"Encircled":
I booked a week at Willow Creek Farm in upstate New York for my family—my wife, Emily, and our kids, Jake and Lily, ages ten and seven. The pictures online showed a cozy farmhouse, wide fields, and cows grazing peacefully. It looked like the perfect escape from the city. We arrived, settled into the creaky old house, and spent the first few days exploring the trails and feeding the animals. The hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, were kind, always smiling, but their eyes seemed to linger a little too long when they spoke about the woods surrounding the property. They warned us to stay close to the house at night, saying wild animals roamed out there. I brushed it off as rural caution.
On the fourth night, I woke to a piercing alarm shrieking through the house. My heart jumped into my throat. I bolted upright in bed, the red glow of the clock showing 2:17 a.m. Emily grabbed my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “What’s that?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Stay here,” I said, trying to sound calm. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and crept to the window. The alarm kept blaring, a relentless wail that made my pulse race. I pulled back the curtain and froze. In the moonlight, the cows in the field had gathered in a tight circle around the house, facing outward, their heads low, hooves stomping. Their soft moos carried an edge, like a warning. Something was wrong.
“Dad?” Jake’s small voice came from the doorway. He stood there with Lily, her stuffed bunny clutched tight. “Why’s the alarm going off?”
I forced a smile. “It’s probably nothing, buddy. Maybe a raccoon tripped the sensor. Go back to bed, okay?”
“But the cows,” Lily said, her eyes wide. “They’re acting weird.”
I glanced out the window again. She was right. The cows weren’t grazing or sleeping—they stood like sentinels, staring into the darkness beyond the field. My stomach twisted. I turned to Emily, who was now out of bed, wrapping a blanket around the kids. “I’m going to check the control panel,” I said. “Keep them close.”
I grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and headed downstairs. The alarm panel was by the front door, its red light flashing. I punched in the code the Thompsons had given us, but the alarm didn’t stop. My hands shook as I tried again. Nothing. I checked my phone—no signal. The Wi-Fi was down too. A chill ran through me. We were cut off.
“Tom?” Emily called from upstairs, her voice sharp. “What’s happening?”
“It’s not shutting off,” I called back, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m checking outside.”
“No, don’t!” she said, appearing at the top of the stairs. “You heard the Thompsons. It’s not safe out there.”
“I have to see what’s going on,” I said. “Lock the door behind me.”
I stepped onto the porch, the night air heavy on my skin. The alarm’s wail echoed in my ears, but beyond it, I heard something else—a low, guttural growl from the woods. My flashlight beam swept across the field, catching the cows’ eyes glinting like mirrors. They were still in that eerie circle, their bodies tense. The growling came again, closer now, followed by a rustling in the underbrush. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
I aimed the flashlight toward the woods. Two glowing eyes stared back, low to the ground, unblinking. Whatever it was, it was big—too big for a coyote, though that’s what I told myself it had to be. The rustling grew louder, branches snapping like brittle bones. I backed toward the door, my breath shallow, my hand gripping the flashlight so tight my knuckles ached.
“Tom, get inside!” Emily’s voice broke through, frantic now. I stumbled back into the house, slamming the door and locking it. The kids were crying, huddled on the couch with Emily.
“What was it?” she asked, her face pale.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Something’s out there.”
Jake’s eyes were huge. “Was it a bear?”
“Maybe,” I said, though I wasn’t sure. “We’re safe in here. Let’s move upstairs and barricade the door.”
We grabbed chairs and a small table from the dining room, piling them against the bedroom door. The alarm finally stopped, leaving a silence that was somehow worse. The kids clung to Emily, and I kept my flashlight trained on the window, watching the cows. They hadn’t moved, their heads still pointed toward the woods, their moos now sharp and urgent.
Hours passed, or maybe minutes—it was hard to tell. The growling came again, closer, right outside the house now. I heard heavy footsteps, like something pacing along the porch. My mouth went dry. I grabbed a fire poker from the bedroom fireplace, its weight cold in my hand.
