The Disappearance of Atticus Underwood (Part 2)

By Aster Brooks

Article from the week of October 28, 2025

The setting sun fills the room with amber light, and the trees outside cast long shadows across the ground. Night is falling, and the grounds of the Underwood Manor are slipping into darkness. Inside of the house, the three of us watch in silence as Ryder bangs on the sturdy wooden doors. Finally, Emerson speaks up.

“Hey, stop. Those doors are thick, there’s no way you’re going to be able to break them down. All you’re going to do is hurt yourself.”

Ryder turns, eyes narrowed in a glare. “Yeah? Well what do you think we should do, huh?” 

Of course he’s trying to start something. Back in school, Ryder was always in the middle of all of the drama. He’d fight with the other students, though he never seemed to get in trouble for it.

“We could call someone. You all have your phones, right?,” Emerson replies.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. It lights up, displaying a blank lock screen. At the top of the screen, small words convey a simple message. No service.

“I’m not getting reception. We’re on our own here.” I put my phone away. 

As the others take out their phones to check, Ryder turns to Emerson. “Well, any more genius ideas?” 

“Yes, actually.” They cross their arms.

Ryder opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Satisfied with his lack of answer, Emerson walks over to one of the bookshelves. After a moment of scanning the contents of the shelf, they pick up a heavy-looking statuette of a seabird. They toss it in the air a few times before throwing it full-force at the nearest window. There’s a loud crash, and the bird bounces back across the floor. A large, spiderweb-like crack has formed on the window, but there isn’t even any glass on the floor.

“Shatterproof,” Emerson remarks.

As they go to pick up the fallen bird, Ezra speaks up from behind us.

“I found something!”

He’s standing by one of the tables, holding up a piece of paper and a worn metal key. 

He begins to read the note out loud. “Hello, my esteemed guests. By now, you have probably realized the extent of your predicament, and it is likely that you have tried to escape. With enough effort, I know you will succeed. I would like to offer an alternative. The Underwood family line has ended. There’s nothing I can do to change that. What I can do is make sure my home and my fortune go to the right people. I believe that you are those people, but I need you to prove it to me. This key opens the room at the end of the upstairs hall. Pass the trials prepared for you, and you will be rewarded. Good luck. Sincerely, Atticus Underwood.”

“Atticus Underwood?” Emerson asks, looking puzzled.

“He was the recluse that used to live here. Went missing around a year ago,” I explain.

They nod in understanding. “Alright. Anyway, what’s the plan? Are we sticking around for these ‘trials’?” 

The Underwood family was wealthy. With their fortune, even if it’s split between the four of us, I could leave town. I could escape the butcher shop, and my father’s expectations. 

“I’m in,” I say.

“Alright, I’ll stay too. Sounds like fun” Emerson grins.

Ryder shrugs. “Ehh, why not.” 

Ezra casts one last look at the cracked window before speaking. “...okay, let’s find this door.”

The Disappearance of Atticus Underwood (Part 3)

By Aster Brooks

Article from the week of November 18, 2025

The door at the end of the upstairs hallway is plain, and the ancient-looking doorknob rattles as Ezra turns the key. I hear a click as it unlocks and swings open with a creak. The first thing I see is eyes. Dozens of them, glinting in the sunlight. I consider running for a split second before I realize what the eyes are attached to. Taxidermied animals rest on the room’s many shelves and countertops. The whole space looks like a lab of some kind, scattered with anatomical diagrams and specimens floating around in jars of formaldehyde. The largest animal, a wolf, stands on a table in the center of the room, glass eyes fixed on the empty wall across from it. The single window faces west, giving us a view of the sunset above the trees. There’s another door on the far side of the room.

Ryder pushes past Ezra, quickly crossing the cluttered room. He tries the door, but the handle doesn’t budge. 

He turns back to the rest of us. “There’s a lock, the kind with the numbers. What now? Should I try to force it?”

“No. I don’t think brute force is what Atticus wants. If I had to guess, this is a puzzle.” I walk over to inspect the lock. It’s a four-digit combination, though each slot has been marked with a dot of paint. Orange, grey, green, then brown.  

Emerson begins to search through the papers, while Ezra inspects the taxidermy. I walk over to one of the cabinets and start searching through it. Inside, there is just more dust, cobwebs, and jars. As I start to move the jars aside, Ezra taps me on the shoulder. I turn, and see him pointing at the wolf. The grey fur on its right side has been parted, revealing a small, circular hole lined with metal.

