I’ll try to keep this short.
Originally, I’m from Elk City, Oklahoma. In 2017, my wife and I lost the house to a tornado. It was on the ground for nearly thirty minutes, providing it ample time to positively decimate our home. Luckily, we happened to be out of town at the time. However, Oddish, our three-year-old French bulldog, wasn’t so lucky.
We never found her. I suppose it’s better that way, as opposed to stumbling across her in whatever state the twister had left her in.
That house was our livelihood. We were both twenty-four and up to that point, it had served as our biggest accomplishment to date. The place was a birdhouse (about 1000 square feet), but I felt like Tony Soprano each time I pulled into the driveway. I didn’t take the loss well. My wife took it even worse.
I had no family left in Oklahoma, so in an effort to console my lady, I proposed the idea of starting over in an area much closer to hers. That’s not to say that I necessarily wanted to, but at the time, it seemed to give her a sense of hope. And with that, we’d abandoned Elk City in favor of a little patch of dirt called Berne, Indiana, a little Swiss town just south of Fort Wayne.
It’s a beautiful place, really. In Berne, the people are friendly, the crime rate is nonexistent, and, best of all, housing is cheap. (Relatively, of course)
We’d managed to scrape together just enough to buy a three-bedroom, two-bathroom ranch home about five minutes out of town. We were fucking ecstatic. Our house is located at the intersection of two desolate roads, one of four homes that occupy the general area.
All of our neighbors are Amish, which was…interesting at first. Being from Oklahoma, I’d never officially met an Amish person before. While they do exist there, they’re sparse.
I quickly discovered that the Amish community in Berne was warm and welcoming. They embraced us with open arms, despite our differences in lifestyle and background. They’re lovely people. The friendliest you’ll ever meet.
My wife and I took a specific liking to our next-door neighbors, the Nissleys.
Abigail and Jacob were in their early thirties when we met them. Under their roof were their four children, as well as Jacobs’s elusive, wheelchair-bound grandfather, Conrad.
They had a pretty interesting story. Jacob grew up in Berne, where he followed strict Amish customs and traditions. Despite his love for the community, he had the urge to explore the outside world.
Abigail, from Philadelphia, met Jacob during his visit to the city. Says she was captivated by the “depth of his character” and confidently decided to move to Berne.
It sounded like my wife and I, in a way.
We’d share many drinks with them over the next few years. A favorite memory of mine was when Jacob drunkenly agreed to test my virtual reality headset. By the end of that night, he had ridden a rollercoaster, gone skydiving, and fought Darth Vader. I’ll never forget the laughter.
Sadly, they began flaking on us last year. Usually, we’d strike up a conversation on their usual route into town, but they’d seemingly abandoned it altogether, opting to instead loop around our home entirely. Their new route added an extra few miles to their trip. It seemed as if they were deliberately distancing themselves from us. I was disappointed, as our three-year-old had become great friends with the Nissley’s children. She was and is completely obsessed with their horses and loved to interact with them whenever she got the chance.
Despite the fact that they never came around, they were a hell of a lot more active than before.
Not long after they ceased contact with us, the Nissleys began stocking up on lumber. Around the time I’d leave for work in the mornings, I’d catch a glimpse of Jacob and his father getting situated into their carriage. Seeing Conrad out of the house is like spotting a Leprechaun. He looked to be knocking on death’s door. Never in my life have I seen such a decrepit old man. Nonetheless, he seemed to be heading the lumber project and would continue to do for the next few weeks.
On weekdays, there’d be a fucking convoy of carriages en route to the Nissley’s home. It was always the same people, always the same time. I’d seen them around town but hadn’t yet introduced myself accordingly.
On Friday, on my way home from work, I saw the convoy hauling wood and scrap away from the Nissley’s home. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized what it was.
A group of about thirty were in the final stages of demolishing the family’s barn. Cows, chickens, and goats that once lived there were scurrying about excitedly behind a fence.
Standing on my porch, I couldn’t help but feel curious as I watched the Nissleys tear down their own barn. It seemed like a drastic and unusual step for them to take. I couldn’t help but wonder what their motivations were. The barn was in good shape, after all.
As time passed, the Nissleys persisted in their enigmatic undertaking. Every morning, I observed them laboring diligently on a project just beyond my home. The noises of building activity resonated throughout the area, mingling with the faint sound of horses’ hooves in the distance.
Week by week, their project began to take shape.
It became clear that the structure would match the barn in size upon its completion. The thing looks so strange; it defies conventional architectural norms in ways I’d never imagined. It isn’t a typical barn or house. It has peculiar angles and dimensions, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s like a hybrid of traditional Amish architecture and something more modern. A fusion of old and new.
It wasn’t long before the building was complete.
Strangely, the convoy of builders who had aided the family in the construction process still came around on a weekly basis. Each Sunday, at 5:00 AM, I’d be awakened by the clacking of hundreds of hooves and grunts.
My curiosity had been piqued for weeks. I gave in and decided to investigate further. I woke up early one Sunday to see what was going on. As the morning grew quiet, the sound of the convoy approached, their synchronized hoofbeats growing louder.
From my porch, I watched as the Nissleys’ helpers arrived with their carriages. They carried wooden crates towards the structure, unloading supplies. Their actions had an air of anticipation. They seemed excited. I observed them from afar, trying to make sense of it all.
Once everyone had arrived, Jacobs’s eldest son, holding a small lamb, began to guide them inside.
Not exactly the show I was hoping for.
I finished my coffee and prepared to go inside.
Then they began to sing.
‘Is this some sort of unofficial church?’
I wondered.
The singing continued for over an hour, occasionally being interrupted by muffled jargon. There wasn’t any variety to their singing. Just the same damn song for an hour straight.
I listened carefully to their repeated hymn, trying to catch the lyrics. The melody had a strange cadence to it. A bizarre, nonsensical quality that sent chills down my spine for some reason. Suddenly, the singing stopped, and an eerie silence filled the area. The air felt heavy with anticipation, and just for a second, it seemed like reality had been altered. The structure’s doors opened without warning, revealing a dimly lit interior.
Jacobs’s son exited first, holding a pail. Everybody else followed. They began to sing once more, much quieter this time. Jacobs’s son dipped his hand into the pail and began rubbing something onto the door. After he did this, he gave the pale to Abigail, who followed suit. I sat on my porch for an additional thirty minutes or so, watching as everybody took their turn.
When they were finished, they left. Just like that, it was over.
They paid me no mind as I sat there watching them return home. The sun was beginning to rise.
I didn’t know what to think.
All I knew was that the rest of the structure didn’t seem to match its new red door.
If any of you live in the general vicinity of Berne, please let me know if you’ve encountered anything like this. There’s so much more that I didn’t include. If anyone cares, I’ll keep you updated.
Thanks. -MC