Mystic Falls Virginia
Sheila Bennett Residence
Prologue: The Attic
Jacob had barely been at his grandmother's house for two days, and already the walls felt like they were closing in. He had spent most of his first day sulking, unpacking what little belongings he'd owned, and watching reruns of Charmed—his favorite TV show, even if some of the jokes felt a little cheesy now.
He wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or trapped in the spare room that had been so graciously given to him, but it was by far the most space he'd ever had to himself. Coming from his old broken home, he couldn't help but feel a strange mix of discomfort at the well-furnished, tidy, and spacious house. Sheila’s world was different. This whole town was different — and he could feel it.
His grandmother was often away from home, always teaching at Whitmore College, attending seminars, giving lectures, and attending important meetings. And when she was home, well, their interactions were... strained. She didn't know anything about him aside from the incident.
Sheila was this odd mix of maternal concern and distant authority, asking things like if he’d eaten and whether he would be having unprotected sex, all with the detached, formal air of someone clearly out of practice at being a guardian. Half the time Jacob didn't know what to make of her.
His impression of her had been a far cry from what little he could remember his mother telling him of the woman before she died.
In the time since he'd arrived here, there had been no mention at all of magic. No word of anything even remotely witch related. It was as strange as it was maddening. Sheila had to be a witch. Her academic career practically screamed it.
An Occult Studies professor? Yeah. And yet her magic? Jacob couldn’t sense it at all. Not even a flicker.
Now, on the second day, Sheila was already gone by the time he woke up, but he knew it couldn't have been for her work since it was the weekend.
He had awoken to find the house empty, the usual quiet punctuated by the faint sound of birds outside and the hum of the refrigerator. It was a Sunday. The day before school starts.
Jacob had little to no interest in high school; even the thought of attending made his stomach turn painfully, the idea of being stuck in the same old cycle of pretending to fit in.
Instead of brooding or binging TV, he wandered the house to pass the time. His fingers brushed the spines of bookshelves, drawn to the old leather-bound volumes, all published by his grandmother. Books about witches, their migrations during the 17th century, Salem history—some cool, some dry as dust to someone like him. Nothing particularly intriguing.
Sheila had to be hiding something, though. Why else leave him with free reign of the house except for a few rooms?
He traveled up stairs and instead of turning down the hall that would take him to his bedroom he turned left. And there it was. A set of short stairs to the attic door. Off-limits.
Sheila had not given him alot of rules to abide by but she had been adamant that he was not allowed in there.
Of course, his curiosity would have eventually won out.
The entire house was so spacious to him, too spacious that it felt stifling. He had to know what was up there. When he reached the attic door, a subtle hint of something was picked up by his senses, he could almost see it— a faint glimmer of something floating in the air, like dust mites. It was clearly something, but not enough for his magic to do more to roll over in vague interest and then settle back down. Like a cat that caught sight of a skinny mouse.
Jacob frowned, his curiosity kicking into overdrive. He reached for the handle. But his hand didn’t touch it.
His body recoiled, he looked behind him out of reflex, and saw only the empty hallway.
Tongue poking out to stick to his upper lip, he bent down to get a closer at the mystery. His mind whirled with many possible explanations. An invisible force preventing him from touching the door handle? No.
It was not quite a barrier, he realized after trying and failing to make purchase, but it was enough of...something to make him miss the doorknob entirely.
He reached for the doorknob again. His slender fingers only curling around empty air.
The faintest motes of energy seemed to tremor in the air as he brought his full attention directly on the door. Whatever it was, it was clearly trying to hide away. He could feel it like slithering tendrils, or the portents of an open flame, reaching towards him trying to influence his mind: Go away. I am not here. There is nothing here. You don't see me. You don't want to see me.
Jacob narrowed his eyes. What a weird spell, he thought, and focused harder on the doorknob.
He definitely could see it, the silver sheen of the smooth metallic curve that formed the bell of the handle. He studied the slope of it as it connected to the wood of door, secured in place by two iron screws, and that was when he saw it. Something was off.
