Everyone knows that Atticus Underwood was a recluse. He had no friends, no family, and he never married, either. He was an enigma–more myth than man–and the last of the Underwoods, alone since his brother died forty years ago. He locked himself in the Underwood manor and fired all of the household staff. Some said that he was trying to find a way to bring his dead family back, while others suggested that maybe Atticus himself had died. Though, if he was dead, whose silhouette could be seen through the lighted manor windows at night? Who was paying the groundskeepers?

All of the rumors were halted when, a year ago, Atticus Underwood vanished without a trace. At night, the manor remained dark and lifeless. The only thing he left behind was a message, carved into the wood of the locked front doors. 

Don’t look for me.

Nobody has seen him since. Everyone had their theories, and rumors spread faster than ever. In the past year, there has been no trace of Atticus, until I received the letter. The envelope was thick, with my name written across the back. It even had a wax seal, bearing the branching tree of the Underwoods. I wiped my hands on the front of my shirt, trying to clean off the blood from my shift at the butcher’s shop. Inside, a simple message was written in dark blue ink. 

Foyer of the Underwood Manor, 5:00 PM

In the absence of groundskeepers, the land past the wrought iron gates of the manor has become wild and overgrown. One half of the gates has been left slightly ajar, and creaks mournfully as I push past it. The house looms, its dark windows looking like the empty eye sockets of a skull. Tendrils of ivy scale the walls of the building, ever reaching for the sun above. Just like the gates, the large double doors are cracked open, and I can hear voices from within.

As I creep closer, heart racing, I’m able to make out more of their conversation. There are two of them, and they’re arguing. One voice is much louder, making it hard to hear the other. Finally, as I’m scaling the steps of the old wooden porch, I, unfortunately, recognize the louder voice. I sigh, and push open the door. Both of the voices stop immediately, and I take in the scene.

The foyer is large, decorated with ornate furniture and all manner of curiosities. I can imagine how grand it used to look, but now everything is covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. Sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating the swirling dust kicked up by the two people in front of me. 

The one with the loud voice is Ryder Evans, former football player. He was popular back in school, just like all the other team members. After the others moved away for college, he started working as a cashier for the grocery store. Unfortunately, being yelled at by angry customers has done nothing to quell his ego.

Standing in front of him is Ezra Jacobs. Most of the older folks in town hate him. Words like ‘witch’ and ‘devil-worshipper’ get thrown around a lot, but I think he’s pretty cool. He comes into the butcher shop sometimes to buy bones. Last time, he offered to do a tarot reading for me. He might just be the closest thing I have to a friend in this town.

As I enter the room, they both look over at me.

“Juniper?” Ezra asks, eyes widening.

“Did you send these? How did you get my address?” Ryder holds up an envelope, identical to the one I received. Ezra does the same.

I’m about to reply when I hear a noise behind me. I spin around to see someone else coming up the front steps. They raise a hand in greeting as they notice me in the doorway.

“Is this the Underwood manor?” The stranger holds up another envelope. “I just kind of assumed this was talking about the spooky old house in the woods.”

“Yeah, you’re in the right place. Come in.” I step aside to let them pass.

“So, is this a normal occurrence or…? Sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Emerson. I just got here a few weeks ago.” They hold out a hand, and I shake it.

“Nice to meet you. Now, does anybody know who–” Ezra is cut off as the doors swing closed with a loud bang.

Ryder runs to the doors, shoving Emerson aside in the process. As he tries to open them, his face pales. The handles won’t move. The doors of Underwood manor are, once again, locked.