Tick tock, tick tock
The seconds pass by as I stare at the ceiling. My wife is breathing slowly beside me. Tonight is the night. Something in the woods has been killing my animals and tonight I’m prepared. Tonight it finally stops.
Tick tock, tick tock
1:58 am. It’s almost time. I’ve never seen it. I hear it, though. Every night. Whimpering dogs and squawking chickens.
Every night.
Tick tock, tick tock
I hear it every single night at 2:08 am. It started last week. Same routine as always. Out of bed, coffee, breakfast, hygiene, work. The phrase “bright and early” doesn’t make any sense. It’s anything but bright in the early morning. I toil in the fields and feed the animals as the sun threatens to peak over the horizon, too eager to make my life harder.
Tick tock, tick tock
As the chores passed by, so did the hours. One day I noticed one cow less. The next day, one chicken less. We searched. We scoured the fields. We checked the barn. No sign of animals—missing or wild. We split up and searched every inch of the place. No sign of forced entry—or escape—for that matter. They’re just gone.
What’s happening?
Tick tock, tick tock
The dogs are sweet, but useless. They don’t herd sheep, and they sure as hell don’t defend anything. They cower and hide—I can’t say I blame them. I’d rather they be afraid and alive than brave and dead. If you want something done, do it yourself, right? So I stayed up, later and later. Three nights in a row, I heard it.
Tick tock, tick tock
I almost jump as I hear a door slowly creak open. My son is a bed wetter, but it sounds like that may be coming to an end as well. Good boy, I think to myself. The dogs sleep in his room, I hear the familiar pitter-patter of paws on the floor following his slow steps as he makes his way.
Tick tock, tick tock
2:08 am. Snap. I placed sticks around the property, it seems they’re doing their job. I creep out of bed and stare out the window. Nothing. The darkness of night. I open the window. The smell of farm fills the room. Along with something else. Not just the familiar smell of cut grass and hay. Something worse than just the smell of chicken feed and cow shit.
Tick tock, tick tock
The stench of copper.
Blood. Death. Rot. Famine. Pestilence.
All the woes and misery in the world—of the suffering you don’t think about until you’re staring death in the face. The abhorrent reek of rot permeates the air, filling up the room, seeping into every vein of wood. Invading my nostrils, my throat, my lungs. The taste of death covers my tongue.
Tick tock, tick tock
Seconds pass by, masquerading as hours. It’s still 2:08, though it feels like a lifetime has passed me by. I close the window. The smell of rotting meat dissipates, slowly. I’m still stuck in place. When did I become stuck in place? I can’t move. Rather, I won’t move. I still see nothing.
Nothing but the dark gloom of night, now a mire of bleak visions. My home is a lush, verdant ocean of green and yellow; a god-made fence of evergreens, fields I built and cultivated with my own two hands. The farmhouse I built for the family I love. The plants and animals I care for day after day, that I would teach my son to love just as much. Tonight, with what’s been happening, and this stench—it feels like the backdrop of a nightmare.
The life I built, the perfect combination of creation by man and god. The blood, sweat, and tears that fell in the heat of the sun, searing my darkened and ever burnt skin. My home has become a factory of flesh for…whatever this is.
Tick tock, tick tock
2:09 am. Time isn’t frozen, I have that going for me at least. I struggle to move my feet. They still work. I grab a flashlight and a rifle. It’s time. This is no witching hour demon, it’s just an animal. An animal that’s clever enough to make no sound, operate gates, and jump high fences all while managing to escape with an entire cow, or make a chicken disappear without even a stray feather left behind.
Tick tock, tick tock
Silently, I make my way out of the house. The smell has made its way around the place. It’s turned my beautiful home into the River Styx. A voyage to the terrifying unknown. The reek of death surrounds me as I make my way to the door. I pass the vintage clock by the window; matching the oak table it sits on.
Tick tock, tick tock.