There, the shadow from the ceiling light down the hall. It was off center on the doorknob. It was approximately three and a half inches away from where he reckoned it was supposed to be.
“You're may not be there, but I can still touch you.” He spoke, and intentionally willed his hand to touch the fucking knob.
His fingers grasped cold metal. He grinned triumphantly, and twisted the handle. The door swung open, creaking softly.
The room beyond was dark, faint rays of sunlight poking in through wooden wall. His eyes struggled to adjust, but Jacob didn't even need to use his eyes to know it was a magical haven—piles of dusty old books, dried herbs hanging from the rafters, and a faint, stale feeling of long-forgotten spells. It was so unlike anything he felt before, like stepping into a different world, one filled with beauty, darkness, and the lingering traces of power.
He sighed. The air in the attic had been thick with magic long ago, but it seemed that had grown dormant over time like a wellspring ran dry. Still, the ambient energy welcomed him as he felt for it.
At the end of the rather large attic stood a raised dais, and infront of that a wooden pedestal, covered in dust, surrounded by more signs of magic—old crystals, a steel dagger he recognized as an athame, a mortar and pestle, a few other tools he did not know the names or purpose of, and a perfectly drawn pentacle scrawled in what looked like chalk, buried under a layer of salt and dried rose petals. It was brilliant, it was magic — it was home.
He stepped inside, hands roving over the discarded magical tools. But what caught Jacob’s attention was the large, weathered chest resting on top of the dais. His heart skipped a beat and he quickly moved to his knees in front of it.
The chest looked ancient, was as long as his body, and was locked. A part of him grinned. Magic had a way of making simple things more complex and complex things more mundane. He knew just the spell, unlocking this chest should be easy.
He pulled up his memory of an simple Latin incantation he had discovered could unlock locks. It wasn’t advanced, at least he didn't think so, but it worked wonders whenever he needed it to before. Which was often.
Jacob closed his eyes and envisioned the countless locks this spell had opened for him. “Aperio.” He chanted, feeling a strong fluttering under his skin. The lock didn’t budge. Disappointment quickly bubbled up, along with some excitement. Magic was his strong suit, the one thing he understood. He wouldn’t let a lock defeat him.
“Clavis Aperio.” Nothing.
“Clavicula.” If the lock could speak it would be laughing at him.
“Vinculum Aperture.” A slight rattle of the thick metal lock, but nothing more.
“Apertus.” Did the chest just close tighter?
“Liberare Clavis.” Nothing.
“Uh, Alohomora?” ….
“Open Sesame!”….
“Pretty Please?”….
After ten minutes and a dozen more failed spells, Jacob gave up and finally tapped into his other abilities. Pressing a hand to the surprisingly warm wood of the chest he drew on his power, his magic eagerly leaping forward to begin leeching away the unfamiliar magic protecting the chest within moments. The spell shuddered as it was consumed by Siphoner magic, a faint tremor appearing in the air like heat waves.
The lock clicked open a second later with a soft snap as the magic sputtered out, enough of it drained to leave it unable to support the shape of the spell.
He waited a moment until he adjusted to the traces of foreign magic lingering beneath his skin. It tasted like stale bread on his tongue. Eventually he reached inside, and his fingers brushed against candles, jars full of various specimens, magical instruments, and finally the soft leather of a book.
He froze. A grimoire? Unlike the spell placed on the lock, or the general sleepy magic in the attic, the scent of magic coming the book was intoxicating. His own magic grumbled deeply in approval, as his hands brushed over the dust clinging to the thickly bound tome.
He looked at it with all his senses and saw it practically buzzed with power. He could literally feel the magic radiating from it like summer afternoon sun rays beaming up on his face. It felt far more potent than anything in the room, except perhaps the athame.
It was Sheila’s grimoire. He recognized it immediately. His magic wanted to surge forward and devour the energy clinging to the yellowed pages, but he pushed it back down with a moment of difficulty.
When he opened it, visions flooded him.
They were rapid, fragmented images—some terrifying, some distant, all shining with brilliant colors—flashing across his mind.
