"The Farm Gate":
I pulled up to the old farm gate around dusk, my truck rumbling over the gravel like it was chewing rocks. The place was way out in the countryside, miles from the nearest town, surrounded by nothing but fields and woods that seemed to swallow the light. I'd known Jake from high school; he was that rich kid who always had cash and connections. Lately, he'd been texting about good deals on weed, saying he had a hookup on his family's property. Sounded easy enough—buy a couple ounces, head home. My buddy Ryan came along, figuring we'd split the cost and smoke later.
Jake waved from the porch of the big barn-like house, his smile wide under that messy hair. He looked the same as always, tall and broad, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans covered in dirt. "Alex! Ryan! Get in here," he called, his voice carrying across the yard. We parked and hopped out, grabbing our backpacks. The air smelled like hay and engine oil, and the farm equipment loomed in the shadows—tractors, a backhoe, piles of tires stacked like forgotten toys.
We followed him inside the house, which was more like a workshop than a home, with tools scattered on tables and empty bottles on the counter. His cousin Ben was there, lounging on a couch with a beer, nodding at us. Ben was quieter, skinny with sharp eyes, the kind that watched everything without saying much. "You guys want a drink first?" Jake asked, cracking open sodas from the fridge. We said sure, settling at the kitchen table. Ryan pulled out the cash, counting bills while Jake talked about how his folks owned all this land, how he ran the place now that they were away.
The conversation started normal. Jake bragged about fixing up an old ATV out back, showed us pictures on his phone of him riding it through the fields. Ryan laughed, asking if we could take a spin later. Ben just smirked, sipping his drink slowly. But then Jake's tone shifted a bit. He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. "You know, this farm's got spots nobody knows about. Buried treasures and all that." We chuckled, thinking he meant junk from years ago. He went on about how he'd dug up old stuff once, bones from animals or something, and how it made him feel powerful, like he controlled everything out here.
I glanced at Ryan, who raised an eyebrow but kept smiling. Jake pulled out a baggie from a drawer—decent green, smelled strong. "This is top stuff," he said, weighing it on a scale. We haggled a little on price, Ryan pushing for a discount since it was just us. Ben stood up then, pacing to the window, looking out at the darkening yard. "Hurry it up," he muttered to Jake. Jake shot him a look, then turned back to us with that grin again. "No rush. We're good here."
That's when I noticed the gun. It was on the counter, half-hidden under a rag, a shiny revolver that caught the kitchen light. My stomach tightened, but I told myself it was for protection—farms had coyotes or whatever. Jake saw me looking and laughed. "Don't worry about that. Just in case." He slid the baggie over, taking the money. Ryan pocketed it, standing to leave. "Cool, man. Thanks. We'll hit you up next time."
But Jake didn't move. He blocked the door a little, his body filling the frame. "You sure that's all? I got more if you want." Ryan shook his head, polite but firm. "Nah, we're set." Ben stepped closer now, his hands in his pockets, eyes locked on Ryan. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. Jake's smile faded just a touch. "Come on, stay a minute. I wanna show you the back field. Got a fire pit going."
I didn't like it. Something in his voice, the way Ben hovered—it wasn't right. "Maybe next time," I said, edging toward the door. Ryan nodded, following me. Jake put a hand on Ryan's shoulder, squeezing. "Relax, dude. We're friends." Ryan shrugged it off, but Jake's grip tightened. "What's your problem?" Ryan asked, voice steady but annoyed.
In a blink, Jake shoved Ryan hard against the wall. The soda cans rattled off the table. "You think you can just take my stuff and go?" Jake snarled, his face twisting. Ben lunged, grabbing Ryan's arms from behind. I froze for a split second, then yelled, "What the hell? Let him go!" Jake turned to me, eyes wild, pulling the gun from the counter. "Shut up, Alex. You saw too much."
Ryan struggled, kicking at Ben. "Get off me!" he shouted. The gun went off—bang, deafening in the small space. Ryan jerked, blood blooming on his shirt. He gasped, sliding down the wall. I backed up, heart racing, hands up. "Jake, stop! We're leaving!" But he aimed at me next, finger on the trigger. Ben was on the floor now, wrestling Ryan, who was wheezing, trying to crawl away.
