The Farm

This story was written in governor's school as a response to a prompt about time. It's about a ghost who struggles with the effects of timelessness. I consider it my finest work to date.

The midnight black sky hugged the small farmhouse like a well-fitted dress. A singular ray of moonlight illuminated the adjacent land. It was summer, and the cicadas chirped incessantly. Tomatoes, wheat, and bean crops dotted the furrowed soil. Though the farm could by no means be called large, it was not so small either. It was a modest operation, and the owners of the property were quite happy with what they had built.

      

A dark shape flittered to the sill of the house. The raven’s sable feathers melded so smoothly into the dark tapestry of the sky such that it appeared to be part of the night itself. Just two beady, yellow eyes, like smoldering stars on its body, revealed its existence. Those amber eyes pierced through the drapes of the window of the house into its cozy living room. In there, a red fire crackled merrily, lighting up the sturdy coffee table and the tattered but comfortable couch.

 

Outside, the large clock tower in the town just a ways from the farm chimed midnight. The ringing, mellow sound traveled down the dusty dirt road and into the bedroom of the farmhouse, where Ben and Autumn Parker lay in a bed together. Though they occupied the same small space, they each had claimed their halves of the mattress, with Mrs. Parker perhaps encroaching slightly into her husband’s domain. They had discussed buying an additional bed the next time they were in town, not because of any aloofness or loss of passion that might come with the natural progression of marriage but because the nights, even in winter, were so hot. Mrs. Parker had once poured a bucket of ice down Mr. Parker’s back, as a childish sort of joke that happily married couples are wont to play on each other, but he had simply sighed in satisfaction and went back to sleep, for once in his life cool and comfortable.

Having heard the chime of the clock even in his slumber, Mr. Parker, with the utmost care not to wake his wife, extricated himself from the thin sheets and got up to get a glass of water. Beads of sweat populated his forehead, which he promptly wiped away with a large, meaty hand. The heat was especially unkind to Mr. Parker, given his larger- than- average girth, and indeed he had earned the nickname “Big Ben” in primary school. He made his way into the living room. It was odd, he thought, that it was so bright in there. The stars and moon did shine quite radiantly, but the room was suffused with a ruddy sort of glow, a muted light not quite in line with the blinding rays of the celestial objects. A crackling noise startled him, and Mr. Parker turned his attention towards the fireplace.

 

His mouth curved upwards in a “Oh!” of surprise. For Mr. Parker, who did not have the benefit of being a member of the avian species, had just seen what the raven’s astute gaze noticed before him. In the fireplace roared a large, blazing fire. The greedy orange flames licked at the haphazard logs and filled the small room with a suffocating heat. Perspiration flooded out of Mr. Parker’s unfortunate pores, and he furiously used his nightshirt to mop his brow. He could not remember ever kindling a fire, or even using the fireplace. All of the materials present had already been there when he and his wife had moved in, no doubt relics of the previous owners.

 

“Damn practical jokers,” he muttered to himself.

 

He stepped forward to pick up the fireplace shovel, and then proceed to summarily dismiss the unwelcome embers. As he reached for the shovel, however, a cracked voice interrupted his purposeful movements.

 

“Cold,” rasped the voice. “So cold.”

             

Ben froze. His eyes darted around the room. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, save the ever-merrier fireplace. Nevertheless, the voice continued to speak.

             

“Cold,” repeated the voice. “So cold.”

             

The large clock tower rang out again. Startled, Ben stepped backwards. His foot lost its precarious purchase on the floor and he spilled ingloriously onto the oak wood floor. This seemed to prompt in him a great panic, and all semblance of reason flew out of his mind, like birds scattering at the pop of a gunshot. Mr. Parker, who considered himself a courageous man (he had, after all, in his youth once climbed a large sycamore in town to retrieve a rather irrational and slow-witted child), turned tail and fled from the room, knocking over lamps, mugs, and all manners of paraphernalia. In his rush, a flailing arm caught the drapes covering a window, ripping it violently from its perch, revealing a pair of stark amber eyes. Those burning eyes, so piercing and noble, seemed to rip straight through Mr. Parker, a sharp lance weighing the worth of his soul.