“Tom, what if it gets in?” Emily whispered, pulling the kids closer.
“It won’t,” I said, but my voice cracked. I didn’t believe it. The footsteps stopped, and then came a loud thud against the front door, like something testing it. Lily whimpered, burying her face in Emily’s chest.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Emily murmured, stroking her hair. But her eyes were locked on me, wide with fear.
Another thud, harder this time. The cows erupted into a chorus of panicked moos, their hooves stomping the ground. I crept to the window, my heart in my throat, and shone the flashlight outside. The beam caught a glimpse of something—dark, shaggy, moving fast toward the woods. It was gone before I could make sense of it, but the cows’ agitation didn’t ease. They bellowed, their circle tightening around the house.
I stayed by the window, clutching the poker, until the sky began to lighten. The growling stopped, and the cows slowly dispersed, wandering back to the field. At dawn, the Thompsons’ truck pulled up. I unbarricaded the door and met them on the porch, my hands still shaking.
“What happened?” Mr. Thompson asked, his brow furrowed. “We got an alert about the alarm.”
“Something was out there,” I said, my voice hoarse. “In the woods. It came close to the house. The cows—they circled the house, like they were protecting it.”
Mrs. Thompson exchanged a glance with her husband. “Probably a coyote,” she said, but her voice was too quick, her smile too tight. “They get bold sometimes. You’re safe now.”
“A coyote?” Emily said, stepping onto the porch with the kids. “That didn’t sound like a coyote.”
“They can sound bigger than they are,” Mr. Thompson said, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Happens out here. The cows know when something’s off. They’re smarter than people think.”
We didn’t argue. We packed our bags and left that morning, the kids quiet in the backseat, Emily staring out the window. As we drove away, I glanced back at the farm. The cows were grazing again, like nothing had happened, but the woods beyond them seemed darker, deeper, hiding something I couldn’t shake.
I keep thinking about those glowing eyes, the thud against the door, the way the cows stood guard. The Thompsons called it a coyote, but I’m not so sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t just an animal passing through. It felt like it was watching us, waiting. And I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if the cows hadn’t been there, or if that door had given way.
"The Last Harvest":
I’d always dreamed of escaping the city for a taste of rural life, so when I found West Chapple Farm online, it seemed perfect. The website promised an authentic farmstay in Devon, England, with a 400-year-old thatched farmhouse nestled among rolling hills and cider orchards. It was September 1975, and I was a 22-year-old student craving a break from my studies. I booked a week-long stay, excited to help with farm chores and breathe the fresh country air.
When I arrived, the farm was just as picturesque as the photos. The farmhouse, with its sagging roof and ivy-covered walls, stood alone in a sea of green fields. The air smelled of damp earth and apples. Three figures waited on the porch: the Luxton siblings. Frances, 67, had a kind but weary face, her gray hair pulled into a tight bun. Robbie, 64, was quiet, his hands rough from years of labor. Alan, 54, was wiry and restless, his eyes scanning me like I was an intruder.
“Welcome to West Chapple,” Frances said, her smile warm but strained. “We don’t get many visitors.”
“Thanks for having me,” I replied, shaking their hands. Alan’s grip was too tight, his palm clammy.
They led me inside the farmhouse, where creaky floorboards groaned underfoot. The walls were lined with faded photos of stern-faced ancestors, their eyes seeming to follow me. My room was on the second floor, a small space with a lumpy bed, a wooden dresser, and a window overlooking the orchard. The house felt frozen in time, with no electric lights—just oil lamps casting flickering shadows.
The first few days were charming in their simplicity. I helped feed the chickens, their feathers soft under my fingers, and collected eggs still warm from the nest. Frances taught me how to milk a cow, laughing when I fumbled the bucket. Robbie showed me how to mend a fence, his hammer striking nails with quiet precision. Alan, though, kept his distance, often disappearing into the barn or pacing the yard.
