PROLOGUE
Growing up in a mystical town, you hear all kinds of strange tales. When I was young, there was no greater adventure than going camping with my Forest Girls group. Camping was a way to practice our survival skills while having fun away from home. However, the most fun were the s’mores and scary stories by the campfire. One after another, everyone told a story, some better than others, but all were a little scary. The best story of all was told by our leader, one that was told around campfires when she was young. The teller always swore it was true.
There are mystic Ancients who are called the Guardians of the Forest and possess many abilities. All of them work for good to protect the inhabitants and the integrity of the forest. An ailing ancient was growing weaker each day, when a black witch named Nyxara appeared and convinced the ancient she was there to help until her replacement appeared. As the ancient grew weaker and saw no signs of her replacement, she agreed to transfer her powers to Nyxara to hold until the replacement arrived.
Nyxara harbored a black spirit, fueled by jealousy, hatred, thirst for power and revenge. Obtaining the Ancient’s power to grant wishes and demand innocent souls in repayment was the witch’s goal. Fortunately for the Ancient, Nyxara revealed more of her plan than she thought. The Ancient still held some powers of second sight, and she saw her replacement tied up in a cave.
The evil witch Nyxara had tricked her, and now she held the power to trade wishes for souls. Draining all the energy from the souls and condemning them to whisper forever in the night. Some of the whispering souls found the Ancient’s replacement in the cave and released her. The dying Ancient used her last shred of energy to manifest a message. Across the wall of the cave appeared ‘LOOK FOR NANYE-HI.’ To this day, no one has discovered what it meant. If you venture too far into the dark forest, and you hear the whispering souls begging to be freed from their torment. Run, or they may add you to their number.
CHAPTER 1: THE PICTURE
That’s strange. On the corner of an ancient picture, I see translucent images of babies and gentlemen in top hats within the boughs of the trees. Not able to see the entire photo, I stand on my tiptoes pushing hats, old purses and boxes to the side. As I stretch, one foot slips off the ladder’s rung and I grab the shelf to steady myself. Suddenly, I feel a gust of wind and a soft whisper wafts into my ears, ‘The time is near… the teacher will soon appear.’ Repositioning myself, I look around and see nothing, but I’m sure I felt that breeze brush by my chestnut brown hair, pulled back in my usual French braid. Right now, I need to finagle that old photo out from under the junk without tearing it.
My name is Lorali Blak, Elm Thwaite’s Head Librarian and Historical Collections Curator. Charged with being the guardian of knowledge and history, I often find myself at the intersection of the mundane and the mystical. I’ve been in pursuit of information about the family that built this ancient house. Finally succeeding in retrieving that photo, I’m delighted though the thing is covered with dust and cobwebs. Still in one piece, though.
The battered photograph captures the old house I am currently searching through, showcasing it in its prime. At the heart of the image stands a grand, white antebellum house, its pre-Civil War elegance radiating from every detail. A man and woman stand asymmetrically in front of this stately home. The woman cradles a swaddled baby in her arms, a picture of what should be pure joy.
She has a magnificent house, a handsome man by her side, and a newborn in her embrace. Yet, her expression betrays her circumstances. Her eyes, distant and tinged with melancholy, seem to peer beyond the photograph’s borders, carrying a silent plea that reverberates through time. The man’s rigid posture starkly contrasts with the opulence surrounding him, adding to the enigmatic aura of the scene.
The picture has a superficial look that captures a moment of complex appearances, a silent cry of untold stories that lie beneath the surface, just waiting to be discovered. As I look at the curled old photo, I feel a sudden connection with these people, one that transcends the boundaries of time. Suddenly, a shudder goes through me as a bolt of lightning crosses the sky to a background of crashing thunder. It sounds like I’m in the midst of a bad storm, yet the absence of clouds and rain bewilders me. And then I hear again, ‘The time is near… the teacher will appear.’
My family is deeply rooted in the mountains of Georgia. At a young age, I heard many of the superstitions and folklore of witchcraft and American Indian medicines and rituals. Stories told around the campfires at night engendered a compulsion to research and validate or disprove the tales. Mind you, I’ve seen supernatural occurrences and accept the phenomena as real.
Bringing my attention back to the picture, I look past the couple. There is a forest, much like the one surrounding the house today. Within the boughs of the trees are translucent images of babies, gentlemen, women, and children. Even more are peeking out from around the gnarled trunk of the tree. Behind the silhouettes of the crooked branches and curled leaves, phantom figures emerge. Some are just faces embedded in the bark of a fallen branch, while others perch on limbs; their eyes bearing witness to forgotten tales. And time leaves no mark except the emptiness etched upon their faces.
My thoughts run amok. This is bizarre! Can this picture be real? Who are these people? Deep in my soul, I know there is something wrong with this house and the people who lived here. I will never get a good night’s sleep until I learn more. Someone in our small town of Elm Thwaite must have information about this house and the people in the trees. And just maybe they can tell me about the saying I keep hearing. It makes little sense to me, and I feel an icy chill each time I hear it.
Elm Thwaite is located along the border of Georgia and North Carolina in the outlying areas near the Cherokee Native American Reservation. It is far enough away not to be inundated by tourists and commercialism, but still has a large Native American population.
***
Awakening after a fitful night’s sleep, I try to bring myself out of the funk clouding my thoughts. A shower and tea prepares me to form a plan for the day.
Deciding to visit the courthouse and search through the deeds and wills, I hunt the names of the couple in the picture. In the courthouse, a fireproof vault houses the files. There are shelves filled with large, heavy-bound books containing remnants of an older world. People are scattered about, heads bowed over books, writing furiously. Lawyers are researching deeds and genealogists are tracing great-grandma’s lineage.
After an hour, I’m on the trail of the original owners. In the picture are Ernest and Lillian Blackthorn with baby Ellen in Lillian’s arms. They had bought the land in July 1850. Soon after, they commissioned the construction of the house. Attached to the probate document are receipts from the construction. I assume it is documentation used by the tax commissioner to make an assessment. Returning the book to its place on the shelf, I feel the now familiar rush of air, and there it is again, ‘The time is near… the teacher will soon appear.’ I must be getting used to this phenomenon because it barely startles me.
With this new information, I move on to the period newspapers and locate an interesting article about a gardener who disappeared from the home where he worked, the very one I’m investigating. His friends called him Blackie, although his name was Boris Black. I think it was no coincidence that the people he worked for were the Blackthorns.
This looks more and more like a mystery that involves magic. We have a white witch living here in town, and I believe my next move is to give her a visit.
# Chapters 2 and 3 coming soon