             

“Cold,” moaned the voice. “So cold.”

            

The raven continued its relentless watch, unaffected by the commotion inside. Its eyes alighted upon a translucent, ghostly form huddled perilously close to the open fireplace. The form was swathed in razor thin, ragged blankets. Remnants of a fine ball gown wound around its throat, like some sort of crude noose. Its face was drawn and haggard. It had no eyes, just two empty, smooth marble-white sockets. Its nose hung abortive on its face, for who could tell when air last passed through those nostrils? All breath was drawn through its half-open mouth, and indeed sometimes it seemed that the mouth was the only part of its face that ever moved.  Despite the blazing heat, the form continued to shiver as if in a fit of rigor, shaking loose bits and strips of cloth. All of a sudden, the form flung away its swaddling prison and threw itself towards the coffee table. With surprising strength, it ripped off the legs of the unlucky table and tremblingly placed them into the fire. The flames jumped up, devouring the new fuel. A wicker chair, parts of the floorboard, and the rest of the table soon followed. A great furor came over the form, and it flew from the house. The raven cawed and with a rustle of feathers followed it.

             

Its bare feet swept over the warm soil, but everywhere its feet fell the ground froze solid. The form raced past the wheat and bean crops and stopped skidding at the bright red tomatoes. It turned its eyeless sockets towards the neat, straight lines of tomato plants standing to attention under the soft rays of moonlight. The raven let out a singular, harsh caw. The form bowed its head in reverence and raised its pale white hands up to the sky as if prayer. By degrees the form began to move again. It took two sturdy pieces of sturdy wood and stuck them into the ground. It unwrapped the dilapidated dress from around its neck and spread it out, tying the two ends to the two poles, thus covering a small portion of the tomato plants. The form stroked the stalks of the plants as if petting a cat, and turned back towards the house, the raven perched serenely on its shoulder.

             

Mr. Parker had just reached the top of the stairs, the sounds of commotion below spurring his swiftness to new heights. He had heard the door open and close at an alarming speed. It seemed to him that whatever the event downstairs was, it had happened with extraordinary pace  and was now over. Being primarily a man of logic and reason- his high school teacher had once suggested that his nickname referred to both his girth and his remarkable precision- he chalked it up to a case of having had one too many drinks yesterday afternoon, and resolved to put the whole incident out of his mind with a sound sleep. When he reached his bed, he found for the first time in as long as he could remember reaching for the covers and the warmth of his wife’s embrace.

             

The form returned to its spot by the fireplace. The tongues of flame leapt vivaciously in their stone confines, reflecting off the eyes of the raven, bathing the room in an eerie light. The fire seemed to jump out into the dead, white skin of the form, illuminating its body like a lantern. It was speaking to the raven, in its cold, dead sort of voice.

             

“I-I-I-I have. I Have to...co-cover. The stalks. They will. Free- freeze. Freeze. Others. Wise. Freeze. The- the. Stal. Under. Under. Stand. ”

             

The raven did not respond and merely continued to affix the form with its amber eyes. The form spoke in a halting, jagged way, but his speech began to smoothen and flow as he spoke. A dam within its soul had broken, and it exercised its voice in almost childish wonderment.

             

“Car. Home. Train. B-bacon. Heretofore. Whence. Zombie. Work. Boss. Gangsta. Mizzen. Bedight.” As it spoke, its voice rose higher and higher, shaking with nervous, trembling excitement. It lost its dead quality, and it began to speak in a more animated way, as if the words themselves had somehow injected life itself back into it. A woman walked by as he spoke. She had tousled black hair, and cracked skin from spending so much time under the blazing sun. Her hands were rough and calloused. She wore faded overalls, a pair of dirt-stained pants, and work boots. She seemed to be very angry. Her finger blurred from spot to spot as she pointed at the fire, the spot where the wicker chair used to sit, the sad splinters of the destroyed coffee table, the ripped up floorboard, and the now-raggedy drapes.

