43. Petra #3
“I think we’re running out of time,” I say at last, the certainty dawning on me with a chill. “We need to find whoever’s doing all these before these horrors become a reality.”
Sin nods, still staring intently at the painting.
In the next instant, something catches my eye: a hole in the stone wall beside the last mural.
It’s rectangular in shape and fairly big enough for someone to climb through.
There are some discolored scuff marks around the edges of the gap, which makes me think someone might have slipped through it recently.
“Sin, look at this.” I call him over and point at the hole. “There’s something on the other side.”
“You want to clamber through there?” he asks in an incredulous voice, but I am already trying to reach for the lower edge of the hole.
“Here, give me a leg up, will you?” I ask absent-mindedly, and Sin stares at me for a moment before shaking his head and crouching beside my foot. He forms a step with his palms, and I use it to swing myself up and into the dusty space.
The light from my phone illuminates the other side, revealing another chamber, hidden from view.
“There’s a room in here,” I cry out, my leg resting precariously in Sin’s cupped hands. “We need to go inside.”
Soon, Sin and I squeeze through the narrow gap to emerge into a dusty, smaller chamber. The smell of grime and decay is even stronger here. And the walls are lined with even more disturbing carvings.
Instead of feeling unsettled by the fresh hellscapes, I say, “Wow! This place is amazing!” Sin gives me a weird look, so I hurry to add, “Ancient, I meant to say ancient. This place looks even older than the crypt.”
The lacy pall of light cast by our phones falls on rusting artifacts scattered across the floor.
“Petra, I don’t think we should be here,” Sin hisses through gritted teeth, but I barely hear him as I move farther into the room.
“This must have been a place for their darkest ceremonies,” I remark in an excited tone.
But in the next moment, my feet are halted in shock—another gruesome mural that looms out of nowhere. I step closer while behind me, Sin is swearing again.
“What the fuck? This is just so fucking sick!”
Before us is a triptych of panels depicting mass deaths: The first painting shows a family dying together in a house, the air thick with smoke. Their faces are contorted in agony as they suffocate, the details so vivid that I can almost hear their last, choking breaths.
“Oh my God.” Now, even I’m scared, my heart pounding in my chest. “These are whole families. They’re all meant to die together.”
Sin places a hand on the small of my back, perhaps to brace me or because he’s spooked out.
Our eyes move to the second painting: a roaring red fire engulfing five people.
The flames leap and twist so realistically that they almost spring out at the viewer.
But small details suggest this is not a regular fire, more of a metaphorical type.
Each of the bodies has distinct injuries on their bodies.
Once again, the faces of the victims are frozen in screams of terror, as if they know they’re going to burn in hell and can do nothing about it
And now our eyes swing to the third panel: twenty-five people committing suicide simultaneously, all in the same room, all holding a sharp knife to their carotid arteries.
The interplay of light and shadows on the twisted faces and lifeless eyes creates such an unsettling ambiance that I have to force myself to look away.
Once more, something tugs at my consciousness. Twenty-five people . . . I dreamed about something similar, didn’t I? The details are fuzzy, but I remember clearly the mention of suicide; self-inflicted wounds; ritual . . .
“The fuck is all this,” Sin cries out as I stumble to the side and start taking deep gulps of air.
“We were wrong,” I eventually gasp out. “Edwin’s death wasn’t the first one.”
“Why do you say that?” Sin is beside me, patting my back as I hold my stomach and try not to hurl.
“Do you remember the family that died from a gas leak in their house last year? It was all over the news. The Blackwells, they used to live near the diner, remember? Only the children survived. Everyone else died—the mother, father, and two sets of grandparents.”
Sin’s eyes widen as he finally processes what I’m saying. “Yes, I remember. It was a huge story. All the more so because no one could figure out how the children miraculously survived. Wait . . . are you saying that was connected to this?”
“It has to be,” I reply shakily. “Look at this painting. This is how it happened, right? The family died together in their own home. Don’t you see what this painting means? It wasn’t an accident!”
“But what about the other two paintings? Have those events happened already?”
“I don’t know,” I admit anxiously. “The one with the five people on fire, and the mass suicide—they might be ‘in the works.’ Or they might have happened in the past, but didn’t get as much media attention?”
“Sounds like we need to keep digging,” Sin says with a grim expression. “Perhaps we can find something in the archives.”
To my utter surprise, I reply, “You’re right.”