Eighteen years later
Doyle Schlabach was glad he’d purchased the mules. Datt had gone with him to the horse auction down to Belleville last winter and argued against the purchase. Get the Belgians, he’d said. They pull better; they’re stronger. Doyle would never argue with his datt about anything, much less livestock, but while the two jennies weren’t quite as strong as their equine cousins, they suited his needs just fine. They were smart and willing and easier to keep, too. According to the breeder, their donkey dam had been bred to a Dutch draft sire. As far as Doyle was concerned, there wasn’t another team in the entire valley that could outpull these two. And they didn’t eat him out of house and home.
He was cutting hay in the south field this morning. It was a new field he’d added to his farm when the old Duffy farm went up for auction. He’d gotten a good deal on the thirty-five acres. With Datt’s help, he’d demolished the old barn, cleared the land, plowed it, and seeded for alfalfa. God had blessed the valley with an abundance of spring rain, and the hay was bountiful. It was going to be the best year he’d ever had.
The June sun beat down on the back of Doyle’s neck as he steered the mules across the field. The smell of fresh-cut alfalfa filled his nostrils, and not for the first time today he thanked God for the bounty that had been bestowed upon him. He thought about the mock turtle soup he would be eating for lunch, and his mouth watered. He jiggled the lines to hurry the mules along.
“Kumma druff!” he called out. Come on there!
The clinking of the harnesses mingled with the rapid patter-patter of the sickle and lulled him into the state of peace he always felt when he worked the fields.
He’d just reached the far end and was in the process of side-passing the mules to turn around and cut the final swatch when the sickle bar clanked against a rock.
“Whoa.” Doyle stopped the mules. “Was der schinner is letz?” he growled. What in the world is wrong?
This wasn’t a particularly rocky area, but he’d run across a few in the course of plowing and seeding. Rocks in a hayfield spelled trouble, and the last thing he needed before lunch was a broken blade.
Leaning, he looked down at the spot where the sickle hovered above the ground and spotted the culprit. A big rock. Limestone, judging from the color. Muttering beneath his breath, he tied off the lines, set the brake, and climbed down. He went to the sickle bar and knelt. He reached for the rock, intent on chucking it over the fence and into the woods, but his hand froze mid-reach. The hairs at his nape prickled when his fingers made contact.
Doyle picked up the object and knew immediately it wasn’t a rock. It was too light, hollow-feeling, and the surface was too smooth. He brushed away the dirt, turned it over in his hands. A creeping sensation skittered across his shoulders when he saw the jut of teeth. The eye sockets. The black hole of a nose. Doyle was an avid hunter; he butchered his own stock. He knew perfectly well what an animal skull looked like. This did not belong to an animal.
Lurching to his feet, Doyle dropped the skull and stepped back, nearly tripped over the sickle bar. He was suddenly aware of his proximity to the woods, the shadows within, the stories he’d heard as a kid about this place. Gooseflesh rose on his arms, despite the heat of the day. The sensation of eyes on his back was so strong he turned and looked to the place where the old barn had once stood. But there was no one there.
Schnell geiste, he thought. Ghosts.
His legs shook as he backed away. He couldn’t take his eyes off the skull. He climbed onto the mower, settled onto the steel seat. His hands shook as he pulled the lever to lift the cutting blade.
He picked up the lines. “Kumma druff!” he called out to the jennies. “Ya!”
Hay forgotten, he urged the mules into a lope.