69. Petra
PETRA
With my parents gone for the next couple of days, Sin suggests we spend some time at the bunker.
My initial instinct is to say no—because, at this point, I don’t know what to think about him anymore. But then I reconsider. This might be the perfect opportunity to search for more clues, and the bunker is the best place to start.
The most urgent thing is to find out whether Sin really is the one who killed the students. Even though I’m almost certain he’s the killer, I still have no solid proof.
Once we arrive at the bunker, Sin excuses himself, saying he wants to stop by his house to grab some extra clothes and groceries for the next couple of days.
I nod and encourage him to go, assuring him everything will be fine—because with him gone, I’ll finally have the freedom to explore on my own and hopefully uncover something useful.
As soon as he leaves, I return to the map of connections I made the day before, trying again to figure out a possible motive for the murders.
Why would he kill those students?
I’ve already come to the conclusion that Sin is immortal. And that must mean—at some point—he sold his soul, right?
But then, that theory starts to unravel. If he’s been alive for over a hundred years, why would he still need to kill?
Unless . . . maybe in order to maintain his immortality, he has to continue committing these atrocities?
It’s the only explanation that makes sense, at least for now.
With a frustrated sigh, I slip on my shoes and head out of the bunker, making my way deeper into the tunnels. Maybe another look at the wall paintings will reveal something I missed. There’s also the lingering mystery of who painted them in the first place.
It takes me a few wrong turns before I finally find the tunnel that leads toward the school rather than the cemetery. It’s surreal to realize this whole underground system connects the entire city, and yet nobody seems to know it exists.
Well, nobody except Sin.
Armed with the flashlight on my phone, I walk deeper into the shadowed corridors. The walls are slick and speckled with mold. Everything smells musty and damp. The whole atmosphere feels like something out of a horror movie.
But I push the fear aside. I have to.
Somewhere in here, there has to be a clue. Something to point me in the right direction.
I keep walking for what feels like forever. Until eventually, I have no idea where I am anymore. There’s nothing but darkness ahead of me and the smell of cold, rotting stone.
The deeper I go into the tunnel, the colder it gets—so cold I can see my breath fog up the beam of light coming from my phone. I walk for what feels like forever, surrounded only by silence and the echo of my footsteps.
Then, out of nowhere, a loud screech erupts ahead of me. Before I can react, a swarm of bats rushes straight at my face.
“Ah!” I scream, stumbling backward and falling hard onto the damp floor.
It takes a moment to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. My chest is heaving. My heart’s racing. But when I glance around, I realize the bats are gone. They’ve moved on—none of them are around me, and more importantly, not on me.
The last thing I need is to get bitten and contract rabies or some other horror my panic-fueled brain keeps conjuring up. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through it.
Come on, Petra. You can do this, I encourage myself.
I grab my phone, get back on my feet, and raise the flashlight in front of me. One step at a time.
A few minutes later, something catches my eye—bits of color breaking through the monotony of moss-covered stone. I quicken my pace until I’m standing in front of another cave painting. But this one I don’t recognize.
“What?” I whisper, sweeping the light across it.
A pool of vivid red blood is painted on the ground, with severed body parts scattered within it. Head. Hands. Feet cut clean at the ankles.
Is this supposed to be Francois?
It doesn’t match exactly. In the real murder, his entire body had been mutilated. This seems more focused on disembodying the victim. Could this be a different murder? One that hasn’t happened yet?
As I scan the wall further, I notice another painting—this one even more disturbing. A wraith-like figure bleeds from every orifice. A torrent of blood pours from it, flowing like a river until it merges with the red puddle in the first scene.
Two deaths, one river of blood.
Are they connected? Are these two victims somehow linked?
I move to another part of the wall, where yet another painting waits. This one is different. It’s not a depiction of death; it’s of someone kneeling in prayer.
The figure is shadowy, bowed before what appears to be an altar. And atop the altar is the same demon-like creature I’ve seen before.
Worship. Devotion. Sacrifice.
It almost looks like this figure is praying to the monster.
Is this meant to be Sin?
Is this a record of his deeds? Or a prophecy of what’s to come?
I reach forward and press my fingers to the cold, damp wall. The paint, if it even is paint, is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Whatever was used, it’s immune to water, humidity, and even touch.
