Into the Dark, We Go (The Dark Codex #1)

Chapter One

"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."

"Think about it?" Her disapproving tone seeped through the phone like a cold mist. "You’ve been waiting around long enough, don’t you think?"

"Mom, I have a job. I pay my bills. I’m not waiting around."

"It’s your life, but I can’t watch you squander your potential. You’re so smart, and it’s going to waste."

"Mom!" My voice betrayed me with a childish whine. She had a way of making me feel like a scolded seven-year-old again. "I have to go. My shift starts in half an hour."

"I always knew that boy was trouble," she continued against my protests. "Now look at yourself! Waiting for him to show up, getting yourself in trouble."

"Mom, stop. Please."

"You’re just wasting your life, waiting for someone who’s clearly not worth it."

The familiar knot in my stomach tightened.

"I’m not waiting for anyone."

"If you think you’re respecting his memory by putting your life on hold, you’re wrong."

My mom had a knack for recycling the same guilt trips, and somehow, it worked every time.

We exchanged terse goodbyes, and I hung up, feeling utterly depleted.

A photo of Lucas and me at the stadium after a game was still my phone’s wallpaper: his face flushed with victory, his sweat-drenched jersey clinging to his broad shoulders as he leaned in to kiss me, the wind blowing my red hair against him. I loved us like that.

Lucas had lived and breathed football, and his dream of going pro right out of college consumed him. He had wanted it more than anything in life.

Now, the team had a new receiver, and I hadn’t brought myself to follow football since, nor could I muster the courage to change the photo yet.

It was early September in Minneapolis, but summer showed no signs of giving up.

The heat was relentless. Even in the mornings, it was so warm that I wore jeans and T-shirts, adding a light shirt on top.

The first few months after Lucas’s disappearance, when it became clear he wasn’t coming back, and it wasn’t a stupid prank, I wore his hoodie everywhere.

I left the rest of his things untouched in his gym bag, trying to preserve his scent.

The "North Point" cafe was a short walk from my house, across the river over a pedestrian bridge and to the left towards the North Loop, where the sun spilt like an egg yolk over the water.

It was the one place I felt at ease, and I hated myself for admitting it, but it was because Lucas and I never visited together.

There were no memories of him—of us—pressed against the old oak walls, stealing kisses and daring touches.

No secret moments in a shaded leather booth, laughing over a cold brew.

It was a blank canvas. Something of my own, a job, and nothing more.

For four mornings and two evenings a week, I could forget.

Two more nights a week, I worked as a waitress at a pub.

The tips were good, and the place wasn’t popular among students.

However, there were times when I did get recognized.

I could sense it right away. That gaze was unmistakable.

At first, they would stare at me, then excitedly talk to each other, occasionally glancing in my direction.

Bingo! You’ve hit the jackpot. You’ve found the best bar in town where they serve an amazing Jucy Lucy, and your waitress is the one who supposedly committed the perfect murder and got away with it.

Let’s talk about how they never found the body.

Just don’t stare too much, and be sure to leave a good tip, or she might finish you off, too!

September, 2018

The stadium was filled with the scent of fresh turf and buttery popcorn.

The aroma clung to me as I weaved through the throng of eager fans, the air heavy with a brewing storm.

Or maybe it was just my nerves. I’d been jittery all evening.

The scoreboard flickered, flashing with a frenetic red glow before darkening again.

"Have you seen Lucas?" I asked a stocky defensive lineman from the team. He either didn’t hear me or deliberately ignored me, still deep in conversation with two girls who barely looked of age. They giggled and tossed their hair as he leaned down to laugh with them.

"Jonas!" I snapped my fingers, and his bulk turned to me. He waved in a general direction, and I followed his lead, pushing my way through clusters of jerseys and painted faces.

It had been nearly a week since our fight, and I hadn’t seen him since.

Someone told me he’d gone to visit his family in Black Water, which seemed strange, given that the semester had just started.

But in that time, I had ample opportunity to reflect on our relationship.

I missed him deeply and wanted him back.

I could have waited until the game was over to catch up, but it felt necessary to talk to him sooner. My anxiety was eating away at me, and giving it more time felt like I’d lose him forever.