Page 1 of Into the Dark, We Go

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Chapter One

May, 2017

"Are you scared?"he asked.

I’d gone camping with my parents a couple of times as a kid during our trips to Florida, but we always stayed on campgrounds with other tourists. Even though the grass was slick and spotted with pits deep enough to swallow me whole, and my mother had warned me about alligators, I wasn’t scared. I knew I was safe.

But now, alone with only darkness surrounding us, every sound made me flinch.

I stiffened by the embers of our dying fire. Ghostly fingers walked up my spine and brushed my lips. I felt like I was being watched. I wasn’t sure what I feared—some kind of Blair Witch presence hungry for blood or a human lurking in the trees, watching and waiting for us to fall asleep in our flimsy tent.

We smoked a joint, and Lucas laughed while I grew increasingly paranoid, constantly listening for footsteps and cracking twigs.

He tried to distract me. "Look at the stars, Nell," he’d say, raising his face towards the dark abyss above us. "Amazing, right? It’s like the sky is breathing."

But all I could see were the looming trees, monstrous giants with bare branches clawing for their next feast.

He told me stories of camping with his buddies back home, always emphasizing that rule number one in Appalachia was to stay out of the woods at night. When I asked him why he’d ventured in, he claimed he wasn’t scared of anything in life and that fearlessness was its own kind of protection. But I was terrified, praying for dawn to come. Yet, the darkness only deepened.

Eventually, it was time to retreat to the tent. Lucas quickly fell asleep, but I lay awake, panicked, as the woods stirred with sharp cracks and tinny echoes and howls that shook the roots beneath us. I listened intently, rigid and ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

That was the only time I’d gone camping with Lucas.

September, 2020

My phone buzzed,interrupting the bleakness of my morning routine. The caller’s ID showed a Missouri area code, so I declined and blocked the contact. The constant barrage of unwanted calls and messages had numbed me—usually spam or, worse, journalists and podcasters seeking to dredge up memories of Lucas. Some had even tried their luck for a confession, picking over my wilted heart like swollen maggots.

Yet, I never bothered to change my number. At first, I held onto the hope that Lucas might try to reach out from wherever he was, but as time passed, that hope faded. The unwanted calls,and even those from friends who were avoiding me, became fewer and farther between.

I couldn’t blame them. In one of my psychology lectures, our professor shared a theory that people are more likely to believe the worst about others. "It’s a means of self-preservation," he said. "If you suspect someone close to you is capable of something terrible, like murder, wouldn’t you instinctively try to protect yourself by keeping a safe distance, even without concrete evidence?"

I never imagined that, of all the psychological theories, I’d have to implement this one in my life.

Just as I declined one call, another came in.

"How’s the packing going?" My mother didn’t bother with small talk, always getting straight to the point.

"It’s going, Mom." I sighed and activated the loudspeaker, knowing she’d keep pushing until she got the answers she coveted.

"Everything okay with the landlord? You’re arriving on Saturday, right?"

"Yeah, I’ll be there next Saturday evening or Sunday afternoon at the latest."

"I’ll get your room ready."

"Thanks, Mom. Just leave everything as it is, okay?"

I knew it was a lost cause, but I tried anyway. My mom couldn’t resist the urge to control everything. She was very particular about her tastes. If something was not to her liking, the experience of everyone involved became miserable. I recalled one Thanksgiving when I’d presented her with a handprint turkey garland we’d crafted in kindergarten. I thought she’d hang it above the dining table—pride of place. But while Dad and the guests praised my masterpiece, Mom removed it from sight, saying it was too whimsical for her elegant decor.

"For goodness’ sake. This is meant to be a party, not a museum exhibit." Dad retrieved my art from the spare room, untangling the stringy mess Mom had made. He was loud enough for the guests to grow uneasy, but they tried to laugh it off as he re-hung the bobbing turkeys and patted my head. "There. What do you think, Nell?"

I nodded, nestling into his palm to avoid Mom’s cold stare. She was sour throughout the evening.

"Now, about that job at the hospital," she continued, "I can put in a good word for you in the finance department."

I counted to five before responding, trying to remain calm. "Thanks. I’ll think about it when I get back."