There was Sheila, powerful and wild, Jacob could sense the magic pouring off her in waves, it reared up like a lioness preparing to charge. Her face was youthful, but he instantly recognized her smiling, laughing madly as she was confronting something dark, something powerful and malevolent and ancient. She set her shoulders back and the wind picked up, blowing her curly hair around her like a halo. Sparks of light shot out her fingertips.
Her magic was blazing, roaring defiantly at the dark creature approaching through the woods. He felt it's presence in the vision before he saw it, an overwhelming surge of dark energy. It took the shape of an amorphous cloud of dark, black smoke with hundreds of glowing red eyes, dagger like tendrils that sliced apart nearby trees and roots, and dozens of mouths filled with rows of razor sharp teeth the size of knives.
It stopped in its approach to Young Sheila, and the cloud seemed to collapse on itself. Jacob felt his bones turn to ice as he realized the creature was turning, turning towards him. Young Sheila looked over at him as well, meeting his eyes, she seemed to scream a warning as the creature lost interest in her and started barrelling towards him, but before it could reach him, he was pulled back to reality by the sound of approaching footsteps.
The door creaked open and Jacob spun around, eyes darting around as the visions fell away. Oh shit.
Sheila Bennett stood in the doorway, her face stern and arms crossed. Her gaze was sharpened, but her face betrayed a mix of concern and something else. Something unreadable.
"Looking for something?" she drawled, her voice as crisp as her posture.
Jacob stammered, slightly shaking and his face pale as the thick book still in his hands. "T-this is exactly what it looks like, sorry."
Sheila’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t move. The silence stretched between them, heavy with questions neither of them were ready to ask.
Jacob swallowed hard. He had gotten caught before. It seemed like the story of his life.This experience brought him back to a moment from years ago, when his father had caught him in a compromised position.
Back then, Jacob had invited Isaac over to work on a ninth grade science project. But what his dad didn’t know was that Isaac was the only other gay kid at his school—or at least the only one Jacob talked to.
Isaac was closeted, whereas Jacob was openly gay, at least in social settings, with friends, unless someone asked because then he was bisexual, because that was edgy and more socially acceptable than being gay.
They’d been seated next to each other in biology class, and their bond was instant. Isaac made his magic buzz in excitement.
A few lingering touches and secretive smiles later, and they agreed to meet after school. Isaac couldn’t invite Jacob to his place; his family was deeply religious and always home. But Jacob’s father was usually out drinking, so Jacob had the entirety of their shitty run down apartment in Manhattan to himself.
The kiss started off awkward. Neither of them knew what they were doing, only that it felt good. But soon, Isaac had grown bold enough to straddle his hips, and neither of them reacted quickly enough when the door swung open to reveal Jacob's father, eyes bleary and bloodshot from alcohol. The sight of a boy half way sitting in his son’s lap made David blow a gasket.
The memory of what happened next still made Jacob shudder. His father beat him in front of Isaac, hard, only stopping when Jacob could barely offer a whimper of protest. Isaac, terrified and in shock, had watched helplessly. His father then threw Isaac’s books at him, practically tossing him out the door, screaming that if he ever saw them together again, he would kill them both.
Not long after that they had been forced to move once more, and Jacob never heard from Isaac again.
Jacob closed his eyes at the memory, forcing himself to forget it. Grams had told him to put the Grimoire away and head downstairs to help her prepare dinner.
He shoved the book onto the dais like it burned him and made his way past her, careful not to touch ber, feeling a familiar tightness in his chest as tears threatened to well in his eyes.
The silence between them while they made dinner was thick. It had started to rain hard outside so Grams had him secure the windows with the shutters closed. Apparently summer storms in Virginia were no joke.
Soon enough they had the table set. Pot roast, sweet cornbread, kale salad, dirty rice and sweet tea. Jacob picked at his Southern food, frowning at it like it caused his problems, refusing to meet Sheila's gaze.
He was bracing for the worst—he didn't realize how bad until he flinched when Sheila reached towards him for a dinner roll.
