Once in a summer past

It seems like my life has revolved around that old barn. From the time I could walk I would be woken with the sun to head up to the old barn to do chores. There were always animals that needed to be taken care of. My summers consisted of hauling bales of hay up into the loft or tossing them down to the feed truck. It was a blessing and a curse at times. Even when I finally left home I could still smell it in my dreams. The smell of a freshly mucked stall, the heat of those big bodies, the sounds of the pawing and rustling in their stalls. It at first brought me comfort after I left home but that was short lived as the nightmare soon encroached on the pleasant memories.

The creak of the door swinging open letting natural light finally seep in casting wicked shadows across the dirt floor followed by the deafening silence as the dust settled, for a child with such an active imagination, I knew this was the perfect setting for Michael or Jason Vorhees to step out of one of the darkened stalls. I was prepared to run but behind me lay an even scarier villain, my father who would be wanting to know why my evening chores weren’t done in time for us all to go to the high school football game in town. So I squared my shoulders and drew in a deep breath. I had taken maybe ten steps into the barn when I stopped in my tracks. I felt all the little hairs raise up on my body and I knew deep in my gut something was just not right. I cast a furtive glance around trying to peer into the depths of the darkness and bemoaned dad’s unwillingness to have more lighting added to the deeper recesses of the barn. I was startled from my purveyance by the sharp whistle piercing the air. My father’s signature whistle to hurry his kids along. You did not ever ignore the whistle so I spun on my heel and raced back out to the front of the door to shout out my acknowledgement so I would not pay for a transgression of ignoring him later.

As I entered the barn again that’s when I heard it, a weird creaking noise. A noise one would think would be normal in an old barn, but I knew the ins and outs of this barn better than most people knew their own home. As I stood still and once more watched the shadows, something moved. I watched the inky blackness flow back and forth across the center aisle of the stalls and I heard the creaking once more. I reached for the pitchfork that always rested near the door and brandished it like a long sword preparing to slay a dragon I crept further into the barn. Creak creak creak, I could time my footsteps to each creak as I walked deeper into the belly of the beast. A shuffling noise and then a body butting up against a stall door had a sharp squeak spilling from my lips and my fingers tightening around the shaft of my pitchfork as I prepared to meet my nemesis but when I spun around to check behind me everything was as it should be. I could hear my favorite pig snorting and it finally registered it was just Mickey the pig thinking it was feeding time. To which he was right so once I settled my nerves I began the easy task of dumping pellets over the stall doors to each pig’s enclosure. Dusting off my hands I retrieved my pitchfork and made my way up the ladder to the loft to fetch bales for the horses. As I reached the top of the ladder I once more heard the creaking noises and realized this is where it was coming from.

I slid onto the floor of the loft keeping as low to the ground as I could and slunk forward letting the sharp tines of my pitchfork lead the way. Creak creak creak it sounded again and I saw the shadows dart across the floor. My eyes tracked the movement and finally roamed the full landing. The sight that met my eyes had my body freezing, the air caught and burning my lungs. My pitchfork clattered to the floor as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. The screech that finally released from my burning lungs could be heard miles away and it brought my father running into the barn followed by the rest of my family. The next thing I remember is the red and blue lights of police and ambulance as they raced down our narrow lane to pile into our front yard. “Uncle Jake!” I yelled out one more time.

Now thirty years later as I stand back in front of the doors to that old barn I swear I can still hear that creaking sound and my body trembles so hard as I start to hyperventilate. Yet again I have no choice, I have to go in there. The farm is finally being sold and we have to do the last inventory. It’s my duty just as it was all those years ago for the entirety of my childhood. See to your chores child, my father’s deep stern voice sounded in my head spurring me forward. I entered the barn for the final time. Creak creak creak, shadows moved across the floor. It was cooler in here now without all of the animals. But there was one more thing I wish were missing, the vision of my Uncle Jake swinging from the rope tied around his neck and hanging from the rafter. Creak creak creak.