I didn't think—I just ran. Shoved past Jake, burst through the door into the yard. Footsteps pounded behind me. "Alex! Get back here!" Jake bellowed. I sprinted for my truck, keys fumbling in my pocket. Another shot cracked the air, whizzing past my ear. I dove into the cab, slamming the door, engine roaring to life. Tires spun on gravel as I peeled out, glancing in the mirror. Jake stood there, gun raised, Ben dragging something—Ryan?—back inside.
I drove like mad, hands shaking on the wheel, not stopping until I hit the highway. Called the cops from a gas station, words tumbling out. They found Ryan's body later that night, shot twice, dragged to the barn. Jake and Ben confessed days after, talking about how it started over the money but spiraled. They'd done it before, luring guys out here for deals that turned deadly. Buried the others in shallow graves behind the fields, using the backhoe to cover their tracks. The farm was their trap, isolated enough that screams didn't carry.
I still drive by that road sometimes, can't help it. The gate's chained now, house empty. But at night, I hear that bang in my dreams, see Ryan's face. Out there, alone, nobody hears you.
"Footsteps in the Attic":
I took the job at the old farm because it paid steady, and I needed work after losing my spot in town. The place sat way out in the country, miles from any neighbors, just fields and woods closing in around it. The owner, Mr. Gruber, was a sturdy man in his sixties with a face like weathered wood. He shook my hand firm when I showed up and said, "You'll sleep in the loft above the barn. Earn your keep with the chores." His wife nodded from the doorway, her eyes sharp but quiet. Their daughter, Viktoria, lived there too with her two kids—a girl about seven and a little boy just learning to walk. The family kept to themselves, but they seemed solid enough.
My first week went smooth. I fixed fences, hauled hay, and milked the cows before dawn. The attic above the main house creaked sometimes at night, but I figured it was the wind or mice. One evening, as I shoveled out the stalls, Viktoria came by with a basket of bread. "You settling in?" she asked, her voice soft. I wiped my hands and took a piece. "Yes, ma'am. Quiet out here." She smiled a bit. "Too quiet sometimes. Father found footprints last winter, leading right to the back door. Thought it was a tramp, but nothing missing." I nodded, not thinking much of it. Farms get wanderers now and then.
A few days later, Mr. Gruber called me over while I was mending the roof. He held up a newspaper, crumpled and old. "Look at this," he said, his brow furrowed. "From the city, Munich. None of us get that here. Found it under the porch steps." I took it, scanning the headlines about city folk and politics. "Strange," I replied. "Maybe the wind blew it from the road." He shook his head. "Road's too far. And the lock on the machine shed—it's busted now. Someone's been poking around." His wife overheard from the kitchen window and added, "We heard steps in the attic last night. Like boots on the boards." I felt a prickle on my neck but kept my face steady. "I'll check the doors tonight, make sure they're latched."
That night, after everyone turned in, I grabbed a lantern and climbed to the attic in the main house. The air up there was thick with dust, and the beam swung shadows across old trunks and tools. Nothing moved. I called out, "Anyone there?" My voice echoed back empty. Just as I turned to go, a soft thump came from the far corner—like something shifting. I held the light high, but saw only cobwebs. Heart racing a little, I hurried down and bolted the hatch. Back in the barn loft, I lay awake, listening to the house settle. No more sounds, but sleep didn't come easy.
The next morning, Mr. Gruber seemed on edge. Over breakfast in the kitchen—porridge and cheese—he said to me, "Keep an eye out today. That newspaper bothers me. And the footprints—I'll show you." After eating, he led me to the edge of the property, where snow from a recent flurry still clung to the ground. Sure enough, boot prints trailed from the woods straight to the machine room door. Fresh ones, deeper than mine. "See that?" he muttered. "Not ours. Someone's watching the place." Viktoria joined us, holding her son's hand. The boy babbled and pointed at the tracks. "Like a game," she said, but her laugh was forced. "Maybe it's just the neighbor kids." Mr. Gruber grunted. "Kids don't break locks."