             

“You idiot!” she was screaming. “You’re a stupid, insipid little worm and I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

             

It screamed right back. “Piddock! Piddock paddock piddock!”

             

The woman gave no sign of hearing the rebuttal. She continued to yell and point, and finally stormed out the door, slamming it shut with such force that a cabinet door rattled open, causing the Tupperware containers stacked hastily on top of one another to tumble out onto the floor. The form continued to scream at the door, “Piddock! Piddock paddock piddock!” The raven remained customarily unruffled.

             

In the town, the large clock tower chimed. The form continued to blabber on. Its  hands grasped the raven and pulled it close to its chest.

             

“I went to the town tomorrow,” whispered the form. “And I will sell cookies I will make yesterday.” The raven was unresponsive. “Let me tell you about the town. If you could walk, I would take you there last month, on a little delicate leash. You would love it. But you can’t walk, can you. And if you can walk, you won’t walk, because for a tiny thing like you it would take so many steps to get there. So you would miss out on all the scenery, on the soft grass and the tall, striking trees. They were so handsome, those trees. I think they weren’t actually trees, they are dryads, and next summer I saw them dancing, when I was younger than I will be now. So you’ll miss that, but you can still see the town. I’d hook up a buggy to a car, and then you could sit on the horse drawing the car, and I’ll stand on the buggy, and we made a fine pair rolling into town, didn’t we little birdie? I’m sure everyone was jealous, but that’ll be alright, because the year before today the people in the tall towers of ivory fashioned some sort of stick that can paint your very likeness in a flash, so they weren’t jealous anymore, of us that is, though I’m sure they will be jealous of somebody else.”

             

Mr. and Mrs. Parker returned from the fields as the form finished its little speech. They had both worked continuously from dawn until night had fallen, not even stopping for lunch. A few sips of water here and there were their only respite, and as a result they were both too tired to argue over the state and cause of their domicile. Mrs. Parker trod towards the kitchen, and bent over to pick up the fallen Tupperware, her exhaustion stifling the few flames of anger. Mr. Parker retrieved several large planks of wood, a hammer, and some nails and began the arduous process of fixing the ruined floor. He did not go near the fireplace, even though its heat pervaded his limbs and filled the room with hot, stuffy air. The form had fallen silent at their appearance. Though it could not see them per se, it could hear and smell them, its mouth drawing in great gulps of their scent. Abruptly, the form was filled with a desire to know, to see. So close to these strange being’s presence, and yet it did not know their faces. This shocked and angered the form, and it resolved to regain its sight, for certainly it had once seen, as images always burned so vivid and clear in its head.  

             

A great quiet fell over the house. Mrs. Parker bustled about in the kitchen, but the soft clinks of the ladle on the pot were barely audible, and even the hammer bowed to the silence, only producing the dullest of thuds. The form too sat there, mute as a rock, stroking the black feathers of the raven pressed against its still heart. A long, ringing sound cut through the thick quietude. The clock tower sounded nine more times, each evenly spaced ring jarring the residents of the farmhouse. Mrs. Parker took the pot of soup off the stove and placed it onto the dining table. Mr. Parker rose up from his work and walked woodenly towards his supper. The couple ate in taciturnity, each examining their food with great interest. Only quick little upwards glances, tiny flits of their eyes, belied that the two were even aware of each other at all. The form and the raven continued to sit by the fireplace in companionable silence.

             