“What is it?” I ask.

Emerson looks up from the papers. “It looks like a spot for a key. I have a couple of old wind-up toys that I got from an estate sale a while back, and they have something like that.”

“A key…” I turn in a slow circle, taking in the room.

Ryder is standing awkwardly in the corner, while Emerson and Ezra both resume their searches. Suddenly, I see a glint out of the corner of my eye. It’s coming from one of the larger jars, one that contains a pale squid. Its tentacles are wrapped around an old-looking bronze key with a blunt, circular end. Carefully, I lift the jar off its shelf, watching the sallow thing bob around inside. I let the jar drop, slipping between my fingers and falling onto the floor. Broken glass scatters everywhere, and the contents of the jar spill across the floorboards. The smell of formaldehyde, like vinegar and burnt matches, fills the room. Sitting in the middle of the foul-smelling puddle, the squid looks even more lifeless than before. I take a rag from one of the countertops and use it to extract the key from the tangle of pale limbs.

“Gross,” Emerson remarks.

I insert the key into the slot, turning it until something inside of the taxidermy starts to move. The whirring of servos and gears breaks the silence of the room as the stuffed wolf starts to move. Its head jerks back and forth, jaw opening and closing in a twisted semblance of life. Finally, its gears grind to a halt, and a crumpled ball of paper drops from its mouth onto the table.

Ezra takes the paper and carefully unfolds it. “It’s a page from a book.” He shows me the paper. An illustration of black and white bird takes up roughly a third of the page, accompanied by information about its habitat, lifespan, and other facts. Four small holes are burned into the paper, and the words ‘Only in darkness, can light be a guide’ are scrawled across the intact part of the paper.

Light. Where can I find light? All of the lights in the room are off, probably because nobody has paid the electricity bill for a year. The only source of light is the window, and the sun beyond it. I smooth out the paper and bring it to the window. There, I notice something about the windowpane. Thin scratches disrupt the otherwise perfect glass, forming a rectangle about the size of the paper in my hands. I press the paper against the window, allowing the light to shine through the burned holes. The room darkens slightly, and small points of amber fall upon the opposite wall. Four glass eyes catch the light. 

Emerson peers into one of the illuminated eyes, a grey one that belongs to a disgruntled-looking bobcat. “There’s something scratched into it. It looks like… a four? Maybe?” 

The other eyes yield the same results. A two in the fiery orange eye of a woodpecker, a seven in the deep brown eye of a fox, and a nine carved into the green eye of a house cat. 

“The eye colors, they match up with the lock. Ryder, try the code two-four-nine-seven.” I turn to Ryder, who nods and twists the dials on the lock.

He presses the button on the side, and the lock clicks. The door is open, and the next trial awaits.

The Disappearance of Atticus Underwood (Part 4)

By Aster Brooks

Article from the week of December 16, 2025

The door opens inward into a larger, tall-ceilinged room. One side of the room is open to a balcony, while the other side is lined with bookshelves. The shelves are tall, fading into the darkness of the unlit ceiling. A sliding ladder rests on one side of the shelves, set on a track that spans the length of the shelves. There’s an ornate wooden desk in the center of the half-circle of bookshelves. Various tables occupy the space along the walls that are not already taken up by the shelves. The doors to the balcony are ajar, letting a gust of cold wind into the room. There are no other doors in the room and no clear indicator of what to do next.

Again, we split up to search different parts of the room. I slip out onto the balcony, and I’m immediately hit with the cold autumn breeze. The sun has set, and the first stars have appeared in the sky. Fallen pine needles crunch underfoot as I step out into the open air. In front of me, an old telescope points up at the stars above. A weathered wooden box sits below the telescope’s stand, alongside an equally battered chair. 

I crouch down and slide the box out from under the telescope. The latch squeaks as I flip it up and open the box. A leather bound book rests inside, untouched by the elements. I undo the tied strip of leather wrapped around the cover and open it. The pages are yellowed with age and packed tight with messy writing. Precise charts take up entire pages, the majority of them seeming to depict the night sky. They’re all labeled with dates and symbols, most of which I don’t recognise. 

As I’m flipping through the notebook, a piece of paper falls to the ground. I pick it up and look at it. It’s an old black-and-white photo of two children sitting side by side on a cliff above a lake. The label in the margins reads ‘Atticus & Franklin, summer 1962’. After one last look around the balcony, I take the photo and the journal and head back inside. Emerson is standing by the desk, flipping through a stack of papers. They look up, and I show them the photo. 

