrapping around me, guiding me, shielding me from sight. As if the darkness is on my side.
Once I’m past the gate, I follow the same path I did before, heading toward the university.
But the town feels different tonight.
Last time, even at a late hour, there were people drifting between pubs and shops, conversations and laughter spilling into the streets. This time . . . nothing.
The silence is eerie. The streets are deserted. It’s as though the whole town is holding its breath.
But at least that means no one is around to notice me.
When I finally reach the university, it’s completely dark. Not a single light glows from the windows. Still, when I reach the front gates, they open for me again—just like before.
I step inside cautiously, squinting through the blackness as I move toward the main door. It’s shut tight. I reach for the handle, but it doesn’t budge. Locked.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that he might be here. Even with the university shut down, he could still be living on the premises. He might still be inside, waiting.
I move around to the back of the building, searching for another entrance. The hedges back here are tall, perfectly sculpted into strange, ornamental shapes that make it difficult to see where I’m going. They twist and wind like a garden maze, and I have to navigate carefully.
Eventually, I manage to find a narrow path through the shrubbery—and just when I think I spot another door ahead, my foot catches.
One wrong step.
I fall.
The breath is knocked clean from my lungs. I hit the ground hard, pain blooming through my side as I struggle to breathe, to orient myself again in the dark.
The fall is steep. As I gather myself, I glance up and realize what happened. I must have stepped on loose stones, and the ground crumbled beneath me. Now I’m somewhere underground, in what looks like a tunnel or an old passageway.
I can see the night sky far above, but there’s no way I can climb back up. The drop is too high, the walls too sheer. My only option is to move forward and hope there’s another way out.
Fear prickles down my spine. Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?
Considering those pagan rituals originated in the university, the fact that I am here, underground, alone and trapped, terrifies me even more.
What if, in my misguided attempt to find Sin, I find myself in the midst of another ritual?
I have no idea where this tunnel leads, and no way out. A nervous laugh bubbles in my throat, quickly chased by the sting of tears. What was I thinking?
Still, I’m not one to give up easily. I take a deep breath, steady my nerves, and start moving forward.
The tunnel is cold and silent, but after only a few minutes, I spot something ahead—a flicker of light.
Odd.
Does that mean someone is down here?
Could it be Sin?
The thought brings a rush of hope. I straighten my back, pick up my pace, and am ready to call out his name, to ask him why he disappeared, why he never let me know he was safe. Why he left me in silence.
But the closer I get, the more I realize it’s not him.
I hear voices. Two. Maybe more. I slow down and stop just before the tunnel opens into a wide, well-lit alcove.
I peer around the corner, and what I see turns my blood cold.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle any sound.
The space is aglow with candlelight; there’s no electricity here. Candles line the chandelier above, the ledges of the walls, every crevice. The illumination is eerie, casting flickering shadows over the carved stone.
The walls are painted—images drawn directly onto the stone, crude but clear. Some too distant to see in detail, but others close enough for me to make out the crimson hues, the depictions of murder, torture . . . blood.
But even that is not the most horrifying part.
There are four, maybe five figures in the chamber. Most are cloaked in a deep burgundy fabric, their hoods drawn up like monks—like those old drawings of Franciscans I’ve seen in dusty books. But they aren’t praying.
At the center of the room is a massive stone table, easily twice my size.
Lying on it is a woman. Naked. Her wrists and ankles are bound. The cloaked figures circle her slowly, moving in unison, performing some kind of ritual.
My heart hammers in my chest.
Is this a sacrifice? Are they going to kill her?
And if they are, if they see me, will they kill me too?
I can’t go back. There’s no way up. My only hope is to move forward, deeper into this place. But how can I move past this? What will happen to me if they realize I’m here?
Fear—no, true horror—grips me as I realize the potential consequences of my actions.
Stupid, Petra! Stupid!
I press myself to the wall, desperate not to be seen.
But then, something unexpected happens.
One of the cloaked figures stops at her side and begins to untie her hands. Another releases her ankles. She rises slowly, her body trembling, breasts heaving as she sits up on the cold stone. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t resist.
Once she’s free, she swings her legs off the table and turns, resting her torso against the stone while her feet touch the floor.
I don’t understand. What is this?
Then one of the cloaked men moves behind her.
A metallic rattle echoes through the chamber.
A gasp escapes the woman as he presses himself to her from behind, thrusting.
My eyes widen.
What is this?
My stomach turns.
What are they doing to her?
Before I can process it, two more of the cloaked figures step forward, reaching into their robes. The woman’s hands rise, as if to receive something.
I never get to see what.
Darkness blinds me.
A hand presses firmly over my face, smothering my sight, muffling my breath.
Someone leans in close, breath warm against my ear.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispers.
That voice—
I know that voice.
“Come. We need to get out of here,” he whispers, pulling me away from the horrifying scene I had just witnessed.
We move quickly, retracing my steps toward the place where I fell, but instead of helping me climb out, he bypasses the crumbled stones and leads me deeper into the tunnel.
Hidden in the shadows, he opens a concealed door and gently pushes me through it before taking my hand again, guiding me through a series of narrow, winding passages cloaked in darkness.
I can’t see where I’m going, have no idea where we’re headed—but somehow, the fact that it’s him leading me fills me with a strange sense of trust.
Foolish, maybe.
But he’s alive, and right now, that’s all I need.
I don’t know how long we walk. Time loses meaning in the dark. Then, at last, he opens another door and pulls me into a small, dimly lit room.
Two candles burn low on a table. There are no windows. One bed, one chest of drawers, and a desk littered with crumpled papers. The place looks like a prison: bare, cold, isolated.
“Is this where you’ve been hiding?” I ask as he quietly shuts the door behind us.