Page 133 of Into the Dark, We Go
Livingwith Nick was strange initially. We no longer had to sneak around, but it still felt odd without Mitch and June. I had only ever known Nick in relation to the siblings, as a contrast to Mitch, and the target of June’s sarcasm and complaints. And now, suddenly, he was just himself.
I wasn’t sure how to feel about living with a guy I’d only known for a few weeks. I’d never lived with a lover before, and something told me this wasn’t how people usually did it—moving in after less than a month, with no plan and no clear future. But then again, our situation wasn’t exactly typical. And despite all my doubts and fears, it wasn’t bad at all. Quite the opposite.
Nick was sensible and kind, and he never put any expectations on me. He made sure I was comfortable and gave me space while still staying close. He never asked what I planned to do, and whenever I tried to reassure him I’d find a job to help with the bills, he brushed it off and asked me to focus on getting better and making myself at home.
My burns and lacerations were healing well, and Nick took meticulous care of them, changing the bandages each day. Though he never flinched, I still felt self-conscious exposing the raw, unsightly marks on my skin, even with his constant reassurance that they didn’t diminish my appearance or attractiveness.
On the outside, my body was gradually mending. Inside, however, the darkness remained. The nightmares persisted. Every night, I was back in the woods—running, scared, and hurt. Sometimes, something was out there with me. Other times, I was alone beneath a black sky and tangled branches. I wasn’t sure which was worse. Each nightmare ended with me bolting upright, drenched in cold sweat. Nick never asked what they were about. He simply offered his closeness.
The Sheriff’s warning to lie low still echoed in our minds. We kept an eye on the news, unsure if anyone was looking for us. But everything remained quiet. There were only a few strange events that might have been coincidences: unexpected political shifts, bursts of social unrest, and unusual fluctuations in the corporate world and stock market.
The world outside felt both suspicious and ordinary, leaving us suspended in a state of uncertainty.
After Black Water,the feeling of being watched lingered, clinging to me like a shadow. It made me glance over my shoulder whenever we stepped outside and strain my ears at every passing car. One time, during my second week in Duluth, someone used Nick’s driveway to make a U-turn. Nick wasn’t home, and I panicked. I grabbed a kitchen knife and hid in the closet, crying and praying they wouldn’t come for me. That’s how Nick found me, and it took a long time for me to calm down.
But over time, distance and our quiet routine began to envelop us like fog, softening my paranoia and distorting my memories into something dreamlike.
Part of me, the rational part, was wary of the influential people the Sheriff had hinted at, the ones who might come for us or for the grimoire Nick kept in his office. But beneath that lay a more profound, less logical fear: that the deity in the woods had been real, and it wasn’t finished with me yet. I worried it might still find a way back, or worse, that I’d brought some piece of it with me. Maybe I’d inhaled too much of its air, let it into my blood and bones. Perhaps I hadn’t walked away untouched.
It sounded ridiculous when said out loud, like something from one of those possession films I’d watched too many times, but the fear didn’t care about logic.
One night, after waking from a nightmare, I broke down. Through sobs, I told Nick that I was terrified I carried something from the woods inside me. I begged him to get rid of the grimoire, convinced it was drawing something to us and that nothing good would ever come from keeping it.
Nick didn’t mock or minimize. He pulled me into his arms and promised that I would be okay. That he’d never use the grimoire for summoning forest demons or causing any kind of havoc. He joked that if I ever started showing signs of possession, he’d haul me to church and dunk me in holy water without hesitation. I laughed through tears, and eventually the panic ebbed.
By morning, the anxiety seemed distant, the breakdown embarrassing in the way nightmares often are after the sun comes up. But when I apologized, Nick only shook his head and said he’d do whatever it took—even go to church every Sunday—if it made me feel safe.
He was more at ease in his own space, talking more, smiling more, and even cracking jokes.
During the day, while he worked—packaging and mailing orders, managing inventory, and maintaining the website—I explored the house’s dark rooms, creaky floors, hidden corners, and cozy nooks. Like a cautious cat in unfamiliar territory, I started by pacing through the indoors but eventually ventured outside, prowling the neighborhood streets and even making solo store runs.
I was still nervous about driving the van, afraid someone might recognize it, so I used Nick’s truck instead, hiding behind Minnesota plates and pretending to be local.
The Dodge sat quietly in the backyard, dented and frost-dusted, untouched since our arrival from Black Water. Winter had come early here, far harsher than I was used to, so I made a habit of starting the engine periodically to ensure it hadn’t given up entirely.
As I regained strength and could move without worrying about reopening wounds, I started cleaning and rearranging things. Nick didn’t mind. He said if nesting helped me feel better or more at home, I could do whatever I liked. While it didn’t necessarily make me feel at home, it gave me something to focus on, a way to occupy my jittery hands.
I avoided the old storefront, though. Partly because I didn’t want to interfere with the way Nick had arranged things in there, and partly because it reminded me too much of Mathilda and everything tangled up in that memory. The place made my stomach turn.
In December,we celebrated Nick’s birthday, just the two of us. Although he had friends in the area, he opted for a low-key night out. We went out for tacos, had a few margaritas, and ended up getting kicked out of a bar for making out a little too passionately. We laughed the whole way home.
Fridays became our quiet tradition. Nick handled the bookkeeping, and I kept him company. He’d build a fire, pour me a glass of wine or hard apple cider, and we’d settle by the fireplace. With his laptop open and balance sheets on his screen, he’d work while I chatted and flirted, pretending to distract him. I knew he liked it.
I tried going for runs, but January’s cold and wind quickly killed that motivation. Around the same time, I took on a part-time job at a community center, where I helped with senior events twice a week. I also volunteered to drop off Nick’s store orders at the post office, taking any excuse to get out and feel useful.
Sometimes, my mom would call.
At first, she was furious. She accused me of worrying her with a cryptic call and then disappearing. She tried her usual manipulation tactics, but they no longer had the desired effect. Surviving a deranged group masquerading as a witch coven led by my ex-boyfriend’s father had recalibrated my tolerance for emotional drama. My mother’s tricks no longer registered. I was done being led through the darkness by anyone else’s hand. I had to find my own way, free from guilt and emotional strings.
I tried to explain it gently, but she sulked for weeks, clearly hoping to provoke me. When I didn’t react, she eventually gave up. I think part of her was just relieved I’d left Minneapolis, where the whole Lucas mess had taken place, and was slowly accepting that she no longer had full control over my life.
I told her a carefully crafted story: that I’d planned to visit Lucas’s parents in West Virginia before coming home, but ended up having an emotional breakdown that made me realize I couldn’t go back to living with her.
She asked if I was on drugs. I reassured her I wasn’t.
I didn’t mention Nick. It felt too personal, too drastic an update to share over the phone. If things worked out, I decidedto ease her into it eventually. But she guessed anyway; she kept asking if I was with someone.
Maybe I owed her more of an explanation. But to give one, I’d have to lie more, and I didn’t want to do that. Over time, she started speaking to me with a little more respect, likely because I stood my ground with quiet resolve—something I should have done a long time ago.
