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I had never wanted to go to my Aunt’s house for the summer. It was far from my friends and home. It was also a farm which was quite alien to me. I had grown up in a large city and what happened in that year, during that hot month, has left me with one memory I will never be rid of. The drive to the border seemed an endless stretch of road, and upon arrival my disappointment had been confirmed. The place operated as if time had not touched it. No electricity and no running water. Everything was made from wood and as my mother drove away I longed to be back in the old black ford. Immediately my aunt laid the ground rules and gave me a verbal list of chores to do, the worst of which was cleaning out the barn which housed five horses. The barn also had its share of mice and cats. But I thought no more of it, or its inhabitants the rest of that first day. And in my head I had decided to leave that job for last. It is hard to say whether or not my aunt knew of the man that utilized the loft of her barn. She had not spoken of him during the tour, and she had never asked about him, even as I sat beside her years later when she died. When my children were younger I would hear them talk about whether or not they could kill a person. My daughter, as giving and kind as she was had said she could. My son said no. And I standing in the kitchen said nothing. I had already known my answer. I had been marking the days on my calendar each night before saying prayers. In six days the ford would come for me and no longer would I have to stand ankle deep in mud, filling buckets of water for the animals, feeding and collecting eggs from the chickens and taking the leftovers down to the back pen for the pigs, which on two occasions made me vomit from the smell. Six days and I would be back playing hop scotch and dancing to Buddy Holly with my girl friends. And though I would return and do all those things and live a normal, quite life, I would never be able to wash away the stench of the farm because blood never really washes away. The morning started as it always had. First let the hens out and then gather the goats to milk them, taking a break to have breakfast and then go down to feed the pigs. Then I was to clean the house. Dusting always seemed a useless chore since my aunt didn’t like to close the windows at any time which allowed the dust to blow through the house each night. Then it was off to the stables to muck out the stalls, hay and water the horses. I find it peculiar that I always think to myself it happened on the sixth day. In actuality it happened on the twenty-forth, but I guess since I had always been counting down the days until I left, I considered it to be the sixth day before my rescue would arrive. I remember the sounds of the barn and the scratching noise that was emanating from the loft. As I continued my dreadful task I thought nothing it, a cat making a bed or hunting and catching its latest kill. It was the creaking of the floor boards that caught my attention. Nothing in the loft was heavy enough to make boards bend as they were. I stopped and looked up. The scratching began again and I made the decision to investigate the matter. I remember resting the pitchfork against the bails of hay before I ascended the steps of the ladder. I had never liked heights but my curiosity got the best of me as curiosity does. At first glance it hadn’t set into my mind what I was observing. Horrific things do that as a natural way of protection I guess. But within a few seconds the scene exposed itself. |
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What horrors did she behold? To find out, you’ll have to order our FALL ISSUE on sale now. |
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