Page 40 of Into the Dark, We Go

Mathilda gently plucked the charred remains of the incense stick from the holder and replaced it with a new one. She struck a match and held it to the end of the stick until it caught flame. Then, she softly blew on it, her pursed, glossy red lips forming a little "O". The flame subsided, allowing the end of the stick to glow orange, and finally, scented smoke wafted up.

"Sweetheart, I have an excellent memory. In my profession," she made another grand gesture, sweeping her arm across the store behind her, leaving ambiguous whether she meant running a business or practicing witchcraft, "it’s a necessity. And if you like, I can even find the receipt."

The brief pause that followed was my opportunity. I couldn’t afford to miss it. I stepped closer to her, handing over my phone with photos of Lucas.

"And what about him?"

She began scrolling through photos, pausing at images of him in his football uniform, and snapshots of us smiling at the camera after a match.

"Definitely seen him before. A good-looking boy. He came in here with a friend and bought a rabbit’s foot for good luck," she said, smiling and rolling her eyes to the ceiling, as if condemning his naivety. "Is he local?"

"Yes. Who was his friend?"

She looked at me with a sad smile and shook her head. "Sorry, dear. That’s all I can tell you. He showed interest in occult literature, asked questions, but that’s about it. What happened to him?"

"He went missing two years ago. We can’t find him."

"The Whitmans’ son?"

"Yes. Do you know them?" I asked, hopeful.

"Of course. It was a huge case, what with their son disappearin’ and all. The Whitmans own the sawmill, and some of the folks from town work for ‘em. When their boy vanished, the whole town was turned upside down. But it didn’t happen here, did it?"

"No. He disappeared in Minnesota," I confirmed.

"That’s right," she clicked her tongue, "Now I remember."

"Did she mention where she was headed?" Mitchell interrupted, steering the conversation back on track. I suppressed a sigh.

The store owner pondered for a moment, straightening out the figurines that June’s hand had misplaced. "She asked me about the old cemetery," Mathilda said finally.

"Cemetery?" June looked up as though she’d been summoned by name.

"Our old settlers are buried there, God rest them. And there’s this tale going ‘round about some witch graves hiding in those woods, but honest to goodness, nobody can say for sure which ones are the real McCoy."

"Why would Amanda be interested in the old cemetery? What’s up there?" Mitch asked, brow furrowed.

"Maybe she was fixing’ to leave an offerin’ for the witches," Mathilda said.

We all stared at the woman, trying to absorb her words. I was still processing what she had just said.An offering for the witches.

She continued, "In exchange for somethin’. People do that. You just have to find a witch’s grave, leave what you’re offering there, and make a wish. Tourists eat that stuff up. Locals too. And some of ‘em, bless their hearts, think they might just dig out the grimoire."

"What?" June said, blinking, mouth agape.

"Do you know the town’s story? Some believe the grimoire was buried with one of the witches."

"Why would they need it?" I asked, startled that someone would indulge in grave robbery over a local legend.

The woman lifted her chin. "Power. The kind people would do anythin’ for. The witches used it for generations. It’s said to hold all the secrets of the universe. And that it drives people insane."

I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or joking. June and Mitchell exchanged skeptical glances.

"I’m having a hard time picturing Amanda doing something like that," Mitchell said, his voice doubtful as he looked to June for agreement. She nodded without hesitation.

"Yeah, she wasn’t into this voodoo stuff."

"This ain’t voodoo, sweetheart," Mathilda responded. "Sometimes, the closer we are to people, the less we truly know them. Blood ties don’t preclude secrets."