Grandpa's Farm

THE DRIVE TO THE FARM was long, flat, and boring. Why Grandpa lived out there was anyone’s guess. He didn’t milk cows, grow crops, or raise animals. He didn’t even have a dog. Just barren fields, a dilapidated barn, and an old house with windows so thin that the frost in winter was thicker than the glass. Twelve-year-old Gavin couldn’t think of a worse place to spend Christmas. Sulking in the backseat of his mom’s old station wagon, he muttered under his breath just loud enough for her to hear.

“Knock it off,” she said. “I’ve had just about enough of you.”

“Or else what? You gonna turn the car around?”

She shot him a scathing glance through the rear view mirror. “Maybe I’ll leave you there until school starts.”

“You promised to come get me before Christmas Eve!”

“If you’re good.”

Gavin crossed his arms and turned to the window. A snow-white barn owl sat on a fencepost, motionless as one of their neighbor’s garden gnomes next door. He was about to point it out, but kept it to himself. If she missed the owl it was her own fault.

Gavin was half asleep as the car slowed at the old steel mailbox. A hundred feet of gravel driveway bisected a copse of leafless deciduous trees like some giant fossilized ribcage. Gavin would no doubt be expected to trudge the length of the unplowed driveway to confirm the mailbox was just as empty as the day before. Some holiday.

Snow crunched under the tires as they pulled off the road and drove toward the house. Other farmers cleared their driveways with snowplows or tractors, but Grandpa didn’t even own a shovel.

“Why doesn’t Grandpa pay someone to clear this?”

“Must you complain about everything?”

“It’s a logical question. And why do Lucas and Aston get to stay home?”

“For starters, Aston is a baby. And Lucas doesn’t get to stay home. Visiting Grandpa isn’t a punishment. You should be thankful. I didn’t have any grandparents growing up.”

“So, why doesn’t Lucas get to come?”

Exhaling through her nose, her grip on the steering wheel tightened. “We’ve been through this before. Grandpa can’t handle two of you at once. He’s not babysitting—you’re keeping him company. It’s the holidays and he’s not well enough to leave the house. Got it?”

“Got it.”

They parked in front of the house and Gavin trudged up the porch steps behind his mom. Planters of frozen dirt hung from the awning. She stomped the snow from her shoes and entered without knocking. Gavin stepped in behind her and closed the door.

Exhaling, he could still see his breath. “It’s freezing in here.”

“We’re here five seconds and you’re already complaining.” She pointed to the living room. “Sit.”

Gavin grabbed his bag and plopped down on the green Victorian sofa. The antique furniture reeked of old people and pipe tobacco reminded him of his last visit. It took a week of showers to wash it from his skin.

“Grandpa’s probably resting. I’ll say hello and tell him we’re here.” His mom stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned around. “Why don’t you make a fire?”

Gavin jumped off the sofa and knelt before the fireplace. At least there was one fun thing to do. He crumpled balls of old newspaper then strategically constructed four levels of kindling. He withdrew a long wooden match sticking out of an ancient brass vase like uncooked spaghetti noodles, then struck it against the brick fireplace.

Sitting in front of the fire, he pulled out his phone to play a game. Grandpa didn’t have a TV. No computer either. It was like stepping through a time machine. He put another log on the fire and wondered what was taking so long.

An hour later his mom came downstairs and held out her arms. “Come here and give me a hug.”

Hugging him tight she kissed the top of his head and ran her fingers through his hair. She was never this affectionate and Gavin squirmed to get free.

“What took so long up there?”

“Grandpa’s not feeling well. Let him rest and he should be okay tomorrow. There’s stew on the stove for your dinner.”

“Stew?” His mom’s glare told him not to push it. “Fine.”

She gave him another long hug, then said goodbye. Gavin went to the kitchen and buttered two slices of bread to have with his stew. He ate dinner on the coffee table in front of the fire as the burning wood crackled in sync with Grandpa’s old clock—tick tock crackle pop.

Gavin let the fire die down, then washed his dishes and went upstairs to the guest room. The door was closed so it still felt as cold as outside. He flipped the light switch and nothing happened.