I spent the day patrolling the fences, rifle slung over my shoulder—just in case. The woods felt thicker, like eyes peered from the trees. Around noon, the little girl ran up while I was splitting wood. "Uncle," she called me that already, "come see the attic. Mama says there's a secret up there." I set down the axe. "What kind of secret?" She tugged my hand. "Noises. Like whispering." Her mother called from the house, "Cäzilia, leave him be!" But I followed her inside anyway, curiosity pulling me. Up in the attic again, the girl pointed to a loose board. I pried it up, finding only dirt and a rusted nail. No whispers, but as we descended, a faint scrape echoed from above—like nails on wood. I glanced back, but the ladder was still.
That evening, the new maid arrived. Her name was Maria, a woman in her forties with a tired smile. Mr. Gruber introduced us at the door. "She starts tonight," he said. Maria nodded. "Glad to be here. Heard the farm needs help." We all sat for supper—stew from the pot, bread fresh baked. Talk was light at first, about the cows and the coming spring. But then Mrs. Gruber leaned in. "You know about the attic?" she asked Maria. The maid paused. "The old one quit over it, they say." Mr. Gruber waved it off. "Nonsense. Just old house settling." But Viktoria looked at me across the table. "You heard it too, didn't you?" I admitted, "Something up there, yes. But probably rats." Maria shivered slightly. "I'll stay in the downstairs room, thank you."
Sleep evaded me again that night. Around midnight, a low moan carried from the house—like wind through a crack, but steadier. I sat up in the loft, straining to hear. Then footsteps. Slow, deliberate, crossing the attic floor. Thump, thump. Not rats. I slipped on my boots and grabbed the lantern, heart thumping hard. Creeping to the barn door, I peered toward the house. A figure? No, just the outline of the chimney. But the steps continued, fading then returning. I thought of waking Mr. Gruber, but what if it was nothing? What if I looked foolish?
By morning, tension hung thick. Mr. Gruber gathered us in the yard. "We're not imagining this," he said, voice low. "Someone's been in the attic. I found straw from up there on the floor below." Maria wrung her hands. "Should we call the sheriff?" He shook his head. "Too far out. Takes a day to get here. We'll handle it." Viktoria hugged her kids close. "What if they come down?" The little boy whimpered, and she shushed him. I spoke up. "Let me sleep in the house tonight. Guard the stairs." Mr. Gruber agreed. "Good. Rifle ready."
As dusk fell, I moved my things inside, bedding down near the attic hatch with the gun across my lap. The family retired early, lights out one by one. Hours passed in quiet, the clock ticking on the wall. Then it started—a soft rustle from above, like clothing brushing floorboards. I gripped the rifle, whispering to myself to stay calm. The rustle grew to pacing, back and forth. Closer to the hatch. A creak, as if weight shifted on the ladder. I raised the barrel, finger on the trigger. "Who's there?" I called, voice barely above a breath.
Silence answered. Then a knock—three slow raps on the wood from above. My blood ran cold. Not wind, not rats. Someone was up there, playing with us. I fired a warning shot into the ceiling, the bang echoing through the house. Shouts came from the rooms—Mr. Gruber yelling, "What is it?" Viktoria crying out for the kids. I yelled back, "In the attic! Get out!" Chaos followed. Doors banged open, feet pounded down the hall. I kicked the hatch wide, lantern high, but the attic gaped empty, dust swirling. No one.
We all huddled in the kitchen, lanterns flickering. Mr. Gruber clutched his own gun. "You saw nothing?" I shook my head. "Heard knocking. Like he wanted me to know." Maria sobbed quietly. "I can't stay. This place is cursed—no, wait, not cursed. Just wrong." Viktoria comforted her son. "We leave at dawn. Pack now." But Mr. Gruber stood firm. "No. This is our home. We'll board the attic and wait for light."
