The Storyteller's End

It had been nearly eight years since the night Uncle Jonas gathered Wells and his friends for a story, a clever ruse designed to lull them to sleep. In the intervening years, Uncle Jonas had visited the Barlow residence only twice: the first time more than three years after his abrupt departure with Mister C, the second just a year ago. Both visits were brief, and with each one, he appeared more tattered and weary. Wells struggled to reconcile this worn-out man with the perpetually cheerful, youthful uncle he remembered from his childhood.

Whenever Wells broached the subject of Mister C, Uncle Jonas would deflect with only the most enigmatic remarks. Asked where the man was from, he would say, "Nowhere near here." Questioned about the man's peculiar dialect, he would counter, "To him, you have a strange accent." This frustrating pattern persisted, leaving Wells with nothing but unanswered questions that annoyed him to no end.

Even Uncle Jonas, whom Wells had always seen as ageless and unyielding, eventually succumbed to the ravages of time. When he had visited for Wells’s fifteenth birthday, he seemed older and more exhausted than ever before. His endearing quirks remained, however, and he held Wells captive for three hours with another of his grand tales.

Yet, as Wells’s sophomore year of high school began, a sober awareness settled over the Barlow family—both Wells’s immediate household and the Hackfords, his father's sister's family. It was clear that Uncle Jonas was running out of time. Most of Wells’s cousins, older and away at college, were sullenly disinterested, but for Wells, the concern for his great-uncle was genuine and growing.

The inevitable day arrived on a Saturday morning in early September. After a week in St. Jude's General Hospital for a cardiac condition, the phone rang at the Barlow home. At 6:03 AM, a detached voice on the other end informed them that Jonathan Barlow had "expired." After thanking the caller, Wells’s father found him and led him into the kitchen.

"Wells," he began softly, "I know this is going to be hard, and I wish there were an easier way to say this, but—"

"Uncle Jonas is dead, isn't he?" Wells interrupted. He avoided his father's gaze, fixing his eyes on a small chip in the paint on the wall behind him.

His mother gave a gentle, sorrowful nod. "He passed away early this morning."

A thick, stubborn lump formed in Wells’s throat. He tried to swallow, but it wouldn't move. A stinging sensation pricked the corners of his eyes, forcing his gaze to the floor. Unable to find words for the torrent of emotions churning inside him, he could only manage a quiet, "I see."

"Do you have any questions, sweetie?" his mother asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"No," Wells replied, shrugging her hand away. "I don't." He retreated to his room, where he spent the rest of the day stewing in his grief. Despite his parents’ gentle attempts to draw him out, Wells simply lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling fan.

Though he had probably met Uncle Jonas only ten times in his entire life, each encounter had left an indelible mark. His great-uncle was a good man in a way that many clever, heartless people were not. He was sensitive and kind, if a bit eccentric. He was a master storyteller with a tale for every occasion, capable of captivating anyone within earshot. And now, he was gone.

That, Wells calculated, was the extent of his knowledge. That, and the fact that his uncle was his grandfather’s only sibling. His parents had offered few details about Jonas's life, other than that he had once been engaged and had traveled a great deal. Wells had no idea where his uncle's money came from. Later that night, as he changed into his pajamas, another, unexpected realization struck him: he didn't even know how old Uncle Jonas was. He fell into a restless sleep, these thoughts racing through his mind.

By Sunday morning, Wells had rejoined his family for breakfast. He was surprised to find that his Aunt Elara and Uncle Trenton had arrived the previous night and were staying in the guest room until after the funeral. They were seated at the kitchen table with his parents.

"We would have brought the kids," Aunt Elara was explaining, "but Shelby and Wyatt are at school in California, and Valerie is still adjusting to college. They just couldn't get away on such short notice."

Arden, Wells’s father, was just as skinny as his son, with the same narrow face and dark blue eyes peering from behind square glasses. His receding black hair was flecked with gray.

