Days went by, and still waiting for word from Thelma. I drove to the farm, hoping to see my Uncle Jeb, but he wasn’t on the grounds. It was unusual for him not to be around. The gnawing tug in my gut grew stronger. But when Ralph, the most unobservant of men, failed to offer any insight, I knew it was up to me to uncover the truth.

Should I make the trip to their place or drop it? My instincts told me to go. I turned the ignition and headed north on Highway 17 towards Guyton. The twenty-five-minute drive gave me time to plan questions I needed answers to.

Their spread of land was vibrant and lush, dotted with towering pines and a well-manicured vegetable and herb garden. The house sat back from the gravel road, making the place feel secluded.

The high trees cast a green hue over the property. I saw the dwelling’s outline. Its exterior, made of wooden planks, gave it a rustic charm. The land spread out on acres, and I recognized a few herbs as I walked by the raised beds. This included lavender, rosemary, and basil. But the unmistakable appearance of Bella Donna, its deep purple flowers standing out among the other plants, puzzled me. Why would Thelma be cultivating poisonous flora?

In the distance, a few cats leisurely roamed the area, their black fur blending in with the trees’ shadows. One walked up and started rubbing its face on my bare leg.

“Hey there, little fella.” I stooped to scratch his head. To my surprise, the cat let out a yowl, hissed, extended its limb, and scratched my arm. My reaction didn’t fare well for the furry creature as my foot rose and swept it away from me. “Bastard,” I muttered under my breath. But he got the last laugh as he swiped his paw again at my leg.

“Fuckin asshole. Scat,” I yelled back at him. Blood seeped out from my wounds, and I took a tissue out of my purse to clean it up. I knocked on the door.

“Aunt Thelma? Uncle Jeb? It’s me, Savannah. Open up.”

Silence. Nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees.

I wandered leisurely stroll around the property, but I failed to find them anywhere. Uncle Jeb’s old Ford stood parked under a protective canopy, and it appeared it hadn’t been used in years. Dirt covered the windshield, and the arms lacked wipers. He drove this same vehicle on Aunt Rosie’s land. This was the same vehicle he always drove on the farm. As I continued my walk, I noticed one tire had deflated and rested flat on its rim. What happened here? When I returned to the front of the house, I saw two rocking chairs placed on either side of the door, coated in grime. But Uncle Jeb’s ashtray remained pristine.

Because I thought the entrance may be locked, I tried the doorknob. It turned. I stepped inside. The air felt heavy and damp. A musty smell of an abandoned house filled my nostrils, and a thick layer of dust covered every surface. My heart raced as I called out again, “Uncle Jeb? Thelma?” Silence greeted me in response.

I moved through the living room, noting the old photographs on the walls. They were pictures of happy times on the farm—Uncle Jeb holding a fishing rod, Thelma with a basket full of vegetables, and me riding one of their horses as a child. But something was off about these images. They seemed lifeless, almost as if they had been drained of color.

I entered the kitchen and found it clean. Not a single dish in the sink or crumb on the counter. This was not like Uncle Jeb and Thelma. They were always messy and loved cooking together. My unease grew as I continued to explore the house.

Upstairs, I came across their bedroom. Crisp white sheets adorned the bed, carefully made, but there were no signs of belongings. No clothes were in the closet, and toiletries were not in the bathroom. They had vanished.

My mind swirled with questions. Where could they be? Why did it seem like someone had been caring for their plants and cleaning their house? And where was Uncle Jeb’s ashtray from earlier?

I made my way to their study, hoping to find some answers. It was locked, but I knew where Uncle Jeb kept his spare key hidden—under a loose floorboard in the hallway. As I opened the door, my heart skipped a beat at what I saw inside.

Jars of herbs and foliage, some recognizable from their garden outside, filled the room. However, I also encountered botanical specimens I couldn’t identify, such as unfamiliar species with unusual names like mandrake, mugwort, Wolfsbane, White snakeroot, and hemlock. Uncle Jeb or Aunt Thelma were experimenting with different plants, but to what end?

I walked over to the nearest container and took a peek inside. To my shock, there were small bones and feathers mixed in with the parched leaves and roots. I hurried to the next jar, hoping to find something less disturbing.

But each one seemed to hold a more bizarre item than the last—dried snakeskin, ground-up insects, crushed mushrooms. It was like a witch’s cauldron in here.

I felt an icy shiver run down my spine as I continued exploring the room. There was a desk in the corner, covered in papers and books. Curiosity got the better of me, so I picked up a book. Its title read “The Dark Arts: A Beginner’s Guide.” My heart raced as I flipped through the pages, reading about spells and rituals that could be performed using the ingredients found in these jars.