I couldn't shake the feeling that eyes watched from every dark corner. As the night dragged, whispers seemed to drift from the walls—not words, but breaths. Close. Too close. When the first gray light crept in, I bolted for the door. "I'm going for help," I told them. Mr. Gruber nodded grimly. "Hurry." I ran down the path, not looking back, the farm shrinking behind me. Miles later, I reached the nearest town and fetched the law. But by the time we returned, it was too late. The family—gone. Bodies in the barn, stacked like cordwood, struck down with the mattock from the loft. The killer had waited, fed the animals, even lit the fire. And the attic? Empty, but for a single boot print in the dust.
I still wake to those footsteps sometimes, wondering if he ever left.
"The Burn Pile":
I drove up that long dirt road one afternoon, figuring the farm job would be a fresh start. My truck rattled over the ruts, and the place came into view—a big old house with barns scattered around, horses grazing in the fields. The ad had promised room and board for hard work, and I was low on cash after losing my last gig. A woman stepped out onto the porch as I parked, waving me over. She looked to be in her forties, tall and slim, with sharp eyes and a smile that seemed too wide.
"You must be here for the help position," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Sheila. Come on in, let's talk."
Her grip was firm, almost too tight. Inside, the house smelled of hay and something sweeter, like old perfume mixed with smoke. She led me to the kitchen, poured coffee without asking, and sat across from me at the table. We chatted about my background—I told her I'd worked on ranches before, knew how to mend fences and care for animals. She nodded, her eyes never leaving my face.
"I run this place alone now," she said. "My husband passed years ago. It's a lot, but I manage. You seem strong. Can you start tomorrow?"
I agreed right then. The pay was decent, and the isolation didn't bother me. I liked the quiet. She showed me to a small room upstairs, sparse with a bed and a dresser. "Make yourself at home," she said. "Supper's at seven."
That first night, I ate with her in the dining room. She talked nonstop—about the horses, the neighbors who kept to themselves, how God had guided her to this life. Her voice had an edge, like she was reciting lines from a script. I kept my responses short, focusing on my plate of stew and bread.
The work started early. I mucked stalls, fed the animals, fixed a broken gate by the back pasture. Sheila watched from the porch most days, calling out instructions. "Over there, by the fence. That's it." She praised me when I did well, but her compliments felt off, like they hid something sharper. One morning, as I hauled water to the troughs, she walked up close.
"You're doing good," she said, her hand brushing my arm. "Most boys run off after a week. But you... you stay."
I nodded, uncomfortable with how she lingered. "Just need the job," I replied.
By the end of the first week, I noticed odd things. Tools left out of place, like someone had been in the barn after me. Footprints in the soft dirt near the house that weren't mine. I mentioned it once over lunch.
"Probably raccoons," she said, laughing it off. "This place is full of critters. Don't worry about it."
But her laugh didn't reach her eyes. That night, I heard noises—scraping sounds from downstairs, like metal on wood. I lay in bed, listening, but when I got up to check, the house was still. Sleep came slow after that.
A couple weeks in, another guy showed up. He was younger than me, maybe twenty, with a backpack and a nervous look. Sheila introduced him as Ken, said he was here to help too. We shook hands in the yard.
"Glad to have company," I said.
He smiled faintly. "Yeah. She seems nice."
We worked side by side that day, repairing a shed roof. Ken was quiet at first, but as we nailed boards, he opened up. "I answered her ad online. Said she needed hands for the farm. My folks kicked me out, so..."
I understood. "It's steady here. Just watch the burn pile out back—she's always adding to it."
He glanced toward the field where smoke sometimes rose. "What's she burn?"
"Trash, mostly. Old papers, farm waste."
That evening, Sheila cooked a big meal for the three of us. She sat between us at the table, pouring wine she insisted we drink. "To new friends," she toasted.
Ken took a sip and coughed. "Strong stuff."
She leaned toward him. "You'll get used to it. Tell me about yourself, Ken. What brings a boy like you here?"
He shifted in his seat. "Just need work. Like he does." He nodded at me.
Sheila's smile tightened. "Everyone has secrets. God sees them all."
The conversation turned strange after that. She talked about her past—modeling in New York, a bad marriage, how faith saved her. Then she fixed her gaze on Ken. "You ever do wrong to little ones? Be honest now."
