The sun painted the horizon gold as I navigated the winding country road, wheat fields blurring into the morning light. My hands gripped the walnut steering wheel, the cool pilot watch against my wrist a quiet reminder of the journey ahead. The farm’s title was ours now, the keys under the mat—a quaint trust that felt like a dare. In the backseat, my daughters slept with Waffles nestled between them, the V8’s hum lulling them—but not me.


I hadn’t slept properly since opening the trunk. The journals haunted me, their sketches of ships and symbols blurring with the wheat fields. That cross within a circle burned in my mind, its lines twisting like a map to something I wasn’t ready to face. The cellar’s stone wall flashed in my mind—too smooth, too new compared to the farmhouse’s decay, like it hid something. The attorney assured me no livestock needed care, but his words left room for mystery—what else waited in those barns? Each mile pulled me closer to that stone wall, its stone surface hiding secrets the journals whispered but wouldn’t reveal.”

Growing up, I spent school breaks on the farm located in Beaufort, North Carolina, immersed in Beaufort’s pirate lore. Tales of Blackbeard, who roamed these waters, captivated me—especially the grounding of Queen Anne’s Revenge near Beaufort Inlet in 1718. The shipwreck’s discovery in 1996 made those legends real.


Beaufort, one of the oldest towns in America, was founded in 1709 on North Carolina’s southern coast. Its proximity to the Atlantic Ocean established it as a vital port, shaping its cultural and economic identity over centuries. The town’s rich maritime heritage continues to draw interest today.


The family owns various parcels scattered haphazardly, as if acquired through poker wins, but they've never owned waterfront property. However, there's one small plot I like to call waterfront-adjacent—it's close enough that you're practically a stone's throw from the coast. In a few historical photographs of the region, you can spot the proud wind vane on the left side, signifying the easternmost boundary of the family's land.

The farm, rooted in the 1600s, was subsistence land—corn, beans, squash. ‘If you can’t eat it, we don’t grow it,’ Grandfather would always say. The farm's history is as unyielding as the journals’ secrets. A journal mentioned ‘Quedagh,’ the same name as the road to the farm. Another page described ‘tools of war’ hidden by a Castaway—could they be tied to Blackbeard’s plunder?

John's phone chirped an abrupt command: "Turn right on Quedagh Crescent Road. Your destination will be on your left." His mind, previously adrift in thought, snapped back to the present. The name ‘Quedagh’ echoed in my mind as we neared the farmhouse—could its secrets be tied to those journals?

The drive had been peaceful while everyone napped, but a couple hours ago, the kids and dogs had stirred, leading to a quick stop at a rest area. There, an old WWII 155mm Howitzer stood guard, offering a historical touch while the kids ran off some energy, tiring the dogs for the final stretch.


"How much longer?" was the cliché question from his youngest, echoing the timeless parental struggle.

As they approached, the entrance to Quedagh Crescent was barely visible—a secretive cut through the trees, easy to miss unless you knew it well. Pronounced "Kweh-dah," the name always prompted puzzled looks and misspellings when giving out the address.

Driving through, they entered a field of neglected wheat, the road now a pale, almost white stone that trailed dust behind them. The path was lined with what could either be discarded farm equipment or a clever display of rustic art.


The drive circled a pond, once teeming with fish, now a reminder of forgotten fishing tackle left by John's workbench. As they rounded the bend, the old farmhouse appeared through an orchard, its grandeur faded but still echoing with history. Yet, the sight that truly stood out was a sleek, modern Tesla Cybertruck, a stark contrast to the rustic setting.


"Looks like Aunty beat us here," John mused as his daughters squealed in delight at the sight of their aunt's vehicle.

Parking next to the Cybertruck, the engine barely off, they were greeted with a "Hey Bro!" from his sister, followed by a chorus of "Aunty!" from the girls, and Waffles' excited barks.

"I've already cleared the house," his sister announced. Before she could finish and tell them which of her girls came with, the girls dashed towards the house, racing up the porch steps in a flurry of excitement.


Waffles, meanwhile, darted towards the old tractor shed, built by their grandfather, now weathered and sagging, a silent testament to times gone by.

"What a week," John sighed, the past and present mingling in the breeze.

"How about some wine to reminisce Bro?"

"Sounds like a plan," he agreed, his sister was always prepared with more than just logistics.


Cecelia pulled a nice bottle out a well prepared bag of snacks and other goodies. I removed the stubborn cork while she dug through the bag looking for other things to put out.

As we sipped wine, Waffles darted to the cellar door, barking frantically. I froze, noticing its frame—seemed out of place, like the stone wall. The cross within a circle flashed in my mind.

"You’re chasing ghosts, Bro," Cecelia said, her tone sharp. "Grandpa’s warning was just old man talk. Those books better pay off, or we’re selling this place."

Something was still down there—something watching.