Lee Jackson scowled from beside his barn, glancing in the direction of the house. He could see his wife moving about inside, her silhouette flashing across the glass. He glanced up at the darkening sky, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead, dust spattering his fingers.
He'd spent the rest of the day near the house, within line of sight.
Ever since...
Since that odd occurrence by the west field. He frowned again, reaching for the grease rag on top of the tractor and stowing it back in the toolbox beneath the back wheels.
He could feel a strange prickle along his spine. People weren't normally so... forward as his unwanted visitor had been. Something had been off about the man. For one, he'd been wearing gloves, for another, he'd had a dead quality to his voice. Like a speaking cadaver. His eyes had been cold. Too cold.
He'd known men like that in prison before he'd been given his second chance. Before he'd started working the fields. Farming soybeans wasn't the most lucrative of jobs, but it paid the bills, kept him out of trouble and allowed the wife to keep an eye on him.
He kicked the toolbox, shoving it further under the tractor into the shadows, and then moved out of the barn, closing the large sliding door with a grunt, his muscles straining beneath his flannel.
Part of him had wanted to call the police, but the instant he did, they would look up his address, his record. Cops didn't treat people like Lee particularly nicely. No—perhaps his best bet was to avoid them entirely.
He had his own means of protection.
He brushed his fingers against his sidearm, feeling the cold, comfortable weight at his hip. The shotgun he'd left back at the house, but now with the pistol in its leather holster, he'd determined something else.
If that creep with the dead eyes and gloves ever showed up again, he'd bury the man beneath the soybeans. A man could only take so much. He'd served his time, hadn't he? But cops kept harassing him, the city kept forcing him to move. Notified his wife every year or so. It showed up on their tax forms, on his right to even legally own the firearm in his hand.
He was sick of it.
And now some hillbilly, some drifter, wanted to come on his land and threaten him? Nah. None of it. Not happening.
He wiped his hand, covered in equal parts grease and sweat, on the back of his already stained blue jeans and then began to move up the path in the direction of the large soybean silo behind the barn.
The last chore before the day was through. He had to check the humidity levels. Especially in a state like Washington, it was crucial to make sure the silo was still airtight. The last thing he needed was for all his hard work to go to waste by mold or mildew or rot.
He moved along the side of the large, gray barn, padding up the dirt path in his boots. He rolled his shoulders as he walked, wincing against a strained muscle. Then again, when weren't his muscles strained?
As he moved, he glanced towards the large, protruding storage tower. Vines crept up the side of the silo where it reached like a finger touching at the clouds. He frowned at the trailing dirt path, hesitating for one moment. The undergrowth had been cleared back from the edges of the road, but there were stray leaves scattered across the dust.
He frowned, kneeling for a moment, pressing his fingers against the grit. He looked up at the nearest tree, on the other side of the barn: a large oak, one of his wife's favorites. Why were there leaves here? He hadn't come this way since the morning, and the wind had been low through the afternoon.
A low chill arose in him.
He kicked and a few of the leaves scattered, his boot leaving a furrow in the ground to match the divot in his brow. He paused, glancing over his shoulder back up at the house. He frowned and glanced along the trail towards the bean silo.
No motion, no movement—nothing greeted him except the indifferent silence of night's reluctant arrival. The evening sky was darker now, it seemed. The bean silo larger, inflexible against the horizon. The sparse land surrounding the thing was open. No motion, no sign of movement at all.
“Come on, you ass,” he muttered to himself. He was acting like a little girl. He twisted his lip into something approximating a sneer and began to stalk up the dirt road again, hand on his weapon, eyes attentive and wary.
As he neared the silo, the large thing appeared as a metal tube with a semi sphere cap. The wind was still, the horizon quiet. No main roads or highways came anywhere near his land. The silence was what some called deafening.
Now, in the dark, he frowned as he heard a faint creaking sound, coming from the storehouse.
“Hello?” he called, his voice hoarse.
No reply.
He reached for his weapon, pulling it slowly from his holster. He stared towards the silo.
“Anyone there?”
Again, no response. Faintly, he thought he detected the odor of cumin on the air. His wife had said she was making Kima for dinner.
Now, all he wanted was to turn on his heel, march back home, sit at the dinner table and forget all about creaking noises, empty, dusty roads, telltale leaves on dirt paths.
He wiped a hand across his brow and let out a slow, leaking breath.
The silo could wait until the morning, couldn't it? Yes... yes perhaps he'd call one of the boys from Little Mickey's to stop by and give him a hand. They were always willing.
On the other hand...
He stared towards the silo, a frown affixed to his features. But then, he let out a huffing breath and turned, a slow chill trembling up his spine.
Not tonight. He could check in the morning. Wasn't raining, wasn't particularly humid. The harvest would be fine for a night. He rubbed at the back of his neck, his pace quickening as he moved away, back up the path, along the side of the barn.
As he hastened away, he felt a faint sense of relief at the decision.
He wasn't scared of the dark. Not at all. But he wasn't an idiot either.
He passed the front of the barn, moving up the incline towards his home, but then went still. He frowned back towards the front of the gray structure.
The barn door was still open.
He hesitated, certain he'd slid the thing shut.
“Hey,” he said, his voice severe. “Hey, who's in there? I'm warning you...”
Gun in hand, gun raised, he took a step forward.
His adrenaline was racing now, his heart pounding wildly. He angled his weapon towards the open door, his other hand now moving towards his pocket for his phone. Perhaps he ought to call someone... just in case...
He pointed his weapon into the barn, frowning into the dark murk. The tractor was where he'd left it, the toolbox visible just beneath the back wheels. No sounds from within, no creak of old wood, no rustle of hay, no whisper of wind on the still night.
He scanned the barn, but then let out a faint huff of frustration, lowering his gun and gripping the handle of the sliding wooden door.
He grunted, trying to close it.
But it required both hands.
Another chill up his spine, but he sighed and holstered his weapon, summoning some inner courage and then gripped the handle with both hands. He began to jerk the door shut.
And that's when the ghoul emerged from the darkness.
A shape moving rapidly from just beneath the front of the tractor. A brief glimpse of a face streaked with grease and dust, hands clad in gloves.
He yelped, stumbling back on the dirt road, hand going to his weapon. But too late. Something plunged into his chest. A lung popped. His eyes bulged, and he tried to scream. Pain didn't come at first, but he sensed a numbness spreading across his pectoral.
He was on the ground. Strange. When had that happened?
The ghoul above him had his hand trapped, a knee pressed to his wrist. He couldn't reach his weapon. Could barely move.
“Mr. Jackson,” a voice whispered in his ear, lips near his cheek. Hot breath pressed moisture to his skin. “I warned you... Pity.”
Then another flash of pain. Another.
He tried to kick, tried to struggle.
But it was no use, he was trapped before his barn. The dull light from the farmhouse up the hill providing scant comfort as he bled out in the dirt.