content: female reader, jealous ghost farmer inspired by The Conjuring: Last Rites, horror
Your house is haunted, yet no one will believe you.
You should’ve known from the moment you set foot inside. The agent was uneasy, a tad too eager to be done with the viewing. He frequently reminded you of the fantastic price, the one-of-a-kind offer you’d never find again on the market. It was spacious, it was in good shape. More rooms than a single lady like you would ever need.
“Speaking of rooms,” you said, “we haven’t seen the basement yet.”
The agent’s smile faltered for a fragment of a second. He adjusted his collar and glanced at the door, contemplating his response. At the time, you found the prolonged pause to be rather odd. Was there some damage that would come with hidden costs? It suddenly made sense that they’d try to sell you something broken beyond repair. You asked him to have a swift check, prepared to find the secret to this ridiculous deal. The man waited at the top of the stairs, visibly pale, while you descended into the poorly lit clutter of chambers. Old furniture, some posters. Plenty of dust. Yet, to your surprise, everything was in order.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you called from the darkness.
“I never said there was,” your agent answered impatiently. His hand was clutching onto the door, keeping it wide open. “I suggest we continue up here,” he urged.
After a brief chat, you signed the papers. Whatever anxiety you might’ve had about the place was quickly dulled by the massive discount. He told the truth about one thing, at the very least: you wouldn’t get another chance like this one.
Pretty little thing. The sunken eyes followed you with growing curiosity: your hurried pace as you carried the boxes around, the sighs that rolled out of your mouth after each trip, the strands of hair that fell over your face as you reached for the next item to unpack. He could sense the faintest tug at his hollow heart. Maybe you could be the one. Maybe you wouldn’t betray him like they did.
“Hello?” you abruptly stood up, facing the hallway. Somehow, you were overwhelmed by the dreadful feeling that you were being watched.
Nonsense. You were merely adjusting to the new neighborhood, to the idea that you were in the middle of nowhere. It messes with your head, the agent had explained, but you get used to it.
You assumed, however, that slight discomfort would be your only hurdle during this process. Hallucinations were one step too far and something you hadn’t anticipated. Was it the consequence of uneasiness? Were you slowly losing your mind? Either way, you were convinced you were seeing a man in your home.
It began when you first dragged your laundry basket down into the basement. The lights flickered right as you slammed the door to the washing machine shut, and you turned to look for the switch. Then you discerned it, the tall frame, the crooked features or a ghastly white face. With hitched breath, you fumbled for the flashlight. You almost didn’t dare to point it in his direction; you didn’t want to see whatever unholy creature stood in the corner. This was not the appearance you’d find in a human.
“Good God,” you exhaled, shoulders instantly dropping in relief. You managed to huff out a chuckle as you gazed at the poster across from you. You must’ve imagined the devilish distortions.
Except those same distortions kept coming back, each time clearer than before. The second apparition nearly gave you a heart attack. You had finished cleaning up the kitchen and were about to head upstairs, when you saw the same man at the end of the hallway, blocking the path. It had to be real. You could make out the shadow it cast on the walls, the weight of the body pressing into the carpet. You heard the floorboard creak as he took a step towards you. He was tenebrously tall and muscular, dressed in dirty, torn overalls. The face was smudged, save for the glistening smile – a deformed grin made of sharp teeth. As if the demonic traits weren’t enough to freeze your blood, your eyes eventually rested on the object he carried in his hand. A battered axe, dripping with thick, black liquid. The metallic scent inundated your nostrils, making you nauseous.
His feet suddenly jerked forwards. The movement startled you so much that you fell over, panic clouding your senses. He was going to kill you. Like a wounded animal, you crawled on your fours, sobbing apologies for whatever sins you may have committed, babbling pleads of mercy as you imagined chunks of your flesh splattered across the floor. You looked up, hoping to find some sort of reasoning within your monstrous attacker, but he was gone. The hallway was empty once more and you wondered if your sanity had slipped away entirely, until you noticed the dent left on the carpet, right where your assailant stood. You hesitantly put your foot next to the prints, gulping at the sheer difference.
The next day, you returned home with a heavy stack of newspapers you’d printed at the local library. You wanted answers, or at least a hint to guide you along this madness. You sprawled out each paper and inspected it carefully. There it was. ‘Local farmer murders wife after learning of her affair’. ‘The body of a young woman was found in the neighboring fields, covered in deep wounds believed to be caused by an axe. Police identified her as the wife of a local farmer.’ Your fingers hovered above the black and white photograph of the man; it was the same person you’d seen in your home. He had apparently shot himself in the basement, leaving a note behind containing his reasoning. One day, he’d find himself a loyal woman. You crumpled the page and threw it as far as you could.
You felt trapped. All your savings were poured into this damn house. There were no friends or family nearby, and you didn’t know anyone here. You couldn’t just pack up and leave. Where would you have gone? What would you have told your parents, that you were running away from a ghost?
“Fuck you,” you spat out, filled with resentment. “Here’s a tip, dumbass, don’t chase your potential partner with an axe.”
Humor was all you had to diffuse the suffocating tension, and those words were all he needed to soothe his yearning. So, you agreed. He knew he could put his faith in you. Surely you must’ve pitied him after reading what happened to his miserable soul, trapped here for years by a burning wish.
You woke up to your bed covered in wiled roses. You would’ve guessed it was a bizarre dream if it wasn’t for the decaying stench and the neatly folded note left on the other pillow: to my beloved wife.
Oh, no. You hadn’t signed up for this. In a frightened daze, you stuffed some necessities in a backpack. Perhaps someone else would buy the house, you decided in your scrambled thoughts. It would come with a loss, sure, but money was the last thing on your mind at that moment. You just wanted to be away from the surreal haunting. You’d get yourself a coffee, sit down, then think about all the technical details.
You darted down the stairs, towards the exit. No more of this nonsense for you. Your hand reached for the doorknob, but – in an instant – the blade of an axe landed straight into the door, grazing past your head. You opened your mouth to scream, yet nothing came out of your parched throat.
“Where do you think you’re going,” a deep voice called.
You couldn’t find the courage to turn around. Soon enough you felt it, that cold, heavy presence, growing stronger, drawing closer. A hot breath blew against your neck, and a scarred, brawny arm appeared from behind you, effortlessly retrieving the axe.
“’s not proper for a lady to wander without her man,” he drawled in your ear. “Besides, do ya truly believe you’d get rid of me like that?”
His rough finger caressed your cheek. You were much too fixated on the edge of the blade to notice his loving gaze, or his mocking smirk. You shook your head; it was, indeed, a stupid kind of hope to cling onto. He wasn’t bound to the house, at least not anymore. He was bound to you. He’d follow you everywhere, maybe even in death. You shivered at the realization.
“Sorry, mom, can’t make it this weekend,” you said flatly, staring at the hollow expression of the man holding you on his lap. “I’m busy with the new house. You know how it goes.”