At dinner on the third night, the mood shifted. We sat around a heavy oak table, eating stew and crusty bread. The oil lamps made the room feel smaller, the shadows deeper. Frances mentioned the farm’s history, her voice proud but tinged with sadness.
“Our family’s been here for centuries,” she said, spooning stew. “This land is our blood.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “It must mean a lot to keep it going.”
Alan’s fork clattered against his plate. “Keep it going? They want to sell it!” His voice was sharp, his eyes blazing.
“Alan, not now,” Frances said, her hand reaching for his.
“We’re drowning in debt,” Robbie added quietly, staring at his plate. “Selling might be the only way.”
Alan shoved his chair back, standing. “This farm is our legacy. I won’t let it go!”
The room fell silent, the air thick with tension. I focused on my stew, my appetite gone.
Over the next two days, the farm’s charm faded. I noticed how isolated it was—no neighbors for miles, no phone in the house. At night, the wind rattled the windows, and I swore I heard footsteps in the attic above my room. Once, I caught Alan muttering to himself in the barn, cleaning an old shotgun with a rag. His eyes met mine, and he smirked.
“Just keeping it ready,” he said, his tone cold. “Never know when you’ll need it.”
I nodded, my stomach twisting, and hurried back to the house.
On the fifth night, Frances knocked on my door. Her face was pale, her hands trembling.
“May I come in?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, moving aside.
She sat on the bed, her fingers twisting the hem of her apron. “I’m sorry about Alan. He’s… struggling. The farm’s been hard on him.”
“I understand,” I said, though I didn’t. “Is he okay?”
She hesitated. “He’s always been passionate about this place. But lately, he’s been… different. Angry. Be careful around him, dear.”
Her words lingered as I lay in bed that night, unable to sleep. The house creaked, and the orchard outside seemed to whisper secrets. Around midnight, I heard raised voices downstairs. I crept to the door and cracked it open, listening.
“You can’t do this, Frances!” Alan shouted. “You’re betraying us!”
“We have no choice,” Frances replied, her voice breaking. “The bank will take it if we don’t sell.”
“I’d rather die than lose this farm!” Alan yelled.
Robbie’s voice cut in, low and firm. “Enough, Alan. You’re scaring everyone.”
I closed the door, my heart racing. I considered packing my bag and leaving, but the nearest village was miles away, and I had no car. I felt trapped.
The next night, September 22, 1975, everything fell apart. I was jolted awake by a deafening bang—a gunshot. My heart pounded as I sat up, the room pitch-black except for the moonlight streaming through the window. Another bang followed, then a woman’s scream—Frances.
I stumbled to the door, my hands shaking. Downstairs, I heard crashing, like furniture being overturned. Alan’s voice roared, “Frances, where are you?”
I froze, fear rooting me to the spot. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and I saw Frances’s silhouette dart past my door, her nightgown trailing behind her. Alan was close behind, the shotgun glinting in his hands.
“Stop!” he bellowed.
I ducked back into my room, locking the door as quietly as I could. My mind raced—where could I hide? The wardrobe was too small, the bed too obvious. The window was my only option. I pushed it open, the cold air hitting my face. A sturdy oak tree stood just outside, its branches close enough to reach.
As I climbed onto the windowsill, I heard a scream and another gunshot. My hands shook as I grabbed a branch and pulled myself out, scraping my arms on the bark. I scrambled down the tree, my bare feet hitting the damp grass.
From the ground, I looked back at the house. Through a downstairs window, I saw Robbie in the kitchen, his face pale, a knife in his hand. Then, Alan appeared in the yard, the shotgun raised. He was shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words.
I ran toward the fields, my breath ragged. Behind me, another gunshot rang out, followed by silence. I glanced back and saw Alan in the orchard, staggering. He raised the gun to his head, and before I could look away, he pulled the trigger. The sound echoed, and he collapsed among the cider apples.