I scratch at one of the boldest lines with my fingernail—nothing comes off. I know my pigments, even historical ones, and nothing should be this permanent. Not in this environment.
It shouldn’t have survived this long.
I push harder, leaning into the wall—and suddenly, there’s a soft click.
Then a low, grinding sound starts, like ancient stone shifting. I stumble back just in time to see part of the wall begin to move. Slowly, two slabs of stone shift and roll apart, revealing a narrow opening.
There’s something hidden behind the painting.
A little spooked, but already too far in to back out, I squeeze through the narrow gap in the stone and step into what appears to be a hidden room.
I swallow hard.
This isn’t what I expected. But I wanted clues. And this, well, this is a clue.
Waving my phone around for light, I take in the space. It’s eerily similar to the room from my dreams—the one where Sin first took me after I wandered into the tunnel. The layout is the same: a small bed, a single table, and little else.
But this isn’t the same place. It’s different.
Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. The air is thick with neglect. The wood of the bed frame has rotted through in places, and at the first flash of light, cockroaches skitter across the floorboards.
I choke down a wave of revulsion and take a careful step inside. Who lived here? The walls are bare—no paintings, no carvings. Just stone and silence. It’s a modest space, stark, empty. Who would live like this, underground?
The mattress is damp and rotting, the smell of mold so strong it hits the back of my throat. I gag, turning my attention to the table instead.
There’s a single drawer.
I pull it open.
More bugs. Termites, beetles—tiny creatures that make my skin crawl—but nothing else.
Whoever lived here either owned nothing or took everything with them when they left. I’m about to turn around and leave, already queasy from the mold and the crawling things, when the beam of my flashlight catches a glint of something beneath the bed.
I freeze.
Of course it’s under the bed. Just like in every childhood nightmare. My brain flickers back to all the sleepless nights I once spent convinced there was something monstrous hiding beneath me.
And now, in a world where monsters do exist, I’m kneeling on a dirty, infested floor, about to see what lies beneath an abandoned bed in a hidden tunnel.
Come on, Petra. I steel myself, pushing through the nausea, and crouch down, aiming the flashlight underneath.
Not a monster. Though in some ways, it might have been simpler if it were.
It’s a suitcase. A very old one.
I reach for the wooden handle and pull it out. It’s heavy, worn. The design is old—Georgian, maybe even older. I can’t date it exactly, but it certainly predates the Victorian era. I search for a lock and, surprisingly, it pops open with ease.
With slow, deliberate movements, I lift the lid, dreading what I might find and yet driven by a hunger to know.
To my surprise, the contents inside are almost perfectly preserved. Despite the humidity of the room, the damp, and the decay everywhere else, the suitcase seems untouched. Untouched by time. Untouched by nature.
I wedge my phone between the lid and the case, letting the light shine inside so I can sort through its contents with both hands.
There isn’t much.
The first item is a folded piece of dark fabric. I turn it over in my hands, confused—until the light catches on the collar.
A nun’s habit.
Next, a heavy silver cross. A worn Bible with yellowed, crinkled pages. A rosary.
And at the bottom, a journal.
With these tangible clues in my hands, I realize two things.
One: This belonged to a nun.
Two: There’s no way these items are from the 1800s.
No—scratch that. There’s no way they’re from the Victorian era.
The Bible alone proves it. The quality of the binding, the richness of the pages—this wasn’t made with cheap pulp paper like most nineteenth-century editions. This was carefully crafted to last.
And the journal . . . the journal feels just as old.
I carefully open the journal to its first page. The date jumps out at me: 1760.
I blink. Shock settles in. I expected something old, yes, but not this old. This is more than a hundred years before the first murders began.
So what is this journal doing here?
Why is there a secret room in these tunnels with belongings from someone who lived over 250 years ago? Are the tunnels really that ancient?
Before I can process it further, a loud noise from outside startles me, and the journal slips from my hands. Footsteps echo through the tunnel.
Heart pounding, I snatch up the journal and tuck it under my shirt. I shut the suitcase and slide it back beneath the bed, then hurry out of the room.
Pressing both palms to the wall, I push against the stone. After a few tense seconds, the hidden door seals itself shut.
The footsteps grow louder.