My mind couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. Sweet Uncle Jeb, who taught me how to ride a bike and used to make me laugh with his silly jokes, was involved in this dark world. It made little sense.

I heard a noise coming from upstairs—footsteps creaking on old floorboards. My heart skipped a beat as I realized someone else was there. And they weren’t supposed to be.

I hid behind a worn armchair as the sounds of feet got louder and closer. They stopped right outside the room where I was hiding.

Holding my breath, I tried not to make any noise. The doorknob turned. It swung open with a loud creak. In the doorway stood a figure, a man, his face hidden in the hood of a long cloak. Unable to discern any features, I sensed the intensity of his gaze on me. My heart raced as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Who are you?” I squeaked out, my voice trembling.

The person didn’t respond. Instead, they stared at me, their head still covered. My fear mounted in the overwhelming silence. Right when I believed my limit had been reached, the individual spoke in a low and menacing tone. “What are you doing here?”

“I…I’m Savannah,” I stammered. “I’m just visiting my uncle and aunt.”

The cloaked man tilted slightly as if pondering my statement. Then he uttered again, his words dripping with suspicion. “No one has lived here for years.”

I gulped, unsure how to respond—had something happened to Uncle Jeb and Aunt Thelma? Were they ghosts? But then a different idea came to me—what if this wasn’t Uncle Jeb’s house?

“I-I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I must have gotten the wrong address.”

The figure didn’t move or say anything for a few moments before speaking again. “You have two choices: leave now and never come back, or stay and face the consequences.”

My heart pounded in my chest as I weighed my options. One part of me wanted to run away as fast as possible, but a different part was curious about this mysterious person and what they knew about Uncle Jeb and Aunt Thelma.

“I’ll stay,” I said, surprising myself with my bravery.

The figure turned and walked towards the back of the house. With shaky legs, I walked after him.

He led me through a narrow hallway, the cloak trailing behind them. We passed by several closed doors before stopping at one at the end of the hall. Opening the door, the person gestured for me to enter.

Dark and musty, the room only had one window, allowing in a sliver of light. Only an old wooden chair sat in the center. The figure motioned for me to sit down.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice still cold and intimidating. “Why are you here?”

I hesitated, unsure if I should reveal my true intentions. But then I remembered I had nothing to hide.

“I came to visit my uncle and aunt,” I replied honestly. “But when I got here, the house was abandoned.”

The cloaked man’s face remained unreadable as he listened to my explanation. He turned, walked over to the wall, and found a shelf full of books.

He grabbed a thick leather-bound book and flipped through it before pulling out an old photograph.

“Do you recognize this?” he asked, turning it towards me.

In the photo were two familiar faces—Uncle Jeb and Aunt Thelma. Except they looked much younger than when I last saw them.

“Yes,” I said, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

“Then you must be lying,” he said. “My family has lived on this land for generations, and we’ve never heard of any close kin named Jeb or Thelma.”

My heart sank as his words registered. Had Uncle Jeb been deceiving us all these years? Was he even related?

“I-I don’t understand,” I stammered. “They’re my relatives.”

The man laughed humorlessly, then spoke softy. “Your ‘family’ is not who you think they are, Savannah.”

I felt a sinking sensation in my chest. What did he mean by that? My whole life had been spent believing that Uncle Jeb and Aunt Thelma were my blood kin, and now this stranger was telling me they weren’t who they claimed to be.

“Who are they then?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“They are sorcerers,” he replied.

“Tell me something I haven’t heard before.” I retorted. “Our whole family is made up of witches and guardians.”

“I used the wrong term, then. Does Plate-eye ring a bell for you?”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

With a forward lean, his dark gaze bored into mine. “You should take my word for it, Savannah. I have seen it with my own eyes.”

Before I answered, a loud banging on the door was followed by an urgent voice calling out my name.

“Savannah! Are you in there?”

It was Aunt Thelma speaking. The hooded man stood, signaled me to stay, then disappeared. I sat frozen in my chair as Aunt Thelma burst into the area, with Uncle Jeb close behind her.

“Savannah!” she cried out in relief when she saw me sitting there unharmed.

“What are you doing here?” Uncle Jeb asked, his voice filled with concern as he rushed toward me. He embraced me with his arm, and I couldn’t help but experience a sense of comfort. Aunt Thelma joined in the embrace, tears streaming down her face.

I withdrew, becoming more confused. How could my aunt and uncle be plate-eye?

Editor: Lisa Mildon