Chapter Twenty-Five
"I’m still trying to wrap my head around it." Mitchell, like the rest of us, was struggling to put the pieces together. "So you think it’s some kind of cult or something?"
"Possibly," Nick said half-heartedly, his attention riveted to the laptop screen.
We’d gathered in the living room after dinner, wide awake despite the late hour, thanks to Mitch’s insistence on a group discussion. June lolled on the couch, her elbow digging into the armrest, her head resting in her hand. I sat opposite her, mirroring her pose, my eyelids heavy with fatigue.
"And they’re out there worshipping something in the woods?" Her brother paced the room.
Nick grunted a brief, "I guess", still deeply engrossed in his reading.
Mitchell halted in his tracks. "And what’s with the blood? Is this some kinda twisted self-hypnosis deal?"
"Maybe it’s magic," June said behind a yawn.
Nick shot her a disapproving look over the rim of his laptop.
Mitchell, ever the skeptic, rubbed the back of his neck. His years of military service had occasionally brought him into contact with weird stories. Still, as he said himself, he had never encountered anything that couldn’t be explained by logic and reason.
"Let’s think about it," he suggested, "If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck."
"So?" June said with a heavy sigh. "What kind of fucked up duck is that?"
That was a good question—one I’d been asking myself, too. What would drive people to vanish, make blood rituals effective, and inspire that kind of terror?
"If that’s just a cult," I asked, "why was the Reverend scared of the symbol?"
"He wasn’t scared of the symbol." Nick closed his laptop, either not finding what he was looking for or giving up altogether. "He was scared of what’s behind it."
Mitchell chuckled. "Like what? A demon or something?"
Nick got up without a word, and at first, I thought he was leaving the conversation, fed up with Mitchell’s skepticism. But he returned, napkin and pen in hand. He clicked the pen a few times, then drew two perpendicular lines on the crumpled square of paper.
We all watched, holding our collective breath, as if Nick had taken it upon himself to perform magic tricks to convince us.
He held the drawing up and asked, "What do you see?"
June scrutinized the piece. "It’s just a cross," she replied dismissively.
"And what does it mean to you?"
The girl shrugged. "I dunno... Jesus?"
"God?" I added.
"We see a symbol and we give it meaning," Nick pointed at the cross on his paper. "Or we have an idea and we give it a form. And then it shapes our thoughts further, gathers power as more people believe it, protect it, kill for it, even."
June was fidgeting uncomfortably.
"Are you talking about crusades?" I asked.
"That’s one example," Nick put the paper back on the table. "Symbols help channel belief. Focus intent. If enough people believe in the power of a sigil, it becomes something more."
"It’s just a drawing," June winced.
"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?"
"This occult 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 do you believe 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 the eye, 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 bell hung 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 and moving.
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.
Later, I woke to a strange, lingering anxiety and lay still, straining to pinpoint its source. Gradually, it dawned on me: the absence of sound. The night was eerily quiet. I couldn’t recall if previous nights had been so still.
The small porch light cast a faint glow through my window, but it barely pierced the darkness that enveloped the world. I got up and headed out. Sitting on the stairs, I peered into the void, daring the night to show its true face.
The cabin door creaked behind me. It wasn’t Nick.
"I saw you from my window," June said, settling beside me on the stairs. She was wrapped in a Halloween-themed hoodie, cheeks puffy with sleep.
"Yeah, couldn’t sleep," I replied softly.
We sat in silence until she spoke up.
"I just can’t believe Amanda came here of her own free will. Do you think she was tricked or something?"
I shrugged.
"And Lucas? Did he ever mention anything special about this town?"
"Nope."
Lucas had told me many scary stories about Appalachia, but they were just folklore, local legends, and spooky tales meant to thrill children. Yet, he kept secrets—his lies about his whereabouts, his sudden visit to Black Water right before his disappearance.
"It’s so quiet here," June murmured, almost to herself. "Spooky. Reminds me of home."
I listened, hesitant to interrupt her.
"It always seemed quieter before he lashed out at us," she continued, "Like, it was in the air. Quiet and dangerous."
"Your father?" I ventured.
June nodded. "He did something bad to Amanda. We all knew. Mom knew. And no one did anything about it."
I waited for her to elaborate, but she remained silent. And then, the pieces fell into place. The abuse, the support group, the isolation, and Amanda’s estrangement.
June’s voice dropped to a whisper. "And then he killed Mom, too."
I didn’t know what to say, so I acted on instinct, reaching out to hold her tight. For once, she didn’t resist.
It seemed like Amanda had quite a few secrets of her own, something she never talked to her siblings about.