Amber Sanders

The Faceless Phantom

I was eleven in the summer of 2001 when my family moved into our grandparent’s house, nestled in the heart of North Georgia’s Blue Ridge mountains. The sultry southern heat and thick humidity were a stark contrast to the mild summers I had grown accustomed to while living in Southeast Alaska. After retiring from her Coast Guard career, mom offered to help Granny care for Grandpa, who was in the final stages of advanced Parkinson’s disease. My nine-year-old sister Nikki and I spent our idle mornings pushing one another on the tire swing our uncle had strung up in the humungous weeping willow tree planted in the front yard. In the afternoons, we raced Granny’s golfcart around the lush lawn until our mom called us inside for dinner. It was an idyllic and carefree existence, until we encountered Mrs. Oglethorpe.