The form, in the tranquility of the room, began to reflect upon itself. It had just been for so long- or perhaps for so short a time- that it knew nothing but itself, and even itself it did not know that well at all. What, it mused, was it? What had it been? What will it be? It began to think of itself in the past, present, and future, and was saved the further confusion of thinking of itself in the past perfect by virtue of its inattention in primary school. By and by, the form’s thoughts began to drift towards sight. Ah, it thought. How wonderful would it be to see again- real sight- not the sort of half-sight of dreams and imagination. Then: did it dream? The form could not remember if it ever dreamt, or ever even slept. All it recalled, all it had known was the bitter, aching cold. But it must have slept, for all things sleep. All things that sleep, dream, so the form concluded that it must have dreamt. Perhaps, it thought with great trepidation, it was dreaming now, and it would soon wake again to the numbing, indomitable cold. This drove a great fear through the form, and again it was filled with the desire to see. Sight- knowledge-, it mused, would solve this unfortunate problem. Trembling, the form reached for the raven’s head, as if to stroke it. With a clean snap, the form broke the raven’s brittle neck bone. Carefully, with as much steadiness as it could muster, the form removed the raven’s amber eyes. They were tiny, delicate things, like a colorful bead, or a small marble. The form lifted them up, rolling them in his chalky hands, reveling in the feel of them against his palm.

 

It then placed the amber beads in its eyes, one for the left socket and one for the right socket. It was not, however, a good fit. The left eye rolled out onto the floor, and the form scrabbled anxiously to retrieve it. It captured the errant eye between its thumb and forefinger and held it up delicately. The clock tower rang again. This spurred the form onwards. It took a small fruit knife from one of the kitchen drawers. With a surgical precision, it took the knife and carved two small holes into its two sunken holes. Fingers quaking, the form placed the eyes into the fresh holes. There was no ceremony, no trumpets, no fanfare to commemorate the miracle. Instead, the eyes gyrated dizzyingly in their crude altars to the backdrop of the soft smacking noise generated by Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s dinner.

 

The house was really quite beautiful, he thought. For it- he- now knew who he was, who he had been. A key had turned somewhere, opening some great chest hidden deep within the recesses of his mind, flooding him with a deluge of memories. They came as hard and fast as raindrops in a violent storm. Occasionally a flash of lightning illuminated them, both terrifying and awing him, this feeling of knowing, of being alive. It was overwhelming. He felt…he felt! Colors, sounds, smells assaulted him, blending into a twisted, beautiful sensory collage. The weight of it all pushed him back. His knees buckled, but his movements became more and more excited. Yes! A tapestry. It was wonderful, that tapestry. It had red, real red. And there, the coffee table. How thrillingly brown it was, how magnificent were its swirls and ridges! The wicker chair, how wonderfully dull and mundane it was. He had never thought something so ordinary could be so fascinating, but in that moment the unassuming little wicker chair was the center of his world. All his attentions were focused on it, on its charming little holes, on its lithe little legs, on its hearty frame. He felt a desire to touch, to taste it, to inhale its essence, to sit on its wood ridges, like a conquering king. Giddy with joy, he bounced onto the chair. The woven wood strips were comfortable on his skin. Every sense, every perception seemed sharpened. He ran his hands across the armrests. They felt hot to the touch, as if they had spent a long time under the blistering rays of the sun. Intrigued, he continued to explore the wicker chair, his alabaster tongue darting out to taste the wood, his waxy nose drawing in its first breath in a while. He felt so free, so alive!

 

The door opened, interrupting his reverie. Mrs. Parker came in, a beatific smile lighting up her face. In her arms she carried a large cake. The cake was topped with bright red cherries and homemade whipped cream. She brushed her gray hair out of the decorative licorice and set the cake down on the dining table. Humming a jaunty tune to herself, she took two candles out of a drawer, one in the shape of a “6” and the other in the shape of a “8”. Her wrinkled hands arranged them into the number 68. She stretched and went to retrieve the balloons, but her foot slipped and she crashed to the floor. Mr. Parker shuffled in with surprising alacrity, a worried look marring his old, kind face. He bent down and clasped Mrs. Parker’s shoulder. With great combined effort, Mrs. Parker managed to right herself again.

 

“You shouldn’t exert yourself like that,” Mr. Parker admonished. “You aren’t young and vital anymore.”

 

“I know,” she whispered. “I just wanted you to have a happy birthday.”

 

A cheeky grin tugged at the corners of Mr. Parker’s mouth. “Every day with you is a happy birthday, my dear.”

 

Mrs. Parker slapped his wizening arm. “You snake charmer, you,” she responded affectionately.

