My grandfather’s a tough old man. Probably the toughest person I’ve ever met, even now; especially now. He was a farmer all his life, working the fields alone, turning down offers of help from family, and the local teenagers that came looking for a job. We all believed he was just too proud to accept help. Too set in his ways to trust his livelihood to someone else. And for a while I think that was true. Eventually though, in his late 60’s he had little choice but to bring someone else on following a farming accident that cost him his left arm, and almost his life. He continued to work the farm however, and still does to this day, well into his 90’s. He’s the youngest 92 year old I’ve ever known.
Last fall my wife Mila and I spent the week at my parent’s, helping them out with some minor renovations. It was during our last day of our visit that I decided to take Mila to visit my grandparents. She’d only met them once before at our wedding, and I didn’t want to leave Oregon without seeing them. So that morning we said goodbye to my folks, and drove the forty minutes to my grandparents farm.
Pop and Gram were delighted to see Mila and I. They insisted we stay for dinner, which meant we would likely miss our flight home, but we couldn’t say no, seeing as how little I got to see them.
Mila helped Gram out in the kitchen, listening to embarrassing stories of my youth, while I helped Pop out with the cows. It was just like old times, just him and I, cleaning up after the cows, while listening to his stories. It was mid October, and prime time for corn harvesting. I offered to help out in the fields, but he turned me down flat. Said his hired guy would be doing it. Instead we settled on the back porch, each sipping on a frosty bottle of MOAB, the rich scent of my grandma’s roast mixing with the crisp autumn air.
Pop leaned back in his old rocker, the stump of his left arm resting on his chest. He’d never gotten a prosthetic. Refused to even try it on. I was eight when he’d had his accident, and I can still remember the day well. I’d been visiting for the weekend, and had been helping my gram with the inside chores as I had come down with a slight cold that week and she didn’t want me helping pop with the corn until I felt better. I remember being upset. I loved riding the picker with pop. But gram was good at making even the most boring chores fun, and I had nearly forgotten about the corn as grandma let me lick the bowl free of cookie dough. I was holding up the glass bowl when I saw it. A blur of color passing in front of the kitchen window. I’d put the bowl down and hopped off the counter to get a better look.
I nearly screamed when I saw it. I think I may actually have screamed, because in a moment my gram was at my side, screaming too. She ran outside, but I was glued to the floor. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. Pop was on his knees, his jean jacket slick with blood. His normally sun kissed face was completely pale, except for the ring of crusted blood around his mouth. He was holding his left arm, or what remained of it. Bits of torn flesh hung between his fingers as blood spurted out with every beat of his heart.
The rest of the day is a blur to me, but I remember my mother holding me at the hospital, and listening as pop told us what happened.
He’d been in the field, harvesting corn, when a horse charged through the woods that separated their farm from their neighboring farm a few miles away. The horse ran straight to pop, and so he shut off the picker and hopped down to grab the horse. But just as he was getting the horse to calm down so that he could take hold of her, the horse reared back on her hind legs, knocking my pop back into the picker. Before he could get to his feet, the horse somehow managed to knock into the picker, turning it on. My pop’s hand was sucked right up into the rollers and taking more with it every second. He didn’t have a phone, and no one around to hear him scream, so he did the only thing he could. He reached in his back pocket for his pocket knife, and got to cutting.
Pop never talked about it again after that day, no matter how many times he was asked.
But sitting on the porch with him that October afternoon something compelled me to ask to hear the story again.
“Why would you want to hear something like that?” He mumbled, side eyeing me.
“Because, it’s pretty heroic.” I said.
“Heroic my ass.” He grunted, shaking his head.
“Mila would love to hear it. I’ve told her, of course, but no one tells a story better than you.” I said with a wink.
He looked away from me then, and for a moment he looked just like he did the day I saw him through the kitchen window covered in his own blood. He had a look of terror in his eyes. One I’d never seen before or since. I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.
