Large fields and open blue skies, a small farm house with blue shutters and a gravel driveway. This was the farm Michael grew up on. This was the farm he took reign of after his fathers passing. This was the farm he moved his wife into, and eventually their son. It provided a reliable source of income and hearty meals for the household to warm themselves on. For generations this farm ensured healthy families and comfortable stability. A warm fireplace and lush greenery to canopy their home.
For over a decade after his marriage, Michael spent days working, all to ensure the people he loved were cared for. With a drastic change in climate and soil quality, eventually the farm moved toward instability. Hours became longer, and Michael’s body grew weary. His wife busy taking care of their ever withering son, no one could help share the work load. With barely enough to eat and never enough sleep, Michael kept working to provide the bare necessities of survival. Years passed by as such.
Michael was out working during the day, behaving reckless and erratic due to his deteriorating state. Bloated clouds hung over his dried crops, teasing with the possibility of rain. Humidity thickened the air, so much so it became difficult to breathe. As Michael continued his work he noticed his vision blacking and eventually fainted. Awoken by his wife mere seconds later- Michael realized he had fallen in such a way his wrist had broken. His family knew what this meant. Terror of the unknown permeated throughout the house. Still- after getting bandaged up Michael continued to work.
Months had passed by like this. One night, as the sky was once again bloated and purple, the rain came. It brought with it crackling lightning and monstrous thunder. Huddled up by the fireplace with his family, there was a knock on the door. An old woman, tanned and kissed with sun spots, wearing nothing by rags soaked to the bone had come to seek aid.
“I’m so sorry for the intrusion, but I have no where to stay for the night. I am passing through and was caught in the rain. Could I ask for a room for the night?” Her voice quivered so softly Michael had to lean in to hear.
Michael’s good nature provided an automatic response “Of course, come on in.”
His wife had prepared cabbage stew for their dinner, and it had finished cooling down. Barely enough for three portions, Michael handed his to the woman.
“I cannot accept this,” the woman had pushed the bowl away “You must eat tonight. This is your home.”
Michael gave no response, instead handing the woman back the bowl and nodding.
She accepted the gracious offer, “You will have your kindness paid back, I swear to it.”
The next morning, Michael awoke to a strange feeling. The feeling of strength. He looked down to his arm that had been injured, and saw it was replaced with pure gold. Able to move with the same dexterity and brawn of a young man. Searching for the woman, she was nowhere to be found. As Michael continued his work, his farm replenished itself. Back to its flourishing nature and Michael was able to provide a plethora of necessities. He paid his community back in the following decades.
Up until his death Michael repaid back strangers with the same kindness the old woman had granted him. After Michael passed, his son Ishmael took over the farm. With Michael buried on the property its’ abundance continued. By this time rumors around town had spread. Michael’s golden arm was now laying in the earth.
Late one night, a group of thieves snuck unto the property, looking for Michael’s golden arm. As they worked their way through the farm and toward the gravesite, the cool night turned warm. Hot air swirled as a figure began to appear in front of the thieves. Tall and looming, it’s arms hung to the ground. A figure so black it appeared to be a gaping hole in the fabric of reality.
The figure softly spoke “Leave now.”
The thieves emboldened to continue, they began to dig into the grave. The soil was dry and packed, but eventually gave way. The figure continued to watch from a distance. It’s presence beginning to send vibrations through the air.
“Leave now.” It’s voice raspy and hoarse.
The thieves broke through the wooden slats of the coffin, and pulled the golden arm from it’s socket. The figure moved too fast, and was looming over the thieves standing in an open grave.
With unbearable ferocity, the figure screeched into the night “Give me back my golden arm!”
Now appearing with only one arm intact the figure swarmed the thieves, creating a funnel of wind. The dry dirt began to cut at the thieves skin, working to their throats as they protectively covered their eyes. The figure continued to howl the same phrase, repeating and blurring together. The thieves dropped the arm and ran from the farm.
Stories were told throughout the town of an old entity protecting that families farmland. The golden arm was nothing if not a warning. The story was told that the thieves were spared that night so they could ward off others. To leave well enough alone, and if one were to enter that property with malicious intent, their fate would be sealed as something much worse than the legends passed down.