Page 113 of Into the Dark, We Go
"Pretty sure." I collapsed onto the bed, too drained to care. June immediately sat beside me.
"You need a change of bandages," she said, gently tugging the T-shirt off my shoulder.
I didn’t resist. She was like a whole new person—helpful, supportive, genuinely concerned about my well-being. Her angsty, guarded teenage attitude had melted entirely the moment they found me in the barn.
Mitchell chewed his lip, then turned to Nick. "And your mother didn’t have it? You didn’t see anything remotely like an old book at home?"
"I told you," Nick replied, his voice strained. "I went through everything after she died. It. Wasn’t. There."
Mitch started pacing the room. "Do you think she could’ve hidden it somewhere?"
"I don’t know."
Their sombre faces seemed to draw the warmth from the room. For the first time since I left the barn, I felt a cold, gripping fear. Iwasgoing to die.
"I don’t dream," I whispered.
Everyone’s eyes fell on me.
"Since the ritual... I haven’t had dreams. Not even nightmares. Just darkness. Like I’m dead."
Nick opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. "Please, help me. I’m scared. I won’t even have a grave."
His gaze fell to the floor. The room was silent.
Then he spoke. "The grave."
"What was that?" Mitch asked
"Her grandmother’s grave at the cemetery," Nick explained. "What if she hid it there? Think about it. It’s the only connection to this place."
Mitchell stood, hesitant. He wasn’t convinced. But after a moment, he nodded. "It’s worth a shot. Let’s go check it out."
June perked up, ready to follow her brother anywhere, even to dig up an old grave.
"Not you," Mitch quickly said. "Nick and I will go. You stay with Nell. Keep the gun close. Don’t fire it unless you absolutely have to."
I couldn’t decide if Nick truly believed this was a real possibility or if he was just offering a gentle hospice for my sanity, a comforting illusion to ease my fears before I vanished.
The dim glow of the motel room’s lamp cast elongated shadows across the walls as June and I huddled over the small table in front of my laptop. We’d been scouring the internet, trying to find information about the sigil. But so far, our efforts had been in vain. We’d seen hundreds of disturbing images—either real or fake—but nothing quite matched the one burned into my skin.
"This is useless." I closed my laptop and pushed it away.
Before June could respond, equally disappointed and frustrated with the state of things, I grabbed my phone and excused myself. I needed to make a crucial call.
The mere thought of my mother never knowing what had happened to me, and being left with memories of our ugly fight, hurt more than the physical pain I was enduring. With trembling hands, I dialed her number on the burner phone Mitch had given me, unsure what kind of response I was hoping for. Either way, it was going to be difficult.
She picked up, and I whimpered, "Mom."
A brief pause hung in the air before my mother responded, "Nellie, what’s wrong?" Her voice was tinged with genuine worry, something I hadn’t heard often.
I shook my head, trying to stem the tears. "It’s... a long story. I’m okay. I love you, Mom. And I’m so sorry," I managed before my voice cracked and tears overtook me again.
"Come home. We’ll deal with anything. I promise, everything will be alright. Just come home," she pleaded softly.
I couldn’t recall the last time my mother had been so gentle, so concerned.
"I just wanted to tell you I love you," I said, my voice choked with sobs.