Ken's fork paused midway to his mouth. "What? No, ma'am."
"Good," she said, patting his hand. "I can't abide that. It's why I'm here—to set things right."
I exchanged a look with Ken, but he just stared at his plate. After dinner, she sent him to the barn for a task, then turned to me. "He's troubled. I can tell. But I'll help him, like I help you."
Her words stuck with me. That night, the scraping sounds returned, louder, from the direction of the basement. I got up, flashlight in hand, and crept downstairs. The kitchen was empty, but the door to the cellar stood ajar. A faint smell wafted up—burnt meat and chemicals. I called out softly. "Hello?"
No answer. I shone the light down the stairs. Shadows played on the walls, but nothing moved. Heart racing, I closed the door and locked it, then went back to bed. Morning came, and Ken was gone from his room. Sheila said he left early for town, but his backpack still sat by the door.
Days passed without word from him. I asked Sheila about it while we fed the horses. "Ken coming back?"
She didn't look up from the bucket she carried. "He wasn't right for this place. God told me."
Her tone chilled me. I started paying closer attention. The burn pile grew higher, smoke curling up in thin wisps even when she wasn't adding to it. One afternoon, I found a wallet in the barn loft—Ken's, with his ID inside. I pocketed it, unsure what to do.
That evening, Sheila called me to the porch. "Sit with me," she said. The sun dipped low, painting the fields gold. She sipped her drink, staring out. "You've been here a month now. Do you like it?"
"It's work," I said carefully. "But yeah."
She turned to me, eyes intense. "I see things in people. Sins they hide. Like with Ken. He confessed to me—touched kids, hurt them. I had to stop him."
My mouth went dry. "What do you mean?"
"God's work," she whispered. "I burn away the evil. You understand, don't you?"
I stood up slowly. "I think I should go."
Her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. "No. You're good. Stay."
I pulled free and backed toward the door. "I need to think."
Inside, I grabbed my things, heart hammering. As I headed for the stairs, I heard her voice from below. "Don't leave me alone here."
I didn't answer. In the yard, I threw my bag in the truck and drove off fast, gravel flying. But halfway down the road, I stopped. Ken's wallet burned in my pocket. I turned back, parking out of sight behind the trees.
Creeping to the burn pile, I waited until dark. Sheila went inside, lights flicking on. The pile smoldered, embers glowing. I poked at it with a stick, and something hard emerged—a bone, charred but human-sized. Then another. My hands shook as I dug deeper, finding a ring that matched one Ken wore.
Sirens wailed in the distance—someone must have called. I ran to my truck and got away, driving straight to the police station two towns over. I handed over the wallet and told them everything. They went to the farm that night.
Sheila was arrested. They found remains in the burn pit, and more in the basement. Ken's body, and another man's from before. She confessed to killing them, said God commanded it because they were bad. They think she did more, boys who came and never left.
I still see that farm in my dreams—the smoke, her eyes. I got out, but the fear stays.
"The Silence":
I woke up that morning with the usual list of chores running through my mind. The farm had been our life for over four decades, just me, my wife, and the endless rows of maize stretching out from our house. My parents lived in the smaller place down the path, close enough to walk but far enough that it took a few minutes. They were getting older, but still stubborn about handling things on their own. That Sunday was Mother's Day, and we'd planned a simple lunch together. Nothing fancy, just some meat on the braai and time to talk.
My wife and I started the day early, like always. She was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, while I checked the irrigation lines outside. Around ten, I called my parents to confirm they'd be over after church. My father picked up, his voice steady as ever. "We'll see you at noon, son," he said. "Your mother is looking forward to it." I could hear her in the background, laughing about something small. It felt normal, the kind of call that happens every week.
But as the morning dragged on, a quiet worry started to creep in. Church usually ended by eleven, and they were only a short drive away. By eleven-thirty, my wife noticed too. "Where are they?" she asked, glancing at the clock while setting the table. I shrugged it off at first. "Traffic, maybe. Or they stopped for something." But deep down, I knew better. The area had been tense lately. We'd heard stories from neighbors—strangers lurking near gates at night, gates left open, tools missing from sheds. Farm attacks weren't rare here; they happened too often, and everyone whispered about them over coffee. My father had even installed extra locks last month, muttering about how things were changing.