 

“Sometimes it’s hard to believe it has been so long,” sighed Mr. Parker. “It seems just yesterday that we met.”

 

“Hmm. Did you ever regret that?”

 

“Of course not. These have been the happiest days of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever been unhappy with you. There have been hardships, sure, but we were always together.”

 

“Even that time when you destroyed the living room, oh, twenty or so years ago and tried to blame it on a bad case of beer brain?”

 

Mr. Parker laughed at that. “I remember that. You were so mad at me that you refused to speak to me for a whole week, except to call me stupid. Even after I fixed everything, you would still give me that hard stare. I thought it was cute though, so it wasn’t so bad.”

 

A mask of mock disapproval flitted across Mrs. Parker’s face, but it was soon replaced by peals of joyous, tearful laughter. Her husband soon joined her, and they stood like that for a while, clutching each other’s shaking sides, the cake forgotten.

 

The form listened to all of this, a terrible dread growing in his belly. “No,” he muttered to himself. “It cannot have been that long. Why, just moments ago they were a middle-aged couple, eating dinner after a long day’s work. This is…this is impossible.” He began to pace back and forth across the room, his thoughts jumbled and awry. The clock tower rang out again, chiming its sonorous sound once, twice, seven times. The form jumped, startled. As he whirled, his spinning eyes swung to the broken, cracked body of the raven. It let a long, torturous cry, its wings beating heavily, bearing the unnaturally angled head into the air. Everything about it was black, a swirling darkness. There was no hint of another color, no contaminant, save for its eyes. Its eyes were not black, or red, or gold, or green- they simply were. They were vast pools of oblivion, bottomless pits of the void. The raven turned its head towards the form, its bones cracking painfully as its neck moved. The form was transfixed by the raven’s eyes. As he stared into oblivion he felt their inexorable pull draw him in. A feeling of existential angst filled him. At the same time, pure, unfiltered terror blanketed his mind. He wanted to cower in a corner and hide there, anything to escape those pits of nothingness. He was, however, rooted into place, the irresistible draw of the raven’s eyes too strong to resist. He felt very dead.

 

The raven spoke in a mangled cry. “That is because you are dead.”

 

“No, I am alive! I may not look human, or even look alive, but I am. I feel, I think, I am!” shouted the form agitatedly, shaking his head.

 

“Yes…but you are still not alive. There will always be something you lack, something you cannot ever hope to gain. If you were alive- if indeed you were alive- you would be able to tell me the time.”

 

The form turned towards the clock mounted on the wall. He stared at its face. He could very clearly see the numbers circling its frame. The hour hand was at the seven and the minute hand pointed at the six. Try as he might though, no words came out of his mouth. It was like staring at a great wall of text, written in some incomprehensible foreign language. He began to pull at his hair in frustration. The numbers were there, but he could not comprehend them, understand them, know them. It was a seven and a six, the hour hand was at the seven and minute hand at the six. But what did that mean? A memory. Of his childhood. A pair of hands, pointing at the face of a clock. The hands turned the dials on the back and the hands moved, the long one at the twelve and the short one at the two. A voice, distant and dreamy. The form strained to hear it, but even as the hands moved all there was were soft, unintelligible murmurs. The raven continued to affix him with its terrifying pits. It flew out the open door, the form following close behind, dragged along by its sinister magnetism.

 

By degrees they came upon a graveyard. The sun hung regally in the middle of the bright blue sky, illuminating the tall cedar trees interspersed amongst the drab headstones. The raven led him to a particular stone. On the grey cobblestone was carved:

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

Ben and Autumn Parker, Born 78 Great Warming, Passed to the sun in 168 Great Warming

 

The form could not speak. All it could do was stare into the eyes of the raven. The clock tower tolled, and the sun fell off the horizon, enveloping the sky in a cold darkness. Absent from its warming rays, the form began to shiver again. It fell onto the grave of the Parkers, scrabbling at the freezing dirt. It was cold, bemoaned the form. So cold. An agonizing caw pervaded the night air, intermingling with the ringing, unrelenting toll of the clock tower.