I kept running, tears streaming down my face. I reached the main road and flagged down a passing truck. The driver, a gruff man with a butcher’s apron, listened to my frantic story and drove me to the police station in Winkleigh.
The police arrived at West Chapple Farm at dawn. They found Frances and Robbie in the orchard, both dead from shotgun wounds. Alan’s body was in the yard, the gun beside him. The house was locked from the inside, with only an upstairs window open—mine.
They told me it was likely a family dispute gone horribly wrong. Alan, furious about the farm’s potential sale, may have confronted Frances, who tried to escape through the window but fell. Robbie, trying to stop the violence, ended up part of the tragedy. The exact order of events was unclear, and the police had few answers.
I left Devon the next day, the farm’s dark silhouette burned into my memory. West Chapple was abandoned, its fields left to grow wild. The Luxtons’ story, whispered in village pubs, became a haunting legend. For me, it’s a nightmare I’ll never escape—the night I learned how quickly a dream can turn to horror.
"The Farmer":
It was the summer of 2012 when my wife Emily and I decided to spend a few weeks at her mother’s farm in rural Pennsylvania. Margaret, Emily’s mom, had passed away earlier that year, leaving the farm to us. It was a bittersweet inheritance—a place full of memories, but also a lot of work. We thought it would be a good chance for our family to bond and maybe decide whether to keep the farm or sell it. Our son Tommy was three years old, full of energy and curiosity. The farm, with its red barn, chickens, and wide-open fields, was like a playground for him.
The first few days were perfect. We settled into the old farmhouse, which had been in Emily’s family for generations. It was charming, with creaky wooden floors and the faint smell of hay from the barn. Tommy loved chasing the chickens and pretending to be a farmer himself. Emily and I spent our days sorting through Margaret’s things, deciding what to keep and what to let go. It felt like a fresh start, a way to honor her memory.
But then, things started to feel off.
One evening, as I was giving Tommy his bath, he was splashing around, laughing, when he suddenly stopped and stared over my shoulder. His little face went serious, and he asked, “Why does Grandma call Mommy ‘Emmy’?”
I froze. “Emmy” was the nickname Margaret had always used for Emily, ever since she was a baby. But we had never used it around Tommy. He was only four months old when Margaret passed away—he had never met her. How could he know that name?
I tried to stay calm. “Who told you that, Tommy?” I asked.
“The Farmer told me,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Who is The Farmer, Tommy?”
“He’s my friend,” Tommy said, going back to playing with his toys. “He lives here.”
I didn’t know what to make of it. Kids have wild imaginations, right? I finished his bath and tucked him into bed, but I couldn’t shake the unease. Later that night, I told Emily about it. She looked shaken. “That’s… weird,” she said, her voice trembling. “How would he know that nickname?”
We tried to brush it off as a coincidence, but deep down, I felt something wasn’t right.
A few days later, I was in the kitchen making lunch when I heard Tommy talking in the living room. I peeked around the corner and saw him sitting on the floor, playing with his toy trucks. But he wasn’t just playing—he was talking to someone. I heard him say, “Yes,” “No,” and then a giggle, like he was having a real conversation.
“Who are you talking to, buddy?” I asked, stepping into the room.
Tommy didn’t look up. “The Farmer,” he said, as if it was the most normal thing.
I glanced around the room, but there was no one else there. “Where is he, Tommy?”
“He’s right here,” Tommy said, pointing to the empty space beside him. “But he says he doesn’t like you watching.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “Tommy, there’s no one here. You’re just playing by yourself.”
“No, Daddy,” he insisted, his little voice firm. “The Farmer is here. He’s my friend.”
I didn’t know what to say. I let it go, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That night, I told Emily. She looked worried. “Maybe it’s just his imagination,” she said, but her eyes told me she didn’t fully believe it.