“I found these in the drawer of the desk.” They hold up the papers, which are all more photos. “There’s a few letters there, as well.” 

They hand me an envelope. The wax seal is broken, but the branching tree is still clearly visible. The paper inside is thick, and the letter itself is written in neat, orderly handwriting.

Dearest brother,

How are things at the manor? I hope that your research has been more fruitful than mine. We’ve encountered an unexpected snag with the acquisitions. I will not get into the details in this letter, as I don’t expect it to hinder the process much. Unfortunately, I will have to delay my return by at least another month. It is regrettable, but sadly unavoidable.

Regarding your last letter, I don’t think it is wise to bring another person into the manor. I understand that your research would benefit from an assistant, but secrecy is of the utmost importance, and I fear what may happen if we involve the wrong person. The risks of hiring an assistant greatly outweigh the benefits. I hope you take that into consideration.

Sincerely,

Franklin Underwood.

I look back at the photo in my other hand. The other boy, Franklin, must be Atticus’s brother. He’s been dead for forty years, so this has to be older. How long has Atticus kept this letter and record of his brother’s words frozen in paper?

The Disappearance of Atticus Underwood (Part 5)

By Aster Brooks

Article from the week of February 3, 2026

Emerson and I start to sift through the old photos. Meanwhile, Ryder searches through the mess on the tabletops and Ezra paces along the bookshelves, occasionally pulling out a dusty book and looking at the cover. The photos have dates anywhere from the sixties to the eighties. Almost all of them feature Atticus, Franklin, or both. One shows a young Atticus at a desk, pencil in hand, leaning over a piece of paper. Another shows both brothers standing proudly in front of some sort of metal contraption.

 In some of them there is a third person, a dark-haired boy whose name is never mentioned in the labels. In photos with all three, he always stands next to Atticus, a wide grin on his face. During Atticus’s teenage years, the boy is present in almost every photo. There's a mischievous glint always visible in his eyes, even through the grainy quality of the photos.

Just as we finish sorting through the photos, Ezra taps my shoulder.

“Look.” He points to a section of the bookshelf, about torso height off the ground. He’s pulled a book off the shelf, and under it there’s a small circle carved in the wood. A button, by the looks of it. 

I reach out and press the button. It sinks easily into the wood, and there’s a resounding click as hidden mechanisms start to shift behind the shelves. A five foot tall section of the shelf in front of us slides back before rotating one-hundred-and-eighty degrees and sliding back into place. On the other side of the shelf, a strange contraption rests on a cabinet built into the wooden back of the shelf. The contraption consists of a box, bolted down to the cabinet, with no visible handle, and a series of seven small metal rods attached to small globes of varying materials. The rods all protrude from the top of the box, where a series of concentric circles radiate out from the largest of the globes. 

“It’s a model of the solar system,” Emerson observes. “If I had to guess, this is the puzzle. We need to move all of the planets to the correct alignment, then the box unlocks.”

I pick up the journal from the desk where I left it and flip it open. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of charts in here, any one of them could be the answer. 

Ryder, having heard the shelf move, walks back over holding a book from one of the tables. He scans the array of photographs, passing the book from one hand to the other.

“Any luck?” I ask. 

“No,” He says, absentmindedly opening the book to the first page, “Nothing but–” He freezes, looking down at the book in his hand. 

The inside has been hollowed out, filled with another stack of photographs. I take the book and dump the photographs on an empty area of the desk and begin to sift through them. Emerson and Ryder join me, while Ezra goes back to his search of the bookshelves. 

Almost every single one of the photos is of Atticus and the other boy. In the woods, by the same lake as the first photo I found, in a workshop full of odd contraptions, always just the two of them. Slowly, we add these new photos to the timeline. Finally, I pick up the last photo. It shows the unnamed boy and Atticus, sitting side by side on the same balcony I was just on. The very same telescope stands next to them, looking much less battered, and what appears to be the very same leather-bound book lies next to Atticus. They have their backs turned to the camera, heads tilted slightly upward, watching the night sky above the trees. Its label simply reads ‘Stargazing. October fourth, 1970.’ I slip it into place on the timeline, and notice that after that, the boy never appears again. Whoever he was, he seems to have vanished from the life of the Underwood brothers after that day.