“You ok Pop?” I asked, ready to hop up and get my gram. He nodded his head and took a sip of his MOAB with a shaky hand.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” He said, setting his bottle between his legs, and running his fingers over the stump of his left arm.
“You sure? You look kind of pale.” I said.
“I said I was.” He said firmly, but not in any way unkind. Pop never was one to be fussed over.
I sat back in my seat, quietly sipping from my own bottle. We sat in silence for a while, and just as the sky started to turn a reddish orange, he cleared his throat.
“You were here that day, you remember that?” He asked, still staring off into the fields that stretched before us.
I knew immediately what he was referring to, and told him that I did remember.
“You were small, not much more than six or seven. I’m surprised you remember at all. But I guess it must be hard to forget something like that.” He said.
“It was definitely scary seeing you covered in blood. I was just glad you were okay. Could have been so much worse.” I said.
He grunted, and wiped his brow, that I could see was starting to bead with sweat despite the chill.
“It certainly could have been a lot worse, you ain’t kidding. Sometimes I still feel it, you know.” He said turning to look at me. “My arm. It feels like it’s still there sometimes. Sometimes I even go to scratch it, but my hands feel this nub and it all comes rushing back to me.”
“It must have been terrifying. I can’t imagine having to cut off my own arm.” I said.
“It was terrifying, but not because I had to cut my arm off.” He said. “There’s something I never told you about that day. I never told anyone, matter of fact. And I never planned on it.” He looked back at me, his gray eyes burning with determination. “But if you want to know, really want to know, I’ll tell you. But you’ll promise me you won’t repeat it to your mother or grandma. I don’t want them thinking I’ve lost my damn mind.”
When I didn’t say anything he took hold of my arm and squeezed. “Well? Do you want to know?” He asked.
“I do.” I said.
“And do you promise not to tell your mother or grandma?”
“I promise pop.”
He let out a long breath as if he’d been holding it in, and gave a quick look over his shoulder at the kitchen window. Inside Mila and gram’s faint laughter could be heard. He relaxed back into his rocker, taking a small sip from his bottle before starting.
“You know some of it already. What I told the family at the hospital, that was partly true. A horse knocked me down, and my arm got wedged in the rollers. I had to cut it off with this Winchester.” He said, pulling out an ancient looking pen knife, and running his thumb over it.
“My father gave this to me when I was 14, and I’ve kept it with me ever since. There’s been plenty of times I’ve left the house without my keys, or my wallet, but never once forgot this knife.” He wrapped his fist around the rusted handle, and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his blue flannel shirt.
“I’d taken the picker out to the west field that day. We’d just bought the land over there earlier in the year and this was the first time I’d ever harvested that section. The moment I got there I felt a change in the air, as if it was heavier there somehow. I could feel it with every breath I took, like what breathing in water must feel like. I shoulda come straight back right then. But I didn’t. I guess I thought it was just in my damn head.” He was gazing off in the distance towards the west field, the tips of swaying corn just barely visible from our place on the porch.
“Anyway, I got to work, and even though that feeling was still there, I did my best to ignore it. I was halfway through when I heard something. You know how loud that damn picker is, but I could still hear it even over the roar of the picker. I shut it off and hopped out and the sound nearly knocked me off my feet. It’s crazy, but it sounded like a freight train was coming towards me. I swear it even felt like the ground was vibrating under my feet. I didn’t have time to think about what it could be, because within seconds I saw what it was. But it sure as hell wasn’t what I expected.
“A horse came galloping right outta the woods that runs along the edge of the corn, and it looked like it’d been running for days. It took one look at me with wild eyes and ran straight at me. As if I’d been his target all along. She galloped straight at me, weaving and winding her way through the corn.
“I could tell right away that she was terrified. I put my arms up and tried to calm her down as she barreled right at me, and after a minute there she was starting to settle. She was exhausted, that much I could tell right away and she looked a little hurt too. I could see some scrapes on her hind, and one gash on her nose. I thought maybe she’d run through a fence over on Bill’s farm. I decided I’d take her over to him, get her fixed up.
