"The Night Visitors":
I booked a week at a remote farm in Nebraska after stumbling across an online ad promising “real country living.” It offered fresh air, hands-on chores, and quiet nights far from the noise of the city. The owners, John and Emily, ran it as a small agritourism venture, welcoming people like me who wanted to escape the rush.
The drive out there felt endless. My car rattled over a long dirt road carved straight through open fields that seemed to stretch into infinity, no towns or lights in sight. When I finally pulled up to the white farmhouse, paint peeling in places but neat and well-kept, John was waiting on the porch. His handshake was firm, his palms rough, his face lined from decades of work under the sun.
“Welcome,” he said in a low, steady voice. “We’ll make sure you get the full experience.”
Emily led me upstairs to the guest room. It was simple but inviting—quilted bedspread, a small dresser, a window looking out over the barn and fields. “Breakfast is at seven sharp,” she said with a smile that felt both warm and matter-of-fact. “If you’re up for it, you can collect the eggs yourself.” I nodded, eager.
That first day was like stepping into a postcard. I fed chickens, helped John repair a sagging fence, and watched the prairie sky turn copper and violet as the sun went down. Dinner was a heavy stew with fresh bread. John passed me the butter, saying, “Not many visitors this time of year. We like it that way—keeps things peaceful.”
Emily added quietly, “Just be careful walking around at night. The paths can be tricky in the dark.”
I laughed it off, assuming it was just rural caution, but the way she glanced at John lingered with me.
That night, the house was so silent it almost rang in my ears. No traffic, no distant sirens—only the soft creaks of old wood settling. I was nearly asleep when I heard a dull thump downstairs, like a door closing slowly. I sat up, straining to listen. John and Emily’s door across the hall stayed dark. Probably an animal, I told myself. Old houses and farms have sounds. But then came a faint scrape, like glass shifting against glass. My heart sped up.
I slipped to the window. Outside, the fields were pitch black, no moon, no movement. Nothing. I forced myself back under the quilt. Sleep eventually came, but it was thin, restless.
Over breakfast, Emily poured coffee and raised an eyebrow at my tired eyes. “Rough night?” she asked.
“A bit,” I admitted. “Heard some noises.”
John looked up from his plate. “Wind rattling the old windows. This house has been here since my grandfather’s time.”
We spent that day in the garden picking vegetables. Emily showed me how to spot ripe tomatoes, her fingers moving quick and sure. “You city folks miss out on this,” she teased. John joined later, telling stories about past guests who came back year after year. It eased my nerves. By sunset, I was telling myself I’d overreacted.
But as night fell again, the house seemed different—heavier, like it was holding its breath.
I left the lamp on and tried to read, but every creak in the floorboards made me jump. Around midnight, a sharp crack echoed from below—too loud, too distinct to be wind. My skin prickled. I opened the door a crack and peered into the hall. Darkness.
“John? Emily?” I whispered. No answer.
I crept to the top of the stairs. Faint voices drifted up—urgent, hushed. A man’s: “Check the rooms quick. We need cash or something worth taking.”
A girl’s reply, tense: “Shut up. Just grab what you can.”
My blood turned cold. Intruders.
I backed away, my pulse hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Back in my room, I locked the door—thank God there was a lock—and shoved a chair under the knob. Footsteps creaked on the stairs. I darted into the closet, crouching low and pulling hanging clothes around me.
The doorknob rattled. “This one’s locked,” the girl said.
“Break it,” the man snapped.
A thud shook the door but it held.
“Forget it,” he hissed. “Let’s find the owners first.”
Their footsteps moved down the hall.
Then John’s voice, muffled, somewhere nearby: “What do you want? We don’t have much.”
Emily’s plea: “Please, take what you need and go.”
The man’s harsh laugh: “We’ll decide that.”
A scuffle. Furniture clattering. Emily’s scream, cut off by a loud bang—like a gunshot. I clamped my hand over my mouth. Another bang. A low groan from John. Then silence.
I pressed myself deeper into the closet, shaking so hard the clothes trembled against me. Tears blurred my vision.
Downstairs now, drawers opening, metal clattering. “Got some jewelry,” the girl said.
“Not enough,” the man growled. “Check upstairs again.”
Footsteps on the stairs. My door rattled violently. “Open up!” he shouted.
I stayed still, praying. A kick splintered the wood. The door crashed inward. Light flipped on.
“Nobody here,” the girl said. “Bed’s messed up, though.”
“Heard us and ran,” the man muttered.
They searched—the bed, the drawers. The closet door creaked open inches from my face. Fabric shifted as the man moved hangers aside.
“Nothing,” he finally grunted. “Let’s get out before someone comes.”
Their footsteps receded. A car engine roared outside, gravel crunching as they sped away.
I waited what felt like hours before crawling out, legs numb, throat raw from holding back sobs. I grabbed my phone—one bar of signal—and dialed emergency.
“Help,” I whispered. “People are dead. Intruders shot them.”
I stayed upstairs until flashing lights bathed the house in red and blue. Police found John and Emily in their room. Gone. Blood everywhere.
“Did you see their faces?” an officer asked me.
I shook my head. “Only heard voices—a young man and a woman.”
Days later, two local relatives of John and Emily were arrested. One even confessed after a long interrogation. But something about it felt off.
Months passed. Then the news broke: the confession had been forced, evidence planted. The real killers were two teenagers from out of state on a drug-fueled spree with stolen guns. They’d broken in looking for easy cash. Things spiraled. The girl left behind a distinctive ring—that’s how police finally caught them. Both were sentenced to life.
I never returned to that farm. The memory of that night—the creak of the stairs, the gunshots, hiding while good people died—stayed with me.
Even now, on quiet evenings, I still check my locks twice.
"The Black Bear Inn":
I’d been running on fumes for months — long hours, crowded subway rides, the constant hum of city life that never seemed to stop. By the end of August, my nerves felt frayed like old rope. On a whim, I booked a weekend at a small bed and breakfast in the hills of Maine called The Black Bear. The listing promised fresh air, homemade meals, and quiet nights — exactly what I thought I needed.
I arrived on a crisp Friday afternoon in early September. My car rattled over the gravel driveway, trees closing in overhead as if swallowing me from the world I knew. The old farmhouse appeared between the pines, white paint dulled by decades of weather, its red roof bright as dried blood against the dark forest. A handmade sign creaked in the breeze: The Black Bear.
I got out, stretching my stiff legs, and grabbed my bag. There was no sound but the wind and the faint tick of my cooling engine. No cell service either — my phone showed a blank screen. A little disquiet stirred, but I told myself that was part of the charm.
A woman answered when I knocked — Julie, the owner. She was in her sixties, with short gray hair and a warm, practiced smile. “Welcome! You must be Emily,” she said, glancing at a handwritten notebook. Her voice had a gentle rasp, like someone who’d lived many winters. “Come on in. Your room’s ready upstairs.”
Inside, the air smelled of cedar and wood smoke. She gave me the tour: a cozy living room with an enormous stone fireplace, a kitchen where breakfast would be served, and a couple of small sitting rooms lined with books, board games, and faded armchairs. It felt homey but… still. Like a house waiting for something.
“We’re not very busy this weekend,” Julie said as we climbed the creaking stairs. “Just you, a long-term boarder named James, and my helper, Christian. He’s been staying here while working at a restaurant nearby.”
My room was small but clean, with a handmade quilt and a narrow window looking out into the endless woods. No cars. No neighbors. I unpacked quickly, trying not to think about how far away I already felt from everything.
Back downstairs, I wandered into the kitchen where a man stood chopping vegetables at the counter. Christian. He was about thirty, dark-haired, with a soft voice and an expression that never quite lifted. “Hi there,” he murmured, eyes flicking up just once. “I’m making soup for dinner. Want some later?”
“Sure, that sounds great,” I said. “This place is beautiful. How long have you been here?”
“A couple months,” he muttered, focusing on the knife’s rhythm. “It’s quiet. I like quiet.”
Julie came in carrying a basket of linens. “Christian’s a great cook,” she told me. “James is our other guest. You might see him out back — he’s been fixing up the shed for me.”
The air outside felt sharp and clean, smelling faintly of pine and rain. I sat on the porch in a rocking chair, watching the shadows lengthen. A man in work clothes was bent over near the shed, hammering something. He noticed me and waved.
“New here?” he called out.
“Yes, just for the weekend,” I replied, walking closer. “I’m Emily.”
“James,” he said, shaking my hand. His grip was firm, his eyes tired. “Been renting a room here a while. Helping Julie with repairs.” He lowered his voice. “Watch out for Christian, though. Guy’s a little… off sometimes. We had words about rent yesterday.”
“Oh? What happened?”
He shrugged. “Nothing big. He thinks I owe more. Julie sorted it.” Then, with a faint smile: “Anyway, enjoy your stay.”
That evening, we all ate together in the dim dining room. Christian’s soup was rich and spicy, served with crusty bread. James told stories about his travels, laughing easily, while Christian mostly stayed silent, eyes flicking toward us like a hawk’s. Julie asked me about my life in the city, and I told her about the stress and why I’d come.
“So peaceful here,” I said.
Julie’s smile faltered just a little. “That’s what people come for. But it can get lonely, too.”
Later, I helped her with the dishes. “Christian seems… quiet,” I ventured.
“He’s reliable,” she said, drying a plate. “Keeps to himself. Good thing, with the place for sale. I’m moving soon to be with family.”
“You’re selling?”
“Time for a change,” she murmured. “My daughter Selby’s visiting tomorrow. She’s bringing a friend.”
I went to bed early. The house groaned and settled around me like a living thing. Sometime after midnight, I woke to the sound of footsteps downstairs. Slow. Heavy. Pacing. I sat up, heart quickening. After a while, the footsteps stopped. I told myself it was nothing.
Saturday morning smelled of coffee. Julie poured me a cup. “James went out early,” she said. “Christian’s around somewhere.”
I hiked a trail she’d recommended. Hours later, when I returned, the house felt wrong — too still. No sign of James’s truck.
“He mentioned errands,” Julie said, but her brow furrowed. “Odd. He usually tells me.”
Christian appeared, carrying tools from the shed. “Seen James?” Julie asked.
“No,” he said after a pause. “Maybe he left for good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just saying. We talked yesterday. He might have moved on.”
Julie looked uneasy.
That evening Selby and her friend Cindy arrived, bringing a burst of chatter and warmth. We drank tea in the living room. Christian lingered in doorways, silent, listening. When Cindy asked about the “other guest,” Julie changed the subject.
By nightfall, the house felt smaller, its corners darker. I heard footsteps again, this time upstairs, just beyond my door.
Sunday morning, Julie’s face was pale. “James’s room is empty,” she whispered. “His things are still there. His truck’s gone. No note.”
“Should we call someone?” I asked.
“No signal. I’d have to drive to town.”
Christian came in, overhearing. “I told you, he left. Probably didn’t want to pay up.” His tone was sharp, his eyes hard. Julie stared at him. “What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” he snapped, then forced a smile. “Sorry. I’ll look around outside.”
He left. Cindy murmured, “Something feels off.”
Later I saw him through the window, by the edge of the woods, dragging something heavy. Tools, I thought. Or hoped.
That night I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight a muffled bang shook the house — a door slamming, then another sound, sharper, like a body hitting the floor. Voices below, low and urgent.
“What are you doing?” Julie’s voice.
Christian’s reply, cold: “Stay quiet. It’s done.”
A thump. Then dragging.
I locked my door, trembling, listening as footsteps climbed the stairs, paused, then receded.
At dawn the house was silent. In the kitchen a faint red smear stained the floor, half-wiped.
“Julie?” I called softly. No answer.
Outside, Christian stood by the bushes with a shovel. When he saw me, he smiled. “Morning. Sleep okay?”
“Where’s Julie? Where’s Selby and Cindy?” I asked, voice thin.
“They left early. Family thing.”
“But their car’s still here.”
He hesitated. “I drove them to town. Car trouble.”
I knew he was lying. My heart thudded. “I heard noises last night.”
“Just me fixing things,” he said. Then, stepping closer: “You should go back inside.”
I retreated upstairs. Their rooms were empty. Beds made too neatly. A dark patch on Selby’s floor still damp.
I grabbed my keys, planning to drive out. But Christian stood at the door, blocking it. “Going somewhere?” he asked softly.
“Just for a drive,” I lied.
“Stay. I made breakfast.”
There was a bulge in his pocket.
“No thanks. I really have to go.”
His hand shot out, gripping my arm. “I said stay.”
I tore free, bolting upstairs and barring my door. His footsteps thundered after me. “Open up, Emily,” he hissed.
I climbed out the window onto the roof. The shingles were slick. I dropped to the ground, pain stabbing my ankle, and ran into the woods. Branches clawed my face.
He followed, shouting, “Come back! It’s not what you think!”
I hid behind a tree, shaking, as he prowled nearby, calling my name.
Hours later, I stumbled onto the road, flagging down a passing car. The driver took me to the police.
They found James burned miles away. Julie, Selby, and Cindy were buried in pieces behind the house. Christian confessed after his family confronted him.
I still wake up hearing those footsteps in the dark.
"The Mango Farm":
I’d been backpacking across Australia for months—working in cafés, hostels, and orchards, chasing the warm weather north. My visa days were running low, and I needed more rural work to qualify for an extension. One evening, scrolling through a traveler’s Facebook group from a dingy hostel in Cairns, I saw an ad: “Help needed—fruit picking, room and board provided. Remote Queensland farm. Immediate start.”
It looked perfect—remote, quiet, a chance to save some money. The post had one name: Tom. His email reply came quickly:
“Come soon. Plenty of work. I’ll pick you up from the crossroads near Darr Creek. Friday morning.”
No signature, no details. Just coordinates and that strange line—come soon.
When the bus dropped me off, I was the only passenger to get off. The driver looked at me like I was making a mistake. “Not much out here,” he said.
“I know,” I smiled. “Just work.”
He shrugged and drove off, leaving me in a cloud of dust.
Tom arrived a few minutes later in an old, sun-bleached ute that rattled like it was barely holding together. He was older than I expected—maybe mid-fifties—with tanned skin, gray stubble, and a stiff kind of silence that didn’t invite small talk.
“You’re the one from Europe?” he asked as I climbed in.
“Yeah. From France,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “Thanks for picking me up.”
He nodded once, eyes on the road. His hands gripped the wheel tight. “Long way from home.”
The bitumen gave way to gravel, then to dirt. The ride was rough, the air thick with dust and heat. The land stretched flat forever—pale grass, clusters of trees, no houses, no cars.
“Quiet out here,” I said, mostly to fill the silence.
“Best that way,” he answered. “No one bothers you.”
When we finally reached the farm, the sun was low and gold over the fields. The house was small and crooked, paint peeling, surrounded by dry weeds. A single windmill turned lazily in the distance. The barn’s doors hung open, shadows inside swallowing the light.
Tom led me through the back door. “Your room’s down there,” he said, pointing to a narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s at the end. Dinner at six.”
The room was little more than a cot, a small window, and a rickety dresser. Dust clung to everything. The air smelled faintly of mold and fruit gone sour. I unpacked in silence, hearing him moving around the kitchen—pots clanging, floorboards creaking.
Dinner was stew—lukewarm, bland, but filling. We sat opposite each other at a table that wobbled with every movement. He barely looked up as he ate.
“How long have you had this place?” I asked.
“Family farm,” he said, chewing slowly. “Wife left years ago. Kids too.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Better alone. Easier that way.”
There was something about how he said it—like solitude wasn’t a choice, but a punishment he’d come to enjoy. His eyes flicked to me once or twice, too long, too quiet. After a few strained minutes, I excused myself to shower.
The bathroom light flickered when I switched it on. The mirror was fogged with old stains, and the curtain was thin enough that I could see the vague outline of my own shadow. As I turned on the water, I heard slow footsteps outside the door. Then they stopped.
“Tom?” I called out.
No answer.
A moment later, a knock—three soft raps.
“You okay in there?” His voice was muffled.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said quickly, heart pounding.
“The door sticks sometimes. I’ll check.”
“No!” I said sharply. “It’s fine.”
Silence, then retreating footsteps down the hall.
I finished quickly, every sound amplified by my nerves. When I stepped out, the hallway was empty, but his door was ajar, and the light was on. I thought I saw him watching me from his chair as I passed, eyes dull and heavy.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the old house made me flinch. Somewhere near midnight, I heard faint pacing in the hallway—slow, measured steps that stopped just outside my door. Then, nothing.
At dawn, he banged once on the door. “Up. Time to work.”
We picked mangoes all morning, the sun beating down mercilessly. Tom barely spoke. When he did, it was in short, dry sentences. “You work hard,” he said once. “Good girl.”
I forced a smile, unsure how to respond.
At lunch, while sitting on the porch, he said, “Had other helpers before. Girls like you. They come and go.”
“What happened to them?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He paused, staring at the horizon. “Some didn’t last. Too quiet for ‘em. One girl got scared. Over nothing.”
“What kind of nothing?”
“Stories,” he said. “People around here like to talk.”
That afternoon, while picking alone near the far end of the orchard, I noticed something glinting in the dirt—a silver bracelet, half-buried under a root. It had a small charm shaped like a bird. It didn’t look old, maybe lost just months ago. I slipped it into my pocket.
That evening, I offered to cook—scrambled eggs, something simple. Tom sat at the table, hands clasped, eyes unfocused. “You remind me of someone,” he said after a while.
“Oh? Who?”
“A girl stayed here last year. Nice like you.”
“Did she finish the season?”
He looked down at his plate. “She went home, I think. Stopped writing after a while.”
The way he said it made my stomach twist. I locked my door that night, though the latch was flimsy. Around midnight, I woke to a faint scratching sound at the window—deliberate, rhythmic. My phone had no signal. I lay still, barely breathing. The curtain moved slightly, like something—or someone—was brushing against it. Then it stopped.
The next morning, I pretended nothing was wrong. When Tom went to fix a fence, I told him I’d grab more baskets and slipped into the barn. It smelled of oil and old hay. In one corner, under a tarp, I found a stack of old backpacks—some faded, some newer. My heart sank. I unzipped one. Inside were clothes, toiletries, and a small notebook. The first page read:
“Tom watches me too much. I need to leave soon.”
I didn’t need to read more. I dropped it, hands shaking—and that’s when I heard the door behind me creak.
“What are you doing?” Tom’s voice was low, steady.
I turned, forcing a smile. “Looking for a basket.”
“You shouldn’t snoop.”
“I wasn’t—sorry.”
He stepped closer. His eyes were cold now, flat. “Girls who snoop get themselves in trouble.”
“I think I should get back to work.”
He blocked the doorway. “You like it here?”
“It’s... fine.”
“You could stay longer. Don’t have to leave.”
“I have plans,” I said, backing up.
His expression hardened. “No one leaves early.”
Something in his tone snapped my nerves. I bolted past him, ran for the house, grabbed my bag. No buses, no car, nothing but a dirt road stretching for miles. I started walking fast, then faster. The heat pressed down like a weight.
Behind me, his truck engine roared to life. He pulled up beside me, dust swirling around my legs. “Get in,” he called.
“No,” I said. “I’m leaving.”
“You’ll die out here. Too far to walk.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He got out, eyes burning now. “Come back. We can fix this.”
I turned and ran. He caught my sleeve, yanked hard. “Stop!”
I twisted free, sprinting down the road, screaming. In the distance, through the shimmer of heat, I saw a small farmhouse—a figure on the porch. I screamed again, waving my arms.
Tom stopped. His jaw clenched. Then he cursed, turned, and got back in the truck. The sound of his engine faded into the hills.
When I reached the neighbor’s house, an elderly couple rushed out. The woman took one look at me and said, “You’ve been at Tom’s place, haven’t you?”
I nodded, shaking.
She sighed. “You’re not the first.”
The police came hours later. They questioned me gently, then one of them muttered to the other, “Same complaints. Same story. Always just out of reach.”
Apparently, other backpackers had filed reports—harassment, missing belongings, attempted assaults—but no one ever stayed long enough for charges to stick.
I left Queensland the next day. Sometimes I still dream about that window—the scratching, the shape outside.
When people ask if I’d ever go back to Australia’s countryside, I just shake my head. There’s a kind of silence out there that feels wrong.
Some places aren’t meant to be that quiet.