The front door softly creaks open and this time the familiar smell of outside hits my nose. Erasing and replacing the smell of decay. I check the chickens. They’re all here. Not so much as a feather out of place in fact. I check the sheep. I check the cows. Everyone is accounted for. Weird. Maybe I scared it away. This is the first night I’ve left the house after all. Is it afraid of me? Or is it playing with me?
I go over options in my head. Arguing logic and rationality. Three nights in a row I’ve heard sounds at the same time. Three days in a row, animals have gone missing. Something is happening. Why not tonight? I know it’s smart, it hasn’t been caught yet, and it leaves no trail. That doesn’t explain why it made sounds tonight, only to disappear without a trace, taking no prey.
I spin around to the sound of crops rustling behind me. Unmistakable. I can see the plants shifting under the weight of something. Something is there. The fields are taller than I am—towering over me in the dark of night—and whatever is out there is dangerous, and clever, which makes it deadly. Charging headfirst into the unknown would just lead me to the same fate as the animals.
I move back towards the house.
The soft, dull thud of footsteps follows me. Rhythmic and intentional. A slow gait. Bipedal.
Human.
I turn around. Nothing.
“Hello?” I call.
Silence.
“I hear you. I’ve seen you. Leave now.”
Silence.
As soon as my back turns again I hear it move.
The footsteps grow faster, louder, and harder. Sprinting towards the barn. I turn around again. Rifle at the ready. In the dark of night, I see it. Tall. Muscular. Animalistic. An abomination. Like a bad imitation of a human. Joints in the wrong places, bent the wrong ways. The smell is back. I’m frozen again.
The barn door swings open with a loud screech.
It’s standing over a cow. It opens its mouth, followed by a sickening crack. The sound of bones breaking. Splintering. It continues. Its jaw is breaking. Unhinged as it opens its mouth wider. Wider. Wider. More cracking. Tearing flesh. The smell gets worse. Its mouth is still opening. It keeps getting wider. How is it still getting wider?
Crack. Rip. The cow is in its mouth. I feel a cold sweat break out as my mind tries to process what it’s seeing. It sinks further, and further. I feel I’m sinking into the Earth itself. I should run, I want to run. Why can’t I run?
The creature takes its time. Swallowing its prey whole. Alive. The cow is too afraid to move. Our eyes meet and I can see the pleading. The silence of the night is only broken by the odd crack of more bone. I don’t know where it goes. The monster isn’t getting larger. It’s like its stomach is a black hole. A portal. Something that leads to hell itself. That would explain the stench.
The entire cow is gone. The creature’s mouth is shrinking to a normal size. Skin melding back together. Jaw reforming.
Finally it rests its eyes on me.
“…h….hel….lo….”
“…i….s..see….y…you”
“L…LE…LEAVE”
The words creak out of its throat. They surround me. They aren’t coming from its mouth. They’re everywhere. It mimics my voice. It slowly walks backwards, into the fields. I hear the familiar screech of the barn door, despite sitting wide open. Of the metal gates. I hear the whimpering of my dogs. The scittering pitter-patter of their paws on the hardwood floors. I hear the slow creaking of doors, and all of the familiar sounds of the farm. It recreates all of these sounds as it makes its way back to the woods.
I say nothing else. I bribe my legs to move. I promise them sleep. Sleep I know I won’t find. It works all the same. I can slowly lift one foot, and then the other. In the morning, I’ll call…someone. This is wrong, whatever this is. I don’t know what to do. I’m tired, I’m afraid, and I’m a sitting duck for whatever this thing is. I’ve been safe in the house this long, one more night will be fine.
As I enter the house, I notice the back door is open. I close and lock it. I enter the bedroom again and close the curtains. The stench still lingers in the air, a reminder of what I just saw.
2:30 am. I turn off the clock. The soft glow of digital numbers fading away. I don’t hear my son or the dogs roaming the house anymore, they must be asleep by now.
As I get in bed, I try not to wake my wife. As I lie in the silence of the black room, her breathing doesn’t greet me. The empty bed matching the empty house. In the distance I can hear it, through the dead of night.
Tick tock, tick tock