Page 38 of Into the Dark, We Go
"I hate drunks,"June muttered, disgust written all over her face. Her brother gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder.
We stood on Duane’s lawn, shaken but not ready to throw in the towel.
"What about those ‘trees with eyes’? You think it means anything?" Mitch asked June.
When they talked to each other, it sometimes felt like Nick and I weren’t even there.
"I’m more concerned about the symbols he had on the walls," Nick said.
"What symbols?" Mitch turned to him. "I thought those were just kids’ drawings."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
To me, they looked more deliberate than a child’s scribbles, and I regretted not taking pictures. But we were too distracted by Duane, especially once he started aiming at us.
"I can go back and snap some photos," I offered, ready to take the bullet—figuratively—if it helped us move forward in our search.
A curtain twitched in the neighbor’s window. The woman from before peered out, her eyes tracking us like we didn’t belong. Mitch noticed her too and hurried us toward the car.
"What’s the point? He’s dead drunk. We’ll come back when he’s sober and compare them to Amanda’s photo."
I nearly rolled my eyes. Mitch only cared about Amanda.
But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. There was no reason to go back now. With that, we loaded up and headed back to the downtown area.
"They were best friends with Lucas. Duane should know something," I said once we were on the road, leaning forward so Nick and Mitchell could hear me. "I’m still not sure how it relates to Amanda or Mary, though."
"And we should definitely look into these ‘trees with eyes,’" Nick agreed, making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror before focusing on the road again. "I want to know what it is."
"We should show him Lucas’s scribbles. Maybe this is what he meant? Maybe it’s the same thing?" I suggested.
"Uh, hello? How about you include everyone in the conversation?" June interrupted, sounding offended, even though she’d done the exact same thing not even ten minutes ago.
"Sorry, thought you were listening," I said, turning to her. "Do you have a suggestion?"
"Yes." June pointed to a two-story building. The sign read, "Arcane Blackwood: Tarot, Divination, & Mystical Arts," and the neon "Open" sign glowed invitingly. "How about we ask there? I mean, Nick’s mom was a psychic. Maybe they knew each other?" she said, as if sensing the group’s skepticism. "Or at least we could ask her about the symbol."
"That’s… not a bad idea," her brother admitted.
Nick obediently parked the car by the shop.
The doorbell chimed softlyas we entered. Mitchell sneezed, immediately enveloped by the intense scent of incense sticks, sage, and a medley of other aromatics. I pinched the base of my nose as I slipped around a standing amethyst geode.
The space was a treasure trove, overflowing with an assortment of esoteric relics: shelves, racks, and cabinets were packed to the brim with books, essential oils, herbs, magical texts, amulets, crystals, figurines, Tibetan bowls, and much more. Behind a screen, a table and two chairs faced each other, probably a nook for tarot readings and personal consultations. Soft, ambient music played in the background, enhancing the mystical ambiance. The setup felt almost too perfect, like a deliberate attempt to embody every witchcraft cliché—a façade rather than anything genuine.
The store owner was nowhere to be seen. We dispersed, each of us drawn to a different curiosity. June browsed books and figurines, while I went to the table where different-colored and sized stones were displayed in wooden boxes. I picked one up. A smooth, black orb quickly warmed in my palm. Mitch sneezed again somewhere on the other side of the store.
"Bless you!" a rich, velvety voice responded, and I almost jumped, turning to face the source of it.
My gaze immediately sank into her deep scooped neckline. Forcing my eyes upwards, I managed to take in the rest of her appearance. A woman in her late thirties to early forties, with a very feminine figure, was strapped into a tight black dress that reached her ankles. Her hair, dyed a vibrant red that made my natural color seem dull and insignificant, was curled and styledin loose, wavy locks. Though shorter than me, she wore high stilettos that made her appear my height.
When she stepped closer, warmth emanated from her, wrapping around me like a gentle hug. I pictured men entranced by her charm, longing to nuzzle their faces into her chest and absorb the intoxicating scent of her perfume.
"That’s black amber," the woman said, looking at the crystal in my hand. "A powerful protective stone. Great for amulets."
Her voice was hypnotic, a sultry melody that made me feel like I was under some kind of spell. I imagined lying my head on her shoulder, feeling her hand stroke my hair, and letting her lull me to sleep.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the distracting thoughts to fade, unsure of where they even came from.
