Page 91 of Into the Dark, We Go

"You’re right. And yet, it holds immense power because people believe in it. It represents something greater than itself. Faith, hope, salvation. But also, the Crusades, the Inquisition, the witch hunts—all carried out under the banner of this symbol." Nick tapped the napkin for emphasis.

Mitchell shot a careful look at June before speaking. "It’s not the symbol itself that’s the problem, it’s the people wielding it, right?"

Nick snapped his fingers. "Bingo. People give it power. They believe in it and invest energy in it. But it’s just an intermediary. It absorbs this energy and gives it to whoever’s behind it."

Mitch rubbed his chin, still skeptical. "I see your point, but?—"

Nick cut in, "Think about it: a cross, a swastika, even the golden arches of McDonald’s, or any famous brand logo. Aren’t they sigils? People invest in them with meaning because they believe in what they represent. They hold power because we give it to them."

"I don’t get it." June shook her head. "Are we looking for, like, a demon or a person of flesh and blood?"

"It’s just some voodoo crap to scare us off. We’re dealing with a person, and we will find him." Mitchell said.

"Or her," his sister interjected. "Women can be killers, too."

"Well, they—he or she—are not a serial killer. They have a plan, a ritual, a tradition. Instructions they follow." Nick said.

I snapped out of my trance, realizing I’d been staring blankly at the napkin without blinking.

June frowned. "So we’re supposed to just buy into all this occult crap now?"

"Thisoccult crap, as you call it, has cost many people, including your sister, their lives," Nick said in a patronizing tone. "In occultism, there’s the concept of the egregore, a collective thought or shared belief that brings something into being. So?—"

"Oh, and you’re suddenly an expert?" Mitchell scoffed.

"Didn’t you tell us to do our research on it?" Nick snapped, his patience wavering.

"I didn’t think you’d actually fall for that crap!"

"What doyoubelieve in, Mitch?" Nick asked, voice as cold as a tomb. "You think you can take them down with a gun and some tough talk? Risk everyone’s life, including June’s, just to prove a point?"

June stepped in, cutting off the brewing argument. "What do you think is going on there?" She turned the question on her brother, giving him a chance not just to tear apart Nick’s theory but to offer one of his own. It was unexpectedly mature of her.

Mitchell let out a sigh. "I think it’s a bunch of crazy serial killers. Like a cult or something, like you said. But I don’t buy into all this voodoo crap. Someone, maybe even that so-called witch, is trying to make us believe it’s magic. But it’s not."

Nick slowly shook his head.

Mitch reddened with frustration. "So how’s this magic stuff supposed to work?"

"These people aren’t crazy," Nick said calmly, "They have an agenda. They’re too organized for this to be random. The question is—what’s their endgame? If this is all real, and if that book June grabbed actually means more than meets theeye, then maybe they’re getting something in return for these sacrifices."

Mitchell’s jaw clenched and unclenched as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. June and I held our breath, bracing for an outburst. But then, something seemed to click. His face smoothed out, his breathing slowed, and he scratched the back of his head in a deliberate gesture.

"Alright, that’s enough guesswork for tonight," he said. "Let’s just go to bed and regroup in the morning."

He grabbed his backpack and hastily exited the room, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

As June quietly followed her brother, I turned to Nick. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Just need to rest."

I nodded, taking the hint, and headed to my room.

The world seemed to have slipped out of alignment. The image of Nick’s blade slicing into his arm, the blood welling up like a dark flower, and the way he smeared it onto the symbol with an unnerving calmness. Did Nick genuinely believe in all these supernatural things?

And what about me? What did I believe in? Growing up without religion, I’d never felt the need to define my own beliefs. Lucas’s superstitions and trinkets had seemed like harmless quirks, but now I realized I’d never examined my own convictions. What did I truly stand for, or did I default to the beliefs of others, a mirror reflecting the views of those I gravitated toward?

A wind-chime-like bellhung from a tree branch by the cabin, its frantic song shuddering through the night like a banshee’s cry. The rain had swelled into a raging storm, branches cracking and snapping as the darkness itself seemed to be shifting andmoving. I counted the seconds until the window would shatter and something unholy would crawl through. But in the end, exhaustion claimed me before anything else could.