The Last Harvest(11)

Rubbing the goose bumps from my arms, I set the books aside and turn off my light.

It’s a little chilly, but the breeze feels good. The way the wind rustles against the garbage bag almost sounds like wind chimes.

For the longest time after Dad’s death, I thought I could still hear the cattle bellowing and mewing. I know that’s nuts.

People think cows are these dumb docile animals, but you should’ve seen what they did to him. Teeth, hooves, a thousand pounds of pressure crushing his bones.

But that’s nothing compared to what he did to them.





7

A DULL creaking sound pulls me through the wheat. The sky is so blue, like it’s been painted on. I reach a clearing in the wheat to find a girl with long, dark-brown hair swinging on a rusted-out swing set. The curves of her body are barely concealed under a sheer white slip.

She glances at me over her shoulder, a sly smile playing across her cherry lips.

Ali.

I walk around the clearing so I can face her. She stretches out her long tan legs in front of her like she’s trying to reach heaven with her tiptoes. Her legs are slightly parted. Catching my gaze, her smile deepens. Her hazel eyes look darker than normal, like the algae clinging to the rocks at the bottom of Harmon Lake.

“I want to go higher,” she says. “Don’t you want to push me?”

“Sure.” I cross behind her.

She comes back to me like an arrow, legs tucked beneath her.

I reach out to give her a push. The feel of her warm body against my hands sends a surge of raw electricity through me.

The sky begins to darken, ominous clouds rolling in all around us, but I don’t care. All I want to do is touch her again.

I push her. She laughs as she swings higher and higher away from me.

When she returns, Ali tilts her head back; her eyes are black. Pure black, like pools of crude.

I stumble back into the wheat, and on the upswing Ali lets go, disappearing into the churning sky.

Calling her name, I careen around the clearing, the empty swing whipping all around me, but she never comes back down.

The swing sways and creaks, over and over. The sound grates on my nerves, like a dull knife sawing through bone, but there’s another sound, a warm wet sucking sound coming from a hollow in the wheat. Something about that sound makes me want to crawl out of my skin, but I have to know what it is. With each step forward, a sickeningly sweet metallic odor fills my senses, making me want to gag.

I try to turn back, but it’s too late. The wheat has closed in all around me, leading me to a nest made up of discarded wheat stems.

Inside, a little girl with light-blond pigtails lies next to a calf with golden fur.

The little girl is suckling from the dead calf.

“Noodle?” I gasp.

She sits up, blood dripping from her mouth. “He’s coming.”

*

I JOLT upright in bed, chest heaving, my skin covered in a thick sheen of cold sweat. My entire body’s trembling. Dragging my hand through my damp hair, I think maybe it’s withdrawal symptoms. I’ve been popping those sleeping pills like candy for the past year. But that dream … Jesus. I can’t shake the image of Noodle with that calf.

I get up to shut the window, and that’s when I notice a warm glow coming from the western edge of our property, from the Neely ranch. It looks like it’s spilling from every crack of the breeding barn.

I clench my eyes shut. Whatever this is, I need to snap out of it. I press my hand against the glass, and a shock of cold sinks into my flesh, making the hair on my arms stand up.

This isn’t a dream.

I glance back at the clock. 11:59 P.M. “No way.” I exhale as I brace myself against the window frame. Could it be Ali? Could she seriously be waiting for me there?

“Come on, Clay. Don’t do this to yourself.” I shut the window and start to resecure the garbage bag, but I can’t take it. I have to know. If Ali’s there, waiting for me, and I don’t go, I’ll never forgive myself.

Pulling on my jeans and a T-shirt, I creep down the stairs. I know exactly where the creaks are in the pine floors, from when Dale used to stay over and we’d sneak out and run around like idiots, playing Marco Polo in the wheat.

My heart aches when I see Noodle’s arranged my work boots next to the door, exactly one inch apart. There’s a note tucked in the right one. I put the note in my pocket and slip on my boots, stepping outside into the brisk air.

As I head toward the Neely ranch, my breath hovers all around me. The only sound is the wheat being crushed beneath my boots, like tiny skeletons.

The sky looks the same as it did on the night Dad marched into the wheat clutching that crucifix. And I think to myself, what the hell am I even doing out here? This is just morbid … and pathetic. It’s probably nothing. Just my imagination or some dumbass kids from the city. But if they’re looking for ghosts, I can sure lend a hand. Serve them right.

As I reach the edge of our property, I duck under the broken-down fence and walk straight for the breeding barn. I try not to think about the last time I made this trip. The blood. The carnage. When they finally cleared the breeding-floor drains, they found the metal crucifix at the bottom of the pool of blood all twisted up with chunks of fur and intestines.

A soft whisper stops me in my tracks.

At first, it’s so low I wonder if it’s just the wheat swaying in the bitter wind, but it feels more sinister than that.