Jack had lived at the farm his family owned all his life, and something had always seemed a bit off about the expanse of land. Every door and floorboard creaked in their old farmhouse, and there seemed to be an ever present chill over everything. But weirder than that was what would sometimes happen to the animals they kept. Every so often, a single cow or chicken would be found dead in its pen or pasture. Now, this by itself would have been normal enough, except that the animals never showed any signs of being close to a natural death. None of them had been very old, and none had ever been sick. The only strange thing about these animals, besides their mysterious deaths, were the dark splotches found on their necks and sides. As the farm had been around for almost a century, there had always been a fair amount of speculation about what had killed these animals. A werewolf was always a common guess, and so was some kind of vampire. Even though rumors like these flowed through the town fast as a river, Jack had never believed any of them. He knew the place he had grown up like the palm of his hand, and he found it extremely unlikely that some paranormal being was to blame for the strange happenings at the farm. Or so he thought.
It was late one night when he and his family were harvesting the last batch of apples before it got cold. Jack’s mother planned to can them for winter, and kept barking at her children to be careful. Jack stayed close to his older brothers as he reached for the cool, crimson spheres. A little ways off, his youngest sister was sitting in the grass, poking the earth with a small twig, when suddenly a shrill screech escaped her. She jumped up and raced over to Jack, who winced as her small hands gripped his arm tightly. When he asked what was wrong, her only response was to point up into the tree she had been sitting under. Everyone in the orchard peered up, and there was a collective gasp as they saw what she’d seen. Hunched on one of the high boughs of the tree was a small humanoid figure. It was cast in shadow, and it would have been nearly impossible to spot if not for its eyes, which glowed an ominous yellow. It was perfectly still, and made no sound as they stared. All at once, the group rushed back to the house, the older children scooping the younger ones up in their arms and carrying them.
Once Jack was back in his room, there was a soft tap, tap, tap on his window. His heart pounding in his chest, he slowly crossed to the window. Shaking, he glanced out his window, half expecting the creature to be there, balancing on his window sill. With a sigh of relief, he saw no one was there. But there was something. Jack leaned closer to inspect it, then jolted back when he identified it. The bird was light gray, and clearly dead. Several black patches seemed to stain the feathers on its wing.
The next couple of days seemed normal, and no one mentioned what they had seen in the orchard, and Jack didn’t say anything about the bird. Soon the whole idea seemed so ridiculous that Jack almost could have believed he’d imagined it. But one night, about ten minutes after he’d turned the lights out, there was a long, scraping noise coming from the window. Jack opened his eyes, but didn’t get up. It’s just a tree branch, he tried to convince himself. Just a tree branch scratching on the window. There was another sound, this time three slow thuds on the glass.
Bang… bang… bang.
This time, Jack slowly sat up, and gripped the handle of his baseball bat, which he kept propped up against his bedside table. A cold sweat broke out on his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he paced to the window. He pulled back the curtain, and found himself face to face with the creature from the tree. Jack felt numb. He couldn’t move, and his breath came in raspy gasps. Up close, he could see that the creature’s mouth was sewn shut, the thread worn and grimy. It raised a pale, gray arm, and put a finger to its stitched lips.
“Hush.”
The next morning, when Jack’s brother came into his room to wake him, the room was empty. The bed was made, and a baseball bat laid by the window. A single apple sat on the window sill, the dark spots on the surface gleaming in the morning light.
It was late one night when he and his family were harvesting the last batch of apples before it got cold. Jack’s mother planned to can them for winter, and kept barking at her children to be careful. Jack stayed close to his older brothers as he reached for the cool, crimson spheres. A little ways off, his youngest sister was sitting in the grass, poking the earth with a small twig, when suddenly a shrill screech escaped her. She jumped up and raced over to Jack, who winced as her small hands gripped his arm tightly. When he asked what was wrong, her only response was to point up into the tree she had been sitting under. Everyone in the orchard peered up, and there was a collective gasp as they saw what she’d seen. Hunched on one of the high boughs of the tree was a small humanoid figure. It was cast in shadow, and it would have been nearly impossible to spot if not for its eyes, which glowed an ominous yellow. It was perfectly still, and made no sound as they stared. All at once, the group rushed back to the house, the older children scooping the younger ones up in their arms and carrying them.
Once Jack was back in his room, there was a soft tap, tap, tap on his window. His heart pounding in his chest, he slowly crossed to the window. Shaking, he glanced out his window, half expecting the creature to be there, balancing on his window sill. With a sigh of relief, he saw no one was there. But there was something. Jack leaned closer to inspect it, then jolted back when he identified it. The bird was light gray, and clearly dead. Several black patches seemed to stain the feathers on its wing.
The next couple of days seemed normal, and no one mentioned what they had seen in the orchard, and Jack didn’t say anything about the bird. Soon the whole idea seemed so ridiculous that Jack almost could have believed he’d imagined it. But one night, about ten minutes after he’d turned the lights out, there was a long, scraping noise coming from the window. Jack opened his eyes, but didn’t get up. It’s just a tree branch, he tried to convince himself. Just a tree branch scratching on the window. There was another sound, this time three slow thuds on the glass.
Bang… bang… bang.
This time, Jack slowly sat up, and gripped the handle of his baseball bat, which he kept propped up against his bedside table. A cold sweat broke out on his skin and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he paced to the window. He pulled back the curtain, and found himself face to face with the creature from the tree. Jack felt numb. He couldn’t move, and his breath came in raspy gasps. Up close, he could see that the creature’s mouth was sewn shut, the thread worn and grimy. It raised a pale, gray arm, and put a finger to its stitched lips.
“Hush.”
The next morning, when Jack’s brother came into his room to wake him, the room was empty. The bed was made, and a baseball bat laid by the window. A single apple sat on the window sill, the dark spots on the surface gleaming in the morning light.
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