“I grabbed her by the bridle, and started to lead her back towards the woods over by Bill’s. It was a ways, but I didn’t want to leave her unattended for too long.” He took a gulp from his bottle, and wiped his face.
“You don’t have to keep going pop..” I said, starting to feel concerned. “We can go inside if you want.”
“No, I want to finish. I got to tell someone, Nate. I’ve kept it in too damn long and the weight of it is suffocating me.” He said. Before I could respond he continued with his story.
“I tried pulling that horse towards the woods, but she dug into the ground and refused to budge. It was slow going but I managed to get her to take a couple steps when I heard that sound again. Like something awfully big was coming straight at us. I was looking towards the woods where the sound was coming from, and I thought I could see something moving around in there. I couldn’t see it clearly, but I could see something. Something white, moving between the trees. And it was moving fast.
“Just as….whatever the hell that thing was started to emerge through the treeline, the horse reared back on her hind legs knocking me over into the picker. I was stunned for a second, then started to pull myself up, but then I laid my eyes on what that horse saw; what she’d been running from.” He looked back up, his eyes large and scared, staring off into that far off field.
“What was it pop?” I asked, my voice nothing more than a whisper.
“I don’t know. It sure as hell wasn’t another horse, I know that. It wasn’t any kind of animal I’d ever seen in my life. It looked more like a man than an animal, though I’m not sure why cause it didn’t look like any man I’d ever seen either. It was shaped like one, being it had two legs, and two arms. But its skin was a white scaly gray, and it had these hooked claws on the ends of its fingers that it would dig into the earth to pull itself along. It was crawling for some reason. Sort of dragging itself forward.”
“Jesus Christ.” I whispered. Normally Pop would have snapped at me for using the Lord’s name in vain, but he didn’t seem to notice or care in that moment.
“That thing….. was grinning at me, Nate. Grinning with its head bobbing from side to side and giggling like a little kid. The vision of that thing crawling through the dirt towards me…. Has haunted my nightmares for years.” He said.
“What the hell was it?” I asked.
Pop shrugged, and took a drink. “I don’t know. But it was coming right at me. It wasn’t moving too fast at that point, not like it was in the woods. I don’t know if it was tired or what, but I wasn’t planning on asking it. I tried to get to my feet, but that damn horse must have seen that thing coming and she went berserk. She slammed into the picker and somehow turned it on, then she took off through the field. Those rollers swallowed my hand before I even had a chance to blink. I felt it before I saw it. The bones crushing on my fingers. Still, I wasn’t thinking about the pain. I suppose it was the adrenaline, but all I could think about was that thing getting closer.
“It was already moving across the field at that point, and I was stuck. I tried pulling, but those rollers were sucking my hand in by the second, and before I knew it my wrist was sucked up inside too. I couldn’t turn it off, and no matter how loud I screamed no one would hear me out there anyway. I figured I was gonna die right there. Either from the picker or that thing. It was moving at a steady pace, almost like it was enjoying it. And it was too.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because it was grinning, Nate. Its eyes were wide and locked on me and it was smiling this great big grin that showed off every one of them teeth. And those teeth were sharp. Even I could see that from across the field. The closer it got the more I could see, and I thought I’d lose my mind if I had to stare at that thing any longer. Those milky white eyes and that smile, I’d never seen something so evil, and I pray I never will again.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“Thankfully I remembered my father’s knife, and pulled it out. At first I held it for protection, in case that thing got close enough. But by the time the rollers had eaten up part of my arm, damn near to the elbow, I knew I could either start cutting, or wait around til that thing got to me, and by then who knows how much of me the picker would have eaten.
“I decided I wasn’t waiting around to find out. So I started cutting as fast as I could. I didn’t even feel it. I was too scared of that thing getting to me. It saw me cutting at my arm and I swear I could see the panic in its eyes for just a second. It knew I might get away and it didn’t like that. It started moving faster then. Taking big strides with its long arms, sending dirt flying in the air.
