Page 103 of Into the Dark, We Go
Sharp. Blinding.
White exploded behind my eyes. My legs buckled.
I would’ve collapsed, but claws—hands—dug into my arms, holding me up.
When the spinning slowed, when my vision focused, I realized I was pinned between two men in ski masks, their grips like iron.
"Careful there, boys," Robert called over his shoulder, glancing back at us. "Or you’ll end up carryin’ her."
He was already heading down the trail. The two men holding me dragged me along.
There was no way I was going deeper into that darkness with them.
"No!" I screamed, thrashing and kicking against them. "Let me go!"
"That’s enough!" one of them barked. Another man stepped forward, a short one—shorter than me, but stocky and broad. He wore a faded green jacket, and his scarf was pulled up high, hiding most of his face except for his eyes. His gaze was sharp and burning with quiet malice, eyes that wouldn’t flinch at killing, and wouldn’t lose sleep after.
With quick, practiced hands, he pulled a coil of rope from his pocket and wrapped it around my wrists, binding them tightly. The rope cut into my skin. He yanked it hard, forcing me to stumble forward. My feet slid beneath me, and I almost lost my balance again.
As the last remnants of daylight faded, so did my hope. I shouted for help, but it was pointless. They silenced me with a firm slap to the face, hard enough for me to taste blood in my cheek, but not to knock me out.
A near-perfect circle of the moon, ripe with anticipation, hung low above the trees. There were still three days until the full moon. A chill ran down my spine when I made the connection: Lucas had gone home to Black Water a few days before the Harvest Moon. Had Robert done something to him? Had he killed his own son? But why? And the most horrifying question of all: Was I next?
I moved numbly, astonished and disbelieving, but when we crossed the bridge and the woods fell into an eerie quiet, panic and despair flooded back. I couldn’t stop the tears. There was no way to convince them to spare me. I didn’t even bother begging.
A familiar wooden plaque loomed ahead, barely visible now:Private Property. Do Not Enter. Crossing that last threshold felt like stepping off the edge of the world.
Robert and his followers hadn’t used flashlights; somehow, they had managed to orient themselves in the darkness. But now, they lit up some torches, their flickering yellow flames making the clearing look unholy.
Robert, the only one not wearing a mask, unlocked the shed and ushered us inside. The interior was bare—just a chain hanging from the wall, a shovel, a folded tarp, and a canister with unknown contents. A row of 2-gallon bottles, filled with what I assumed was water, lined the left wall. No altar, no magical trinkets, and nothing that resembled the grimoire Mathilda had mentioned. Three of Robert’s companions stayed outside, and two came in with us. One of them retrieved a chair from a dark corner.
"Sit," Robert instructed, pointing to a rickety chair.
The man next to me shoved me onto it, though I didn’t resist.
"What do you want from me?" I panted. "I didn’t have anything to do with Lucas’s disappearance, I swear!"
"I know you didn’t, Nellie," Robert said, his voice low and even. He towered above me, a quiet but powerful force seeping from him. The old man I had met at the police station, grief-stricken and vulnerable, was gone. In his place stood someone else, someone who had shed his skin like a snake, revealing who he had been all along.
The killer.
"Then why are you doing this to me?" I sobbed.
He approached me slowly, his hand reaching out. I winced and recoiled, but he brushed his calloused, wrinkled fingers across my left cheek.
"I know all about you," he said softly. "But tell me about your friends, please."
"They’re just looking for their sister. She’s missing. I don’t know anything else."
Robert flicked his eyes toward one of his men. In an instant, a searing pain exploded across my face. My head snapped violently to the side. I thought for a moment my neck had been broken, but then I realized I’d been knocked off the chair entirely.
A punch drove into my stomach before I could react. My breath collapsed inward, and my body folded in half. Nausea churned in my gut as a searing pain tore through my abdomen, blossoming like an evil flower. My diaphragm convulsed, refusing to expand.
Another blow struck. My lungs burned, starving for oxygen.
Then another.
And another.
