The Occupant

The early morning sunlight filters softly through the dormer window that sits high on the eastern slope of the roof. It casts a dim light across the hayloft, illuminating the forgotten boxes and detritus of a time, long past. No hay has been stored here in ages and no foot has trod upon the dirty, wooden planks in as long a time. Laced with cobwebs, an old block and tackle hangs forgotten on the jamb of the hay doors. Dust has muted all color up here, as if one were viewing the scene through the sepia tones of ancient movies.

The large barn door creaks open and an old man slowly walks inside. He ambles over to a work bench built against the wall and grunts loudly as he lifts himself up upon an old, rusty metal legged stool. Looking over the tool-strewn bench top, he picks up a screwdriver and starts working on an ancient carburetor, but after a short time of tinkering, he drops the carburetor and the screwdriver on the benchtop and puts his head in his hands.

I view all of this from the highest corner of the barn. Over the many, many years I have watched the man age and decay, just like the farm around him. Only time and memories are my companions these days as he rarely come out here to work. I wonder what will happen to me when the man passes on and the farm is eventually sold. Will they tear down the barn? Will I get to leave then?

This barn is over a century old and it has been my home for most of that time. Maybe home isn’t the correct word, however it sounds better than prison. Yet, if truth be told, this is my prison for I cannot leave the barn no matter how much I want to. You see, I am a lost soul that died here and for some reason I don’t truly understand, I am condemned for eternity to the inside of these walls.

Back in 1878, my father purchased the land the farm now sits on. Having been born on the east coast into farm families, he and my mother, once married, set out to find land of their own to work. They settled on this parcel, however it was much smaller back then. Through back-breaking hard labor that he did mostly alone, (as my mother was quite often with child and unable to work the fields) my father became a successful farmer and over time purchased the surrounding lands until it was the largest in the county. It helped that my parents had a lot of kids who grew up toiling in the fields from a very early age.

I came along number three in the clan and was working in the fields by the time I was 5. Hoeing weeds or tilling the garden were my principle duties and I took to them as any 5-year old would do, distractedly, and often this led to a severe thrashing at the hands of my father. He took a dim view of slacking and if a weed was seen taller than six-inches, he was apt to take the belt to you, and I was too often on the bad side of him. Whipping me didn’t have the effect it had on my brothers and sisters, it made me angry and as I grew, I began to rebel more. I would purposely leave one weed in every row just to bother him. He would look down furrows and see they were completely weed free except for one lone plant growing tall. This would infuriate him and he would take his anger out on me, but I never screamed. Sometimes I feel the silence bothered him more than the weeds. Regardless, all those beatings did was make me angrier. Sadly, this all reached a head my sixteenth year.

Along about the end of August, if you worked in the fields, you were fed up with the heat. Generally, it would start cooling off around the first of September, but always there were those last few hot days that cut to the quick of a soul. We had one of those days where the air wasn’t moving a bit and you felt just as much heat coming up from the field as coming down from the sun. One of those scorching afternoons, I was working the harrow in the back pasture which happened to abut the south tank (a tank was a man-made pond used for water storage for cattle or planting and we stocked it with catfish to help keep the algae down) and every time I passed near it, I got the urge to just run and jump in. The problem was that we had to get the harrowing done so we could plant the winter wheat and there wasn’t time to swim. Well, as much as I tried to do the right thing, my mind decided that a quick dip in the tank was a better thing. I figured if I took off my clothes and jumped in really quick, then my father would never find out if my clothes weren’t wet. Well, when the next lap brought me the closest I would be, I dropped the reins and ran full tilt towards the tank. Once I got to the rim (the water level was about eight-feet down) I stripped down buck naked, sprinted down the embankment and leapt into the water. As I dove in I heard several gasps and saw movement to my right. I swam up to the surface, wiped the water from my face and was shocked to see my mother and sisters, along with the mother and daughters (both of which were nearly the same age as me) of our neighbors, the Clements standing at the edge of the water, mouths agape, holding fishing poles. I had not seen them as they were hidden by the scrub trees that grow on the banks of the water. It seemed that they had decided on having a fish fry that evening as a surprise to the menfolk. Well, the surprise was all theirs.