She sputtered in shock, her lips opening and closing. “Why’re you hogging my rolls over there for anyway?” She said absurdly, her accent coming out thick to his ears.
Jacob frowned and picked up the basket, setting it in front of her, he was wondering if he was supposed to respond. Her voice was sharp, which usually meant blows would follow. But she wasn't acting angry yet. Would she use a belt on him, or her own hands? She is pretty short, but so am I.
Jacob bit his lip. It would hurt, but I could probably run out before she did any permanent damage. Hide out in the woods for a few days. Yeah. Maybe I could hitch hike to Georgia. What would that be like three or four days of walking? That's not so bad. Okay, that's the plan.
“Damn it, enough of that! Boy, calm down. I'm not about to lay my hands on you. What kind of grandmother do you think I am?”
Jacob stiffened, feeling the sting of self-loathing and shame in his chest. He hated the pity in her eyes, but worse still, he hated how easily he’d fallen into old patterns. “I broke your rules,” he muttered softly, trying to push the conversation forward away from his embarrassment.
“You only had one, and I already broke it.” He pointed out, stabbing the cornbread with a fork.
Sheila paused, then she said something that caught them both off guard. “Because you’re a Witch.”
She stared at him, seeming to dare him to refuse it. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Simple, almost matter-of-fact. Like a comment on the rainy weather.
Jacob’s breath hitched a bit, but he odded, tentative. “So are you. I saw...I saw you.” He spoke, shivering at the thought of that horrible creature from his vision.
Sheila huffed noncommittally, and Jacob went back to stabbing his food while she watched. “A witch's Grimoire is a very powerful magic receptacle. And your fathead father...” She spat the word out like it was a curse, before eyeing him. “He couldn’t have taught you that.”
Jacob flinched again at the mention of David, but then her words sank in. He almost laughed, but it was a bitter feeling that soured in his chest. “No. David didn’t know anything about magic. He didn’t know anything about anything.”
She arched a thin eyebrow. “And yet, here you are, clearly far along in your studies. Tell me about that.”
Jacob hesitated, the walls inside of him not lowering, but shifting. He started to feel minutely lighter, relieved that she wasn’t accusing him of anything yet. Maybe she really was just curious.
“Well, um yeah." He started, clearing his throat, "I mean, I don't know, I guess? I’ve never really been taught by anyone. I just kind of figured things out on my own, you know? It's kinda hard not to believe magic is real when you make yourself levitate after watching The Craft for the first time. And plus, I have studied... a lot,” he chuckled, thinking of the countless experiments and failed attempts at recreating magic from all his favorite fictional media.
Sheila's eyes widened somewhat, but she didn’t speak for a moment. Jacob tilted his head, wondering at her reaction. He grew somewhat defensive as the minutes ticked on with her saying nothing. "Sorry, but what’s the big deal? I’m sure there are lots of witches who teach themselves."
She stared at him for a long time before responding, shaking her head, her tone carefully measured. “Lots of witches are self-taught, sure. But not many hedge witches I've met can see straight through a glamour spell like the one I put on the door handle. Or a blood seal, like the one that I put on my chest.” Her voice grew pointed at the end.
Jacob blinked, his eyes sparkling at the mention of two forms of magic he'd never heard of. A blood seal, he thought. He remembered reading that term, Blood Lock, before somewhere. He thought it was it was a technique to keep something contained, whether in or out, using blood magic. Which Jacob had even less knowledge of. He didn't know much about that. It seemed blood magic was heavily discouraged within the community.
Still, he knew he could not bring up his Siphoner abilities in front of Sheila. He had read about witches and their even worse treatment of children born with his particular innate gift. Some babies had even been drown at birth, by order of the coven they were born into.
Sheila may not be like David, but she would never trust him, and may even try to kill him, if she found out how he beat the blood lock.
He opined, focusing on the first part of what she said. “Oh, you mean that thing with the doorknob, that was you? Huh. You know, that didn't feel like magic to me. It felt more like..I don't know, pulling back a curtain?” He ducked his head, blanching at his own lack of description, slightly embarrassed by it.“I don't know, I just just sensed my way through it. What is a glamour spell, by the way?” He asked, his expression attentive.