Noon came and went. The food was ready, but the table stayed empty. My wife paced a little, her hands twisting a dishcloth. "Call them again," she said. I did, but the phone just rang and rang, no answer. That knot in my gut tightened. "I'm going to check on them," I told her. She nodded, her face pale. "Be careful. Take your phone." I grabbed it and headed down the path, the dirt crunching under my boots. The farm was quiet, just the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant hum of a tractor from another property. Our place was isolated, miles from the main road, which was why we loved it—and why it scared me sometimes.
As I walked, I scanned the area. My father's car was there, parked right by the house, like he'd come straight home from church. That didn't make sense. Why hadn't he called? The front door was ajar, just a crack, but something about it looked wrong. I pushed it open slowly, calling out, "Dad? Mom? It's me." No response. The living room was a mess—cushions knocked over, a lamp tipped on its side. My voice echoed a bit, too loud in the stillness. I stepped further in, my shoes sticking slightly to the floor. That's when I saw it: a dark smear on the wall, like paint, but thicker. Blood. My mind raced, but I pushed forward, telling myself it could be anything.
The kitchen was worse. Drawers pulled out, papers scattered. Then I noticed the back door—splintered, like someone had forced it with something heavy. An axe, maybe, from the shed. "Dad!" I shouted again, louder. Still nothing. I moved to the hallway, my breath coming short. The bedroom door was closed, but a faint metallic smell hung in the air, sharp and wrong. I turned the knob, and it swung open.
What I saw next will stay with me forever. My parents lay on the floor, not moving. My father on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling, his shirt soaked red. My mother face down beside him, her hair matted. Their hands were bound behind them with cord from the curtains, twisted tight. Blood pooled around them, thick and dark, soaking into the rug. I dropped to my knees, reaching for my father first. His skin was cold, no breath. Then my mother—still a little warm, but her neck... oh God, her neck was cut deep, an iron cord wrapped around it like a noose. I touched her wrist, searching for a pulse, but there was none. Flies were already buzzing in from the open window.
I backed away, my hands shaking, covered in their blood. Who could do this? Robbers, maybe—they'd taken his guns from the cabinet, some cash from the drawer, his laptop. But this wasn't quick. They'd tied them up, made them wait, terrified. I could picture it: my parents coming home, hearing the noise, thinking it was an animal or wind. Then the door breaking, men rushing in, masks or no, demanding things. My father would have fought, I know he would. "Get out," he'd say, voice firm. But there were probably more than one, overpowering him. My mother screaming, "Fanie, help!" as they dragged her. The sounds—grunts, thuds, her pleas cut short.
I stumbled out of the room, dialing the police with bloody fingers. "My parents... they're dead," I choked out when they answered. The operator asked questions, but I could barely speak. My wife met me halfway down the path, running. "What happened?" she gasped. I pulled her close, not wanting to say it. "They're gone. Someone got in." She cried then, hard, and we waited together for the sirens, which seemed to take hours.
The police came, then detectives. They said it looked like the attackers waited inside, ambushing when my parents returned. No fingerprints, no clear tracks—the maizefields swallowed everything. Days later, they caught two men nearby, with some of the stolen items. But the trial dragged, and the full story never came out. Why our farm? Was it just opportunity, or something more? We'd heard talk of land grabs, anger boiling over. My father had voted a certain way, spoken out at meetings. Did that make us targets?
That night, after the bodies were taken, my wife and I sat in our kitchen, doors bolted, lights on. Every creak made us jump. "What if they come back?" she whispered. I held her hand. "They won't. But we can't stay like this." The farm felt poisoned now, every corner hiding threats. I sold it months later, moved to town. But the images don't fade—the blood, the cord, their bound hands. And the questions: What did my parents feel in those last minutes? Did they know help wouldn't come in time?
Years on, I still check locks twice, avoid isolated roads. That day stole more than lives; it stole peace. And in quiet moments, I wonder if another family is walking that path right now, calling out unanswered.