“Its eyes were even wider, its smile bigger somehow too. So big I think I heard its skin tear and I could hear it making this sound as it scrambled towards me. Loud enough to hear with that picker going. Like a grunting sound. Raspy and deep. I was so scared I started using my own teeth. By the time that thing reached the start of my corn, I was almost free. I was still attached to the picker, but only by the bone. For a moment I was worried I wouldn’t be able to break it, not in the position I was in. But luckily for me I didn’t have to. The picker took care of that pretty quickly, and I fell back on my ass.
“I scooted away from that thing, my blood spurting out every which way. I still had my father’s knife, and I held it out in front of me, though I don’t know if it would have done much good. It was pretty close at that point, right next to the picker. I kept scooting back, holding that knife out waiting for it to lunge. But it didn’t. It stopped crawling, and sat back on its legs, watching me with those eyes that were full of malice. Like it was studying me, seeing if I was any sort of threat. After a minute or two it growled, and turned its attention to the picker.
“It crawled up to it and sniffed at the rollers a bit. Then it reached down in those rollers and yanked my arm out of it. I don’t know how it was able to get it without getting itself pulled in, but it did. It took what was left of my arm in its mouth, and started crawling backwards into them woods, watching me the entire way. It stopped at the treeline and even from the distance I could see it smiling at me. It disappeared in the trees but I didn’t move until I was sure it wasn’t coming back. By then I’d lost a lot of blood, was close to losing consciousness. I pretty much crawled all the way home. Blacked out a few times, but every time I thought I wouldn’t get back up, I’d see that damned smile and somehow I’d get the strength to get to my knees again.” He closed his eyes tight, shaking his head as if to clear the memory from his mind.
“And?” I said, completely immersed in his story.
He sighed, and tucked his knife in his back pocket. “And you know the rest. I made it home somehow. God must have given me the strength.”
“But… what happened to that… thing in the woods?” I asked, my own eyes scanning the trees that seemed so much closer than they had before Pop’s story.
“That I can’t tell you. And you know, I don’t think I want to know. Some things aren’t meant to be found, Nate. And that thing was one of ‘em.” He said, draining his beer.
“Did you ever see it again?” I asked.
Pop shook his head. “Nope, and I hope I never will. I stopped working the west field after that. Never stepped foot on it again after that day. Hired Hank Reidy to do it for me. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do anything with that land, but your grandma didn’t understand why I wanted to let the land go to shit. Not after spending so much to buy it. I couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d think I’d gone crazy. So I hired Hank, and he harvests the corn for me.”
I looked at the corn in the west field, swaying in the breeze, and I couldn’t help but imagine some horrible gangly creature with a gaping smile, waiting out there in the stalks.
Pop clapped his hand on my shoulder, pulling my gaze away from the west field. “Your grandma thought I stopped using the picker because I was scared. As if I was afraid I’d lose the other arm. And she was partly right. I was afraid. But not of that damn picker. I was afraid of that field, Nate. Still am. Afraid of those woods that bordered it, and the places in the corn where things can hide. Afraid that whatever the hell that thing was that took my arm would come back for the rest of me.” He stood and smiled down at me with an almost relieved look on his face. “Come on, smells like dinner’s about ready.”
*
I never for a second doubted my Pop’s story. Not just because I trust his word, but because when he told me, he was scared. And nothing scares Pop. I don’t know what he saw out in the woods that day, but whatever it was it scared him enough to cut and bite through his own arm just to get away from it.
That visit was the last time I saw my grandfather. He passed away three weeks ago. Heart attack, doctor said. I went out to help my gram pack some of his things away, and when I’d finished I contemplated heading on over to the west field, just to stare into those woods for myself. But then I remembered the look of terror on my pop’s face that day he lost his arm, and the day he told me how he’d lost it and I changed my mind.
Pop was right. Some things just shouldn’t be found.