Now, I figure things would have been ok (as far as ok with young girls seeing me naked goes) if I had chalked it up to a terribly embarrassing mistake and apologized. Unfortunately, me being me, I thought it was hilarious the way those women were just staring at me. This made me bust out laughing and I couldn’t stop. This got the ladies moving and the Clements quickly turned and started packing their things. My mother was furious at this and began screaming at me to stop laughing. That got me settled down some, however as I watched the Clement girls, they both kept glancing back at me which made Mrs. Clements yell at them to stop looking, which made me laugh again. My sisters, in the meantime, were beyond embarrassed and had walked quickly up and over the rim of the tank.

Eventually the Clements left, as did my mother, and I quickly got out of the water and dressed and went back to the harrow. Now that I had gotten over the laughter, I knew that there would be hell to pay when I got back home. Not only for the tank incident, but I was not going to be able to finish the harrowing. I have to say that all humor had gone out of me and it was replaced by foreboding sense of dread that built up all afternoon. I was sure something bad was going to happen.

As I walked into the house, I saw my mother speaking with him in her angry, hands-flying manner she used when she was really upset. I slowly made my way into the kitchen to wash for dinner, but this time my father grabbed me by the collar and drug me out to the barn. Once inside he shoved me to the ground and walked over and grabbed the strop he used to sharpen tools. When he turned back, all he saw was me climbing up the ladder to the hayloft. He quickly followed, screaming at me to come down, but I went all the way up. As he came after me, I looked down at him.

“It weren’t no big deal, Father,” I shouted. “I just wanted to cool off and I didn’t know they were there. It was an accident and I’m not going to let you beat me for no accident.”

He stopped near the top rung and stared at me.

“I’m not beating you for what happened with the ladies. I’m beating you for not doing what you were told,” he hissed at me.

Then he slowly climbed up the onto the loft. I can’t say for certain, but to me it seemed like he was enjoying this. His face was contorted into a grimacing smile as he stood there with the thick, leather strop swinging between his hands.

Looking back on that day, it was the culmination of many things. Having had many years to think on things, I know that I was not the ideal son, but I really wasn’t bad, just didn’t like being hit. Who did? For the most part, I did what I was supposed to and worked hard around the farm. It was his anger that had been bred into me and that day his anger and my anger met face-to-face.

“You come over here and take your medicine, now,” he shouted.

“I ain’t. I’m done with you hitting me. I do what you ask and you ain’t never satisfied. I’m sixteen and old enough to go on my own and it’s what I intend to do.”

“What?” He laughed at me. “You ain’t going nowhere except to your room when I’m done with you.”

I just glared at him. “The hell I am.”

That pushed him over the edge. He lunged towards me and I stepped back instinctively, right off the edge of loft. When he saw that he tried to grab me, but he missed and I fell and that’s all I remember until I woke up here in the barn where I have been stuck ever since.

It’s a bit odd being a spirit. Time doesn’t really exist for me. One day I’m looking at something and the next thing I know it’s been five or more year later. Like time was a wrinkled piece of paper and I was looking at the outside. All that time inside those wrinkles is gone.

The old man sighed heavily and groaning, slid awkwardly off the stool. He just stood there for a moment then slowly looked around the barn. He is my great nephew and I have watched him struggle with the farm all his life. I don’t think he was meant to be a farmer, but unfortunately that’s the life he was stuck with. He tried his hardest, and managed to make a life for his family, but sadly his wife has died and his children are gone and rarely come to see him. He sold off land most of the parcels of land over the years and now there’s not much left. Only a tired old man with a tired old farm and a tired old barn.

And as for me, I can only look forward to the day this barn falls down. Will I be free? Only time will tell.