The next strange thing happened a couple of days later. I was in the barn, fixing some old tools, when I heard footsteps upstairs in the attic. The attic was off-limits—we hadn’t gone up there since we arrived. I called out, “Emily? Tommy?” but there was no answer. I climbed the ladder to check, but the attic was empty. Just dusty old boxes and cobwebs. No one had been up there.
When I came back down, Emily was in the kitchen. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?” she said, looking confused.
“Footsteps in the attic,” I said. “I swear I heard someone walking around up there.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it was just the house settling.”
But I knew it wasn’t the house. The footsteps had been too deliberate, too heavy. I didn’t want to scare Emily, so I dropped it, but I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept thinking about Tommy’s “Farmer” friend and those footsteps.
The next day, I decided to do some research. I drove to the local library and looked up old newspapers about the farm. I found an article from 1955 about a man named Jacob Miller, a reclusive farmer who had lived on our land. He died in 1960, and the farm was sold to Emily’s family. The article didn’t say much, just that he kept to himself and wasn’t well-liked in town. It wasn’t much, but it stuck with me that Tommy had mentioned a “farmer.”
When I told Emily about it, she frowned. “Maybe Tommy’s just picking up on the history of the place,” she said. “Kids can be sensitive like that.”
But I wasn’t so sure. Things started to escalate after that.
One afternoon, Tommy was playing in the barn when I heard him scream. I ran to him and found him crying, clutching his knees. “The Farmer took my toy!” he sobbed.
I looked around the barn, but there was no one else there. “What toy, Tommy?” I asked.
“My truck,” he said, pointing to the empty spot where he’d been playing. “The Farmer took it and ran that way!”
He pointed toward the fields beyond the barn. I searched the area, trampling through the tall grass, but found nothing. The toy truck was gone. I tried to calm Tommy down, but he was inconsolable.
That night, Emily and I sat in the kitchen after Tommy was asleep. “This is getting weird,” she said, her voice low. “First the nickname, then the talking, and now his toy is missing?”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I admitted. “But I don’t like it. Maybe we should leave.”
She shook her head. “We can’t just leave because of some coincidences. This is Mom’s farm. We need to figure out what to do with it.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. Something felt wrong.
The next morning, we found Tommy’s toy truck on the porch, right outside the front door. It was placed neatly, like someone had left it there on purpose. Tommy was thrilled, but Emily and I exchanged a look. “How did it get here?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said, my heart pounding. “But I’m starting to think we’re not alone here.”
The final straw came a few nights later. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of Tommy talking in his room. His voice was soft, like he was having a conversation. I crept down the hall and stood outside his door, listening. I heard him say, “But Grandma said I can’t play with you anymore.”
My blood ran cold. I pushed the door open and turned on the light. Tommy was sitting up in bed, staring at the corner of the room. “Who are you talking to, Tommy?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“The Farmer,” he said, still looking at the corner. “He’s right there.”
I followed his gaze, but the corner was empty. “Tommy, there’s no one there.”
“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “He’s standing right there, and he’s angry because Grandma said we can’t be friends.”
I scooped Tommy up and carried him to our bedroom. Emily was awake, her eyes wide with fear. “What’s going on?” she asked.
I told her what Tommy said. She covered her mouth, tears welling up. “What is happening?” she whispered. “Who is he talking to?”
“I don’t know,” I said, holding Tommy close. “But we’re leaving tomorrow.”
The next morning, as we packed our things, I went up to the attic to grab some of Margaret’s old boxes. That’s when I found it—an old photograph tucked inside a dusty album. It showed a man in overalls and a wide-brimmed hat, standing in front of the barn. The caption read, “Jacob Miller, 1955.”
I showed the photo to Tommy, my hands trembling. “Is this The Farmer?” I asked.
Tommy nodded. “That’s him,” he said.
We left the farm that day and never went back. We sold it a few months later. Tommy is thirteen now, and he doesn’t remember any of it. But Emily and I can’t forget. Every time I think about that summer, I wonder who—or what—The Farmer was, and why he knew things about our family that no one else could.