PETRA
The following day brings more news of doom. Another body has been found—this time in the town square, just like the students from over a hundred years ago. But this time, it wasn’t staged as a suicide.
It was murder, plain and simple.
And the details are even more horrifying than I could have imagined.
His body had been chopped up, and parts of it were strewn around the town square. And because of the level of damage to the body, the police have not been able to ID the victim yet.
It seems one of the street cleaners, working in the early hours of the morning, came across a hand hidden among the autumn foliage.
At first, he thought it was a prank and pushed it aside. But quickly, he realized it was real—a human hand.
A dead body.
More body parts started appearing after that, and so the terror returned to our little town in full force.
And if that wasn’t enough, there are whispers of a few more odd deaths happening inside the isolated religious community.
Because of their secrecy, these deaths weren’t reported at the proper time; apparently, they happened somewhere between Edwin’s and Harry’s deaths.
That brings the total to five deaths now.
I haven’t been able to find much about the victims from the religious community: who they were, how exactly they died, or whether they were somehow connected to the persecution of Arnoult and his group all those years ago.
I’m still digging for a link, but the more I search, the more conflicting information I find.
So many people have motives. So many reasons to kill.
And then there’s the most pressing question of all:
What about dream-Sin?
How does he fit into all of this?
Is he . . . Arnoult the First?
And yet, in all of my dreams, he’s never introduced himself that way. Never once hinted at it.
But if he is Arnoult, then what does that mean for me?
For my Sin—the one who holds me when I cry, the one who whispers promises in my ear?
Oh God, I’m really starting to lose it.
None of this makes sense.
There’s Snowden, who seems to be killing people.
There’s Arnoult’s old group, who convinced others to commit mass suicide.
There’s that creature, roaming the past, and possibly even the present, taking more lives.
Or maybe it’s none of that.
Maybe we just have some psychotic murderer on the loose who’s using the town’s creepy history to confuse townsfolk and the police.
All I know is that every day, I feel more afraid.
And it’s not just for myself anymore.
It’s for my unborn baby, too.
Because what if these dreams aren’t just dreams?
What if they’re warnings, trying to keep me safe?
What if I did something wrong in a past life, and because of that . . .
I might be the next one to die?
But I’m not the only one feeling out of sorts today.
A pall of unease seems to have permanently settled on the SAH crowd, perhaps because of the temperatures dropping, perhaps because of the ghastly incidents in the town’s recent history, or perhaps due to a mix of both.
The school counselor has seen a visible increase in the incoming traffic to his office, and we have had a couple of more qualified (read “more expensive”) therapists come and talk to us in class.
A lot of empty talk about how life is precious and grieving is natural and we have to shoulder on regardless and “get those college applications ready!”
The lady who was conducting this particular seminar had looked quite stumped when this crisp statement was met with a couple of dry laughs and mostly impassive faces.
After classes are done, we head to the town cemetery where Harry is buried. Sin’s warm hand in mine keeps me from lingering too long on that dreadful, leaden thought.
It’s been raining on and off, and a damp afternoon gloom lingers around us as Sin and I stride through the graveled paths heading toward the mausoleum.
The overcast sky has dimmed the world around us, and I can’t shake the sense that we’re venturing into the heart of darkness, prospecting for that glinting stone of cruelty on which a tradition of savagery has been whetted.
“Are you sure about this?” I can’t help but ask, voice wavering slightly.
We pass between rows of headstones crouching over the sleeping dead. Coming to the greener part of the plot now, the wealthier parts where the influential families repose in the lap of luxury, even in death.
“What if we get in trouble?” I insist.
By now, we have reached the angular archway.
The walls are covered in creeping ivy and shadowed by gnarled trees, the stone facade weathered and forgotten. Today I am fascinated by the gothic lines, the sinister design meant to create a sense of foreboding.
Much like Ozymandias’ statue, Arnoult’s grave is dark with menace, announcing to the world the hateful nature of its entombed inhabitant.
The door creaks lightly as Sin pushes it, and we step inside into stale air thick with the scent of damp stone and decay. Thin columns of light shine through the small chinks in the ceiling, swirling with dust motes.
The faint sounds of dripping water echo from somewhere in the depths of the darkness. Our phone lights flicker against the cold, rough walls.