"Good morning, Wells," his father said.

"Morning, Dad."

"Good morning, sweetie," his mother added, sipping her coffee. Mrs. Barlow’s thick, curly mane of hair was the same earthy brown as her son's. She was shorter and rounder than her husband and son.

"Morning, Mom." He turned his attention to his aunt and uncle. "Hi, Aunt Elara, Uncle Trenton." He offered a smile he hoped looked more genuine than it felt.

Aunt Elara was a perennially cheerful, slightly overweight woman with the Barlows’ dark blue eyes, though her children had inherited her own remarkably golden hair. Wells had always described her to his friends as aggressive, loud, and "very kissy." Ultimately, however, she was bearable.

"Wells, dear!" she exclaimed, rising with her arms outstretched. "Come give your favorite auntie a hug!" Plastering the phony smile back on his face, Wells stood and received his aunt's embrace, along with two sloppy kisses on his cheek.

"William," Uncle Trenton said, extending a hand. Wells grinned and shook it, wincing as his uncle's grip nearly crushed his own.

Wells could never quite understand his aunt’s attraction to her husband. If she was slightly overweight, Trenton was monstrously large. He wasn’t so much fat as he was simply enormous. He towered over everyone, with a neck thicker than Wells’s waist and shoulders that seemed wider than the kitchen table. His small, beady eyes were nearly lost beneath thick eyebrows and plump cheekbones. He was also bald, a subject of extreme sensitivity for him.

"I see you're lazing about the house as usual," Uncle Trenton grumbled as Wells filled a bowl with Frosted Flakes. Wells glanced down at his plaid pajama pants and t-shirt.

Aunt Elara slapped her husband's hand playfully. "Trenton, it's only nine o'clock. Willy just woke up."

Wells flinched. "It's just Wells, Aunt Elara," he corrected as he carried his cereal to the table.

Ignoring Wells completely, Uncle Trenton stared at his wife as if she had grown a second head. "Nine o'clock?" he insisted. "How can a person just be getting up?" Wells tuned out their subsequent bickering, shrugging to himself and focusing on his cereal.

"So," his mother said, her voice rising above the argument, "Uncle Jonas’s funeral is set for Tuesday. Elara, why don't you and Arden head to the funeral home and make the arrangements? Trenton and I will drive out to Jonas's place and start getting his things together."

His aunt and uncle paused their squabbling long enough to consider this, then nodded in agreement. Wells looked at his mom. "Can I come?" he asked. "I've never seen Uncle Jonas's house."

"I don't see why not," Mrs. Barlow replied, biting into a muffin. "Just be ready in ten minutes, and bring something to do. I don't want to hear any whining about being bored during the two-hour drive each way."

Wells nodded and wolfed down his breakfast. He sprinted upstairs, threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and dashed into the bathroom to give his hair a quick comb-over. He bounded down the stairs two at a time, landing at the bottom just as his mother was putting on her coat.

"We're taking Uncle Trenton's truck," she told him, heading out the front door. Wells grabbed an unread copy of his school newspaper from the side table and followed her into the crisp morning air. He settled into the backseat of his uncle's rusty green pickup while his mother situated herself delicately in the front.

A few moments later, Uncle Trenton emerged and backed out of the driveway. He drove slightly over the speed limit through their neighborhood, then hit the highway entrance ramp and accelerated to what felt like—and probably was, Wells thought, clutching the seat—ninety miles per hour. It amazed him that his uncle could drive so fast without ever getting pulled over. He buried his nose in the school paper and tried not to think about it.

After more than an hour of speeding down the highway, Uncle Trenton took an exit for a place called Misty Creek Heights. The tiny village was situated in a remote area, boasting only a single streetlight. Down a long dirt road, living (had lived, Wells corrected himself morbidly) alone and without neighbors, was Uncle Jonas. Tucked away in a small, dense woodland stood his tiny, scarlet house.