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Our second place High School winning entry was written by Umar Afzal of Manchester, England. Mr. Afzal maintains a subreddit of his own stories that he welcomes others to read. |
All men are afraid of the dark.
That’s something my ‘pa told me before he went and got his head smashed in by a frenzied horse. Over on ol’ Bleakland Ranch - the place he inherited from Grandpa and he from his father before him. Funny thing is, none of those men made it past their forties. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t scare me. A slice of the homemade cake, with Happy 48th, Dad written in bright blue icing is still somewhere in our fridge. And even now I can smell the perfume Julia, my wife, wore on our dinner date.
We have our own farm, not twenty-minutes away from Bleakland, and we do make a good living out of it, for sure. But you could fit five of our farms in the land over at Bleakland, and recently, when I look out the window and see the Bleakland windmill, I see opportunity. I see the Range Rover Ted Buskins drives around in, usually with one of his girlfriends, and I remember how Julia always looks up when he drives past, before throwing a glance at our old Ford. I see wealth, but then I see my father.
Right after our helping hand, Johnny Porter, managed to get run over by his own tractor (the saying goes, you could hear his spine cracking from miles around) my father took me by the shoulders one day and growled, cigarette bouncing in his mouth, “Don’t you ever try growing on this land, Barry. Even when I’m gone, you best keep away from here.”
I nodded.
“You swear it?”
“Sure, ‘pa.”
He clapped me on the shoulder and left as if it was nothing. Even now, over a decade after his death, I ain’t forgot what he said to me that night, and I’ve kept to my promise.
But I’ve seen Bleakland Ranch grow old; I’ve seen it wasting away, like a tree about to be pushed over by the wind. And for God’s sake, I can’t let that by me.
Then one night, Julia and the kids were out of town, over at my in-laws. If I was gonna check that place out, I thought, now would be a good time to do it. So I set out after dinner, excited at the prospect, as if I was going to see an old friend. The moon watched as I walked across the plain with a tattered coat wrapped around me and a scarf that caught and fluttered in the wind. The grass got shorter by Bleakland, and now I could see the farmhouse, tall and dark, with the moon reflecting brightly in one of the upper windows, making it look like it was winking.
The brass doorknob was cold in my hand. I let myself in, and was pleased to find the house had retained its old, homely smell, though with a hint of something stronger I couldn’t quite place. There was a cup of coffee in the kitchen, freshly ground, and still smoking. I stared at it for some time - held it in my hands, feeling its warmth. The house seemed dreadfully quiet all of a sudden, and very, very dark. But I calmed myself and set the cup down again, deciding some local kids had probably thought it was one hell of a joke. Perhaps if I’d tasted it, I would’ve realized it tasted exactly how my father made it. Instead, I carried on upstairs.
From the second floor landing, my room was to the right and ‘pa’s to the left. The landing was adorned with several family photographs, some of them dating back to the 1900s, I knew. Squinting in the dim light, I felt my breath hitch in my throat. On each and every one of them, the faces of ‘pa and Grandpa were crossed out in thick, red ink - scratched into the paper so roughly that they were impossible to recognize. But I had grown up seeing those photos, and I had them imprinted in my memory. The one and only photo of myself had not been crossed out but circled, as if in warning. Over the thudding of my heart, I heard the door to the room on my right - my room - creak.
“Who’s there?” I yelled, taking a step back. “This ain’t funny, asshole!”
I kicked the door open, sending it flying against the wall and bouncing back.
No one there.
I stepped into my room and looked around, more confident than I felt. I’d be darned if I was gonna let some neighborhood kids get under my skin. My sheets had been changed; I could smell them standing up. That’s when I heard the crashing sound from downstairs. Heart racing, I sprinted down the stairs, ready to throttle whoever thought it was okay to barge in here. But the front door had been smashed into pieces, and in the distance, I could see a horse galloping away, neighing. Catching on the wind, it sounded like high-pitched laughter.
I was sure someone was on the premises now, and I turned the corner of the house, just as the moon hid behind a cloud. I stopped. Someone was digging. I could see the pile of the dirt as it grew, and I could hear that rhythmic sound of shovel in, shovel out, shovel in. . .
“Hey! Off my property!” I shouted, but I knew my voice sounded more afraid than threatening. They must have thought so too, because the digging continued. Fists clenched at my sides, I walked in the shadow of the house, “Hey!”
The sound of feet thudding on hard farmland. Moving away, into the bushes. “Oh God. . .” I muttered, finally able to see what they had been digging. It was my father’s grave. I jogged up to the hole in the ground, wondering what they’d taken. His body? The coffin? What could they want with either of those things?
But as I looked down into that hole, I understood.
The coffin was open, ripped open, and there were claw marks and indents on the underside of the lid. But I saw none of that. My eyes were only on the fortune - the bank notes spilling out of the coffin, some of them muddied with dirt, but otherwise in perfect condition. Christ, there had to be at least a million in there. Maybe more.
I threw a cautious glance around and listened closely. Nothing.
Crouched by the edge of the hole, I reached down for the 100$ bill that was closest to me. . . When I felt the hands on my back, it was already too late. I fell forwards into the hole, landing on my side in the coffin, yelling out in pain. The money was suddenly nothing but dirt and maggots, and the smell of freshly printed banknotes became one of rotting, decaying flesh.
Before the coffin lid closed, I saw my father, grandfather, and his father before him. I’ve never seen anything as evil as the grin on that smashed, broken face; the lips that bled around the edges, the crushed eye sockets and the place where the white bone cracked, giving you a glimpse of the void beyond-
A thud, and then only darkness.
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