Sheila's lips thinned into a serious line. “A glamour spell is an illusion that hides something, not unlike a veil, yes. And what do you mean, you sensed it? Can you sense other witches magic?”
Jacob frowned, his mind turning over her words. Well of course I can sense magic. It’s like... instinctive, right? He shrugged, trying to explain. “Yeah, course’ I can. Can’t all witches sense magic? It's everywhere. I mean, we make magic when we cry or get upset. It’s not like it’s something we have to access.”
Sheila stared at him, an unreadable expression on her face. “It is uncommon. Not without years of study, or someone to open that door for you. I didn’t sense any magic in anyone else until my late twenties.”
Jacob’s mouth dropped open, forming the “O” vowel. He didn’t know what to say to that. “Um, I’m... sorry?”
Sheila chuckled—a sound so rare that Jacob froze, momentarily taken aback and staring openly. Her amber eyes eyes softened in amusement. “Don’t apologize. It’s a rare thing. You've got a lot of raw talent, can’t deny that. That is isn't so uncommon in our family, however." She said with a slightly smug smile.
"Really?" Jacob asked excitedly.
He felt his heart lift just a little as she nodded and returned to the conversation. “So, what else can you do?”
At this question Jacob exploded, launching into a rundown of his current abilities. Hours passed, the evening stretching on as he excitedly shared his progress. Sheila listened intently, asking probing questions, challenging his notes, pushing him to explain in better detail.
When he hesitantly mentioned his amateurish forays into spell crafting, Sheila raised an eyebrow in disapproval, but remained intrigued. He demonstrated a spell in spanish that made nearby bottle caps fly off with a flick and twist of his fingers as a somatic component, and Sheila actually laughed, looking impressed.
He hemmed on her questions of how he unpicked the seal on the chest. He couldn't tell her the truth. A witches' magic was a sacred thing, and Jacob had never heard of anyone having the ability to absorb magic that he had using it openly. Those he had found the word for it long ago: Siphoning. What would she think of him? That he was even more of a freak? A double abomination?
Thankfully she moved on from the topic after saying something about the Bennett bloodline being tightly bound, and chalked it up to the spell being old, apparently 'not that good', and 'made in haste'.
“Are you nimble with your craft?”
“To be honest, I just kind of go-with-the-flow.”
“Do you channel at all to help you cast more efficiently?”
“Channel? What's that?”
“Have you ever had a coven?”
“Ha-ha, no. I fly solo. But I think your cool."
She leaned forward, her curiosity palpable. “Are you bound to an element?” The night has grown dark and rain still poured down, though less hard than before.
Jacob paused, biting his lip. He played with his necklace hung around his neck. “No, not really. I know it’s a thing—witches choose an element they’re drawn to, or have an affinity for—but the only resources I found on how to find out what mine is were from the internet.” He gave her a sheepish grin.
“Not exactly the most reliable source for magic knowledge. I was extremely disappointed when my Hogwarts letter didn't come on my 11th birthday.” He joked, smile faltering when she didn't smile back. Well I thought that was pretty funny.
Sheila didn’t laugh, she didn't respond immediately at all. Her face grew more troubled towards the end of their conversation, her mind clearly moving a mile a minute. Jacob thought she might tell him off, warn him away from practicing blindly and he was already prepared to lie to her face. Magic was his life. It was everything.
Sheila didn’t warn him off. Instead, she observed him very closely as he demonstrated his fledgling control over telekinesis, effortlessly lifting his dinner plate above their heads and maneuvering it around before gently setting it down. He then lifted the whole table, raising it as high above as he dared, before lowering it back down. He could not move multiple objects at once without risking everything falling down, but he had been able to lift a dumpster once and levitate it across an empty parking lot at night without any difficulty.
"So much potential..." Sheila said, her gaze sharpened in interest, seeming impressed by the level of strength he’d developed with his skills on his own.
He allowed a small thrill of pride to worm through his chest at her words.
