Page 81 of Into the Dark, We Go

A flicker of panic crossed Mitch’s face. "What? Why would you do that? What if the killer’s in the group? What were you thinking?"

My pride deflated instantly, replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Using my real name and account was reckless. I glanced at Nick sheepishly, but he avoided eye contact.

"There are thousands of people—" I trailed off, attempting to justify my actions. But it was too late. Once again, I tried to take the lead, but only made a fool of myself.

The sheets felt dampwith restlessness as I tossed again, unable to sleep. The rain had stopped earlier in the evening, giving way to a thick fog that pressed against the windows by midnight.

I scrolled through my phone, checking my dormant social media profiles, which I hadn’t updated in two years, as well as the news, sports, and politics. Too dull to read, but not dull enough to lull me to sleep.

My eyes drifted to the blue bag in the corner, the one June had packed. Resting on top was the book she’dborrowedfrom Mathilda’s store. I got up, grabbed it, and headed downstairs to make some tea.

The oversized T-shirt I wore barely covered my thighs, and the room felt colder than I’d expected; the fire in the hearth long since dwindled. Curled up on the couch with a mug in hand, I pulled a blanket from the backrest and opened the book—not to read, necessarily, but to flip through the pages until I felt sleepy enough to head to bed.

A single sentence leapt out at me, sending my heart racing, sleep forgotten. I set my tea aside and clutched the book like a life buoy.

"Growingup in these Appalachian hills, I heard many stories from my grandmother. This one she’d tell me every fall, when it was time for farmers to harvest their crops. She was nearing seventy but still worked tirelessly on her land, growing her own food. Ever since my grandfather’s passing, she’d managed alone, her resilience forged in the fire of hardship.

Every time the Harvest Moon was full, she’d sit on the porch, smoke curling from her pipe, and tell me a story about the Harvest Keeper. It had many names, an entity that ensured our land remained fertile and our crops thrived.

Some said it dated back to the early settlers, who learned from the Cherokee to honor the land’s dark spirits. Others claimed it was older still, a relic of forgotten civilizations.

"It’s a thing that lives in these woods," she’d say. "It wakes on Harvest Moon night, looking for its gifts."

It was said that if you left offerings—corn, cider, or else—the Harvest Keeper would bless your land. But beware: once it knew you had something to offer, it would return, year after year.

"Like bears," old-timers would say. "Once they know you’re feeding them, they won’t forget."

I never questioned Grandma’s tales of the Harvest Keeper, but as I grew older, I started to wonder. Would neglecting the gifts truly bring withered crops and ailing livestock? I’ll never know.

What I do remember is this: every year, right before the Harvest Moon, Grandma would mark a chicken with paint, a small, crimson shape on its feathers. She’d carry it deep into the woods, whispering prayers I couldn’t understand.

I don’t recall if the chicken ever came back."

I sat frozen.It all matched: the Harvest Moon, the disappearances. On paper, the tale seemed innocent enough, but in reality, it was a sinister blueprint. If someone was trying to bring ‘gifts’ to worship something in the woods, whether it was real or not, it was a motive. No one ever said motives had to make sense to everyone, just to those committing the crimes.

I got up, still clenching the book with both hands, headed to Nick’s room without a second thought, and knocked on the door. When there was no response, I waited a bit before knocking again, this time a little louder. I needed to talk to him, and I couldn’t wait until morning. Finally, the creak of a bed andthe rustle of sheets broke the silence. Footsteps followed. A few seconds later, he opened the door.

"Look at this," I said, turning the open book toward him without apologizing for waking him.

Nick looked like I’d roused him from a deep sleep—weary, disheveled, and vulnerable, his usual composure softened.

"Doesn’t it sound familiar?" I asked.

Nick’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the lines.

I rushed him, impatient. "What do you think?"

He paused before responding. "This might give us a general idea of what’s happening."

I nodded. "It’s just like you said. It must be in the woods. If we can pinpoint the location, we can find out who’s behind it and stop it."

"Nellie?"

"What?"

"This could also just be a legend."

"But the symbols, the Harvest Moon, the sacrifices? Doesn’t it all match?"