During our first encounter here, I didn’t have the chance to properly look around, but now that I do, engravings adorning the stone arrest my steps.
“I remember this place,” I say softly. “It felt different before, less . . . ominous.”
“Well, it is ominous. But we’ve come this far: might as well see this through.”
We start exploring the small chamber for any hidden clues, our footsteps echoing loudly between the stone walls.
Apart from the engravings that depict shadowy, multi-limbed apparitions with murky faces and sharp smiles, I can also see the hieroglyphic script of some unknown language—not Latin, from what I can tell—whose syntax appears to be rather crude and cruel, in a way.
Lost in my fancies, I inch slowly along the walls, my fingers brushing against the cool stone, tracing the symbols.
“What’s that?” Sin cries out suddenly, and I turn so fast I almost slip. “Underneath here,” he adds, pointing to a section of the floor that looks slightly raised, almost like it’s hiding something.
Sin crouches on the floor and pulls at the floorboards.
They open to reveal a trapdoor.
“Whoa!” I say with a note of excitement in my voice. “Is it just me, or does that floorboard look like someone recently moved it?”
“Perhaps,” Sin replies with a loud exhale.
He grasps the rusty wheel at the center of the door and starts turning it.
“Wait, should we be doing this?” I fling my hands to stop him, but he shrugs.
“What’s the harm? It’s not like we’re digging up his body or anything. Stand back!” he cautions before pulling open the door.
We look down to see a staircase spiraling into the depths of the earth—dusty marble steps that nevertheless look like they were walked upon recently.
“Do we go down?” I ask hoarsely.
“What do you want to do?” Sin replies in a casual tone, as if he’s asking me if I want to pick a spot for dinner.
“I guess we can take a quick peek . . .” my voice trails off as I step down first.
The initial pang of fear is followed by burning interest and a thrill at the prospect of inspecting a grave; I remain true to my idol Mary Shelley in that aspect, at least.
We watch our step over the chipped stairs and finally reach a space no larger than an anteroom, but somehow opulent in the use of a particularly fine mosaic tiling on the walls.
Heavy velvet drapes the color of a bleeding heart are hung overhead, all bearing the same crest: a crown of knives in black.
The ceiling, arched high above us, is adorned with intricate carvings of vines intertwined with what looks like guardians—mythical creatures frozen in distorted postures, their faces worn yet noble, impassive yet somehow grotesque.
I can’t help but crane my neck to look for long enough that it starts to hurt, yet there’s something disconcerting about the way the figures loom over us.
To the left, an alcove houses a large, intricately carved sarcophagus made from dark marble.
The surface is etched with the same swirling patterns that adorn the walls: the strange sigils of a bygone era steeped in superstition and savage pursuit of power.
“Is that somebody’s grave?” I ask in an incredulous tone, clutching at Sin’s sleeve.
“Yeah, I think that’s where Arnoult, his lover, and their unborn baby are buried,” he replies, running his fingers along the etchings on the giant catafalque on which rests the despotic cult leader Sin’s lucky enough to call ancestor.
Of course, there are more paintings on the walls around us.
The haunting craftsmanship cannot detract from the horrific content of each mural: the brutal rituals that we had read about in the Arnoults’ basement. I am intrigued by some of the expressions on the face of what looks like Arnoult the First, who seems to be leading each of these rituals.
In the paintings, he looks foreboding and sinister, a supernatural power looming over mortal weaklings around him.
There’s no mercy in that face, no remorse.
“Look at this,” Sin says in a somewhat impressed manner, pointing at one particularly vivid painting that depicts a family with terrified expressions.
“The rictus of horror is still so fresh they could have been murdered yesterday,” he says in a marveling voice, yet I can’t find fault with that.
Over and over again, the mural artist—it must be the one painter, because of the singular style evident in all the paintings we have seen so far—has proven their keen eye for human despair and desperation in various degrees.
“It’s like they’re frozen in their last moments forever,” I add when Sin falls silent, probably looking for the right words.
Sin nods in vehement agreement, but I’m already walking toward the far wall.
Beside it is an altar, its surface covered in layers of dust and old, crumpled offerings—dried flowers, broken trinkets, pages ripped from books, and what looks like a lock of blond hair.