Their conversation continued into the late evening hours. Jacob was feeling a rare sense of belonging—of purpose—as he exchanged his knowledge with Sheila, who seemed like a walking library of witchcraft. Mostly she listened but when she spoke of magic, in terms Jacob had never heard before—bringing up runes, potions, specific rituals, knowledge of so many different practices from many different cultures, Jacob found himself going silent. He felt both awe and humility as she discussed things he couldn’t even quite grasp and before he could pick her brain apart it was over.
"It's getting late, and I didn't intend to interrogate you for this long. We should both get some rest. I've got work in the morning and you've got school." She said with the type of authority only a grandmother could have.
Jacob almost pouted but he was still buzzing from the in depth conversation about his favorite thing in the world, and also feeling closer to Grams, something he didn't expect to happen so soon.
Jacob put the dishes in the washer, and was about to head upstairs. Sheila's master bedroom was on the ground floor, but before he could retire for the night, Sheila appeared at the foot of the stairs. In her arms, was her Grimoire.
She held up a hand to halt his questions. "I will not interfere in your practice if you choose to continue your studies here. It's bad enough that your cousin's father refuses to let me inform her of her own heritage, I will not stand in the way of a Bennett witch coming into their own. But Jacob, I need you to be honest with me at all times from now own and I will show you the same respect. No secrets between us. No hiding. Nothing is off limits. Now, I don’t want you hurting yourself and I don't want this leaving the house."
She held out the Grimoire to him and he took it in both hands, half shaking with reverence, half expected to see more freaky visions. None came, and Jacob continued to stare at Sheila with his mouth open.
"You can use my attic for your spell work, but don’t go snooping around in things that don’t concern you.” She warned him.
Jacob stared at the Grimoire, unsure whether to accept it. A witch’s Grimoire was personal—intimately so. He couldn’t–not after-
Sheila seemed to understand his hesitation and waved it off, running a hand over the cracked leather like an old friend. “This book, has been mine all my life. It has served me well and gotten me out of tight spot or two, as I'm sure it bragged to you. Now, it will serve you well, as I help you find your path, If that's what you still want.” She added at the end.
Jacob’s heart surged. “Are you being serious?” he asked, his voice wavering. “Yes! Yes, I absolutely want that!” Sheila was offering him more than he had ever dared to hope for. His emotions overwhelmed him, and he wanted to hug her, but he knew it was too soon.
Instead, he whispered, “Thank you...Grams.”
She froze for a moment, her face a mix of surprise and something more tender. Jacob could see her eyes welling up slightly making his vision go somewhat hazy, but the moment passed quickly.
“You're welcome, baby. Now go get some rest,” Sheila said softly. “We can discuss how we'll schedule your training tomorrow. You start school in the morning and I don't want you distracted. Before that you’ll meet your cousin, Bonnie. I spoke to her—she knows you’re going to live here, but she doesn't know anything about magic,” Sheila sighed heavily. “I suggest you keep what you know to yourself for now.”
Jacob’s stomach tightened. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his fat- about David, passing, but Sheila had apparently made sure his cousin wouldn’t ask too personal questions.
He nodded, feeling a bit of relief. “Okay, Grams. I’ll be ready.”
As he turned to leave, a thought crossed his mind. “Uh, hey, Grams? I was thinking. Would it be alright if I moved my stuff up to the attic and made it my room?”
Sheila turned back at the end of the hall, a quizzical look on her face as she frowned. “You want to sleep in some dusty old, dark attic? Baby there's not even electricity up there, there's no AC."
Jacob shrugged. “I don't mind, I kind of like it up there. There’s something about it that just feels... right.”
Sheila pursed her lips and studied him for a moment before sighing. “Fine, but not tonight. You can start moving your belongings upstairs tomorrow, but don't expect my help.”
Jacob’s grin nearly split hit face, "Sweet! Thanks, Grams.”
Sheila smiled, ever indulgently, “Goodnight, baby. Get some sleep, I mean it. Bonnie will be here at 7:00 am and it's already two in the morning."