“Great.”

Gavin grabbed his pillow and blanket, then headed back downstairs. He set a fresh log on the embers, then brought the blanket up to his chin. Tick tock crackle pop. The surrounding silence was thicker than the background sounds of the city, and Gavin couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Clutching the edge of the blanket. Gavin waited for sleep.

WAKING TO COLD AIR, Gavin sensed eyes upon him. Grandpa was in a high back chair beside the bay window. His stringy gray hair wasn’t the only thing thinner; his gaunt face accentuated his already pointy chin, making him look ten years older than last year. He wore a thick, dark housecoat over his pajamas and argyle slippers on his feet.

“Good morning, grandson.”

Gavin sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Hi, Grandpa.”

“Something wrong with your bed?”

“The light didn’t work.”

Grandpa growled as he mulled things over. “There are bulbs in the pantry. Tea?”

“No thanks. I don’t drink tea.”

“Well then, there’s porridge on the kitchen table. It’s covered with a lid—I wasn’t sure what time you’d be waking up.”

Gavin squinted at the grandfather clock against the wall. It was almost ten. He wrapped himself in the blanket and sat up. “Thanks.”

He wanted to make another fire—the house was freezing again—but he wore the blanket into the kitchen, hoping Grandpa would take the hint and turn on the heat. But he didn’t. He just sat in his chair and stared out the window.

The porridge was thick and unsweetened, as though he was being punished for something. Lucas was probably playing video games in nothing but a t-shirt, eating a bowl full of Corn Pops.

AFTER WASHING HIS BOWL AND SPOON, Gavin joined Grandpa in the living room. “Mom said you’re sick. Are you feeling better?”

Grandpa turned his head from the window, his movements slow and deliberate, like those sloths that hang from branches. After settling into a new position, he said, “I’m getting there.”

Gavin nodded, then sat in silence unsure what to say. It was only his second trip to the farm and Grandpa had never visited them. As far back as he could remember, Grandpa was “not well enough” to leave his house. Even when Gavin was little, and his big brother went on these visits instead.

His recollection of those days were hazy. His brother’s face was even starting to fade from his memory. Gavin was only six when Ryan came to the farm for Christmas break. His twelve-year-old brother had been his hero, and Gavin remembered crying when he couldn’t go with him. But that’s all he remembered. Everything else about that winter was a fog—except when Christmas Day arrived and Ryan wasn’t there.

But he remembered his mom’s words to the letter. Gavin, there’s been an accident. Ryan’s not coming home. And that was it. No explanation, no details. Gavin didn’t even go to the funeral. His mom said he was too young and it would be too traumatic. But being unable to say goodbye was even worse.

THE SUN BEAMED DOWN through a cloudless sky, bouncing off acres of pristine white snow, blinding Gavin as he stepped off the porch. He squinted as the midday air bit his cheeks, then froze inside his nostrils, as he began the long walk to mailbox.

It was nice getting out of the house, but by the time he got to the end of the driveway, his feet were freezing and he regretted not bringing his boots. He opened the mailbox. Empty. Not surprising, but still disappointing.

Gavin looked up and down the country road. No traffic, no people, no signs of life anywhere. Until something caught his eye. Halfway to the next property, sitting on a fencepost, was another barn owl as white as the snow. But it wasn’t watching the road like the last one. It was looking straight at him. He wanted to get closer, but his toes were freezing. He didn’t want them turning black and falling off like those guys who climb Everest. He trudged back up the driveway, then reported the mailbox was empty.

Gavin replaced the bulb in his bedroom before it got dark and unpacked the necessities: toothbrush, toothpaste, a pack of chewing gum, his new graphic novel and—oh no. Panic punched him in the chest. Rifling through his suitcase, he dumped his clothes on the bed and checked every pocket. Then he ran downstairs, turned over sofa cushions, and scoured every inch of floor.

Grandpa looked up from his book. “Something wrong?”

“I can’t find my charger.”

“Your charger?”

“For my phone.” Gavin described the charger and Grandpa promised to keep an eye out for it. Gavin was ready to cry. The thought of being stuck there for another six days with no phone was too much to handle.

DINNER WAS STEW AGAIN. They ate together at the kitchen table. The room had a hint of warmth thanks to the gas stove, but the temperature was at a steady decline. Grandpa went straight to bed, leaving Gavin to wash the dishes.

He checked his phone to find the battery at eighteen percent, so he turned it off and went to bed. What else was there to do? Moonlight flickered on barren branches blowing in the wind outside his window. Stretching as he yawned, his hand hit the nightstand and there was a crash as his phone hit the floor.

Jumping up, he turned on the light and pushed back the nightstand. A quick examination revealed no damage to his phone, but the nightstand was another story. A stack of letters or words was engraved in its side. The word on top was AYAN. Below it was PAUL. Followed by JEFF, AICK, and AOB. More letters below had faded or worn down over time. Two were names he knew, but he’d never heard of Ayan or Aick and had no idea what AOB stood for. Then it hit him. The A’s were actually R’s.

Goosebumps rippled across his flesh as he read his brother’s name. He wondered if Ryan wrote it himself. And who did the other names belong to? As far he knew, they didn’t have any cousins.

Before sliding the nightstand back into place he took a picture with his phone. Consumed with curiosity, he opened his browser. The search results put goosebumps on top of his goosebumps.

Local Boy, 12, Found Dead

Boy, 12, Caught in the Cold

Exposure Death of Local Boy Raises Questions

As he clicked the third article, the battery icon blinked red. It was down to two percent. He shook the phone, urging the page to load faster.

Exposure Death of Local Boy Raises Questions

The incident last week in which a local boy died of exposure has authorities seeking answers. 12-year-old Ryan…

“No!”

Gavin smacked his phone, mashing the power button, but his phone was dead. He put it on the nightstand, then laid back to stare at the ceiling. He tried remembering Ryan’s voice, but it was murky, like background chatter in a movie. Shadows of branches danced along the ceiling, coaxing him toward sleep.

GAVIN AWOKE FEELING SLUGGISH. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand to check the time then sighed as he remembered it was dead. Not that time mattered much on the farm. Two nights down, five to go.

Grandpa was sitting at the window again, same housecoat, different pajamas.

“Good morning, Grandpa.”

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Pretty good.” Gavin stifled yawn. “But still kinda tired.”

“There’s porridge on the stove. I hope you like raisins.”

Gavin didn’t mind raisins if they were covered in brown sugar and cinnamon, but Grandpa’s porridge was as plain as the snow outside. He ate alone in silence. The thought of Lucas scarfing back a bowl of Corn Pops or Lucky Charms in front of the TV made it worse. After breakfast he went to the living room, but Grandpa was gone. He thought about running upstairs to grab his graphic novel but was suddenly too tired to move, so he lay down on the sofa instead. When he opened his eyes, the old clock showed half past four. He’d missed the entire day.

Gavin bolted upright, then a warm pocket of air drifted from the kitchen carrying a familiar smell. Grandpa’s stew. Gavin went to the kitchen to find Grandpa stirring a big pot on the stove, looking much better.

“Good evening, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?”

Gavin brought a hand to his forehead. “Still tired, actually.”

“I hope you’re not coming down with something.” Grandpa sampled the stew from a wooden spoon. “This should help though. Have an extra big bowl, then get some rest. We need you healthy.”

Gavin was as famished as he was tired. After two hefty bowlfuls of stew, he went upstairs. A page into his graphic novel, he fell asleep.

GAVIN RUBBED HIS FACE. Sunshine though the window told him it was morning. Sitting up in bed took some effort—his veins felt full of lead, yet he didn’t feel sick. And he was famished again. Footsteps creaked in the hallway. The door slowly opened on its squeaky hinges and Grandpa poked his head in.

He stepped into the room carrying a breakfast tray. “I figured you could use some sustenance.”

He bridged the tray over Gavin’s lap. A glass of orange juice and—of course—a bowl of porridge. Gavin offered a weak smile of appreciation. Grandpa was looking much better, so Gavin had hopes for a quick recovery.

CLOSING HIS EYES TO AN EMPTY BOWL of porridge, Gavin opened them to a full bowl of stew. The bedroom light was on, but the sky was dark—he’d slept through another day. Shoveling spoonfuls as fast as he could swallow, the moment he set his spoon down, Grandpa arrived at the door with another bowl of stew.

“Care for a refill?”

Gavin nodded.

Grandpa swapped the bowls, then stood beside the bed as Gavin began to scoop. Something was different about Grandpa, and it was only when he returned with a third bowl of stew that Gavin realized what it was. The housecoat and pajamas had been replaced by a wool blazer over a shirt and tie.

“Are you going out?”

“Heavens no. It was just time to get dressed.”

He was a bit overdressed for someone who never leaves the house, but seeing him dressed up made Gavin think of home.

“Is there a phone upstairs so I can call Mom?”

Grandpa shook his head. “Even if there was it wouldn’t be much help. That wind the other night knocked a tree into the telephone line. The phone company said they’ll send someone next week to fix it.”

Gavin’s shoulders slumped. He regretted fighting on the drive up. He missed his mom. He missed his baby brother. He even missed Lucas.

After four bowls of stew he still wasn’t full, but he was too tired to keep eating. Grandpa turned off the light and closed the door. A large shadow expanded then contracted on the moonlit ceiling. Gavin turned to the window and saw a familiar white owl perched just beyond the glass.

HE AWOKE WONDERING IF THE OWL had been a dream. If he had the energy he’d check the windowsill for footprints. A cheerful whistling came from down the hall, then Grandpa opened the door and entered holding the breakfast tray. He looked ten years younger, while Gavin felt a hundred years older. After setting the tray on the bed, he touched the back of his hand to Gavin’s forehead.

“Stay in bed and get some rest. These things need to run their course.”

Gavin inhaled three helpings of porridge and the repetitive menu no longer bothered him. He just wanted to be back home in his own bed. Only two more sleeps until his mom picked him up.

GAVIN HAD NEVER BEEN SO SICK IN HIS LIFE, although he didn’t actually feel sick. No urge to throw up, no fever, no stomachache, or other aches and pains, but he could barely keep his eyes open. Although, Grandpa’s transformation gave Gavin hope that he’d be back to normal by Christmas Day.

Eating in silence while Grandpa stood beside the bed, Gavin remembered the list of names on the nightstand. He swallowed a spoonful of stew, then said, “Grandpa, how did my brother die?”

“Pardon me?”

“Ryan. How did he die? Mom just said it was an accident and got mad whenever I asked for more details. So I stopped asking.”

Grandpa frowned and exhaled. “Your mother must have her reasons for answering the way she has, so it’s best you bring it up with her.”

“But—”

“Ask your mother.” Grandpa’s tone told Gavin not to push it. “Now finish eating and get some rest.”

SHADOWS EXPANDED AND CONTRACTED, signifying the owl’s return. This time it was staring straight at Gavin—and it ceased to be fascinating. It was terrifying. A muffled sound from downstairs pulled his attention away from the stoic predator. It sounded like his mom’s ringtone that mimicked those old phones that plugged into the wall. Either she’d come to get him early or Grandpa’s line was fixed.

Driven by hope and fueled by fear, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Holding the wall for balance, he shuffled across the room and held his ear to the cracked door. A faint voice came from downstairs. Gavin crept to the railing and peered over to see Grandpa emerge from the basement. He was coming upstairs.

Gavin shuffled back to his room as fast as he could, and as footsteps reached the upstairs hall, he launched himself at the bed, rolling under the covers and closing his eyes seconds before Grandpa entered the room.

Pretending to wake from a nap, Gavin found Grandpa standing over him wearing a stern expression.

“You’re sweating.” Grandpa touched his forehead. “And feverish. I’ll get you some water.”

Gavin breathed a sigh of relief. Grandpa returned and waited while Gavin gulped down the water. He seemed different. His posture was straