Russel’s truck pulled off the main road and onto the gravel path of the driveway. It was quarter mile long and flanked by dry brittle stalks of corn, straight to the property. A scarecrow leered grotesquely from the foliage about halfway down. The house had foreclosed when its previous owner abandoned it a few months before and that, combined with the property value of the deep country, allowed Russel to buy it for a song.
The house was made of weathered planks of wood, bleached almost white from the sun. The windows were dark and foggy, and shingles flaked from the roof like scabrous bark.
Russel spent the first days cleaning the inexhaustible supply of dust and chasing off spiders. After that, a coat of paint was in order, as well as other repairs, so he became a fixture at the local hardware store. When he told his new neighbors where he was staying they exchanged looks and told him about the strange stories that came from that farm. Old stories about whispers in the corn and odd sightings after dark. One man even spoke of a pagan sect that used to live there before the area was settled. True blue pentagrams and goat horns Satanists, making blood sacrifices and speaking in tongues. The man didn't return the smile when Russel said he'd be sure to play some Iron Maiden when the sun sets.
He was determined to make this work. City life had left him as worn down and dilapidated as that house, and it would take more than a few ghost stories to scare him off.
Or so he thought, until later that week he awoke in the middle of the night to hear the barely perceptible timbre of a conversation being had outside. It sounded like someone was trying to tell a joke in church: hushed and furtive, but with an unmistakable sense of glee. As if the speakers could barely contain their laughter. Russel didn’t own a television or radio, but was willing to chalk it up to the dregs of the uneasy sleep he’d just woken from. The yokel's story rattled him was all.
He was less willing to explain it away when it happened again the next night, and even less so when the nocturnal visitors passed by the window and dragged their elongated shadows across his bed. The notion evaporated altogether when they decided to include him on the conversation and attempted to open the locked front door.
The next morning Russel drove into town and bought a 12-guage shotgun and some shells. That night he put on a pot of coffee, put out the lights, and posted up with the barrel leveled at the door, determined not to sleep. Around 3AM he was shocked awake by the sound of a large body slamming hard into the side of the house. He leapt from his chair and all but kicked the front door open, and trained the gun towards the direction of the sound. He didn’t see anyone there, but did see the stalks of corn swaying and heard the dry crunch of running footsteps.
He ran after them, into the corn.
::
Sherriff Teddy Miller pulled his cruiser off of Chestnut Street and onto the old McCoy farm’s driveway. The newcomer, one Russel Kelly, had not been seen in town for over a month. Pulling up to the house, he saw Kelly's truck parked up front. After about twenty minutes inspecting the property, Teddy was convinced that he wasn't home and hadn't been for some time. Not too peculiar, all things told. People came and went after all. The truck didn't raise too many red flags either, as it was a beater that Kelly had bought off the side of the road, or so Buck Abernathy at the hardware store claimed Kelly had confided in him. It did strike Teddy as odd that the man would spend so much time restoring the house, only to abandon it just after completion.
He’d even put up a second scarecrow.
The house was made of weathered planks of wood, bleached almost white from the sun. The windows were dark and foggy, and shingles flaked from the roof like scabrous bark.
Russel spent the first days cleaning the inexhaustible supply of dust and chasing off spiders. After that, a coat of paint was in order, as well as other repairs, so he became a fixture at the local hardware store. When he told his new neighbors where he was staying they exchanged looks and told him about the strange stories that came from that farm. Old stories about whispers in the corn and odd sightings after dark. One man even spoke of a pagan sect that used to live there before the area was settled. True blue pentagrams and goat horns Satanists, making blood sacrifices and speaking in tongues. The man didn't return the smile when Russel said he'd be sure to play some Iron Maiden when the sun sets.
He was determined to make this work. City life had left him as worn down and dilapidated as that house, and it would take more than a few ghost stories to scare him off.
Or so he thought, until later that week he awoke in the middle of the night to hear the barely perceptible timbre of a conversation being had outside. It sounded like someone was trying to tell a joke in church: hushed and furtive, but with an unmistakable sense of glee. As if the speakers could barely contain their laughter. Russel didn’t own a television or radio, but was willing to chalk it up to the dregs of the uneasy sleep he’d just woken from. The yokel's story rattled him was all.
He was less willing to explain it away when it happened again the next night, and even less so when the nocturnal visitors passed by the window and dragged their elongated shadows across his bed. The notion evaporated altogether when they decided to include him on the conversation and attempted to open the locked front door.
The next morning Russel drove into town and bought a 12-guage shotgun and some shells. That night he put on a pot of coffee, put out the lights, and posted up with the barrel leveled at the door, determined not to sleep. Around 3AM he was shocked awake by the sound of a large body slamming hard into the side of the house. He leapt from his chair and all but kicked the front door open, and trained the gun towards the direction of the sound. He didn’t see anyone there, but did see the stalks of corn swaying and heard the dry crunch of running footsteps.
He ran after them, into the corn.
::
Sherriff Teddy Miller pulled his cruiser off of Chestnut Street and onto the old McCoy farm’s driveway. The newcomer, one Russel Kelly, had not been seen in town for over a month. Pulling up to the house, he saw Kelly's truck parked up front. After about twenty minutes inspecting the property, Teddy was convinced that he wasn't home and hadn't been for some time. Not too peculiar, all things told. People came and went after all. The truck didn't raise too many red flags either, as it was a beater that Kelly had bought off the side of the road, or so Buck Abernathy at the hardware store claimed Kelly had confided in him. It did strike Teddy as odd that the man would spend so much time restoring the house, only to abandon it just after completion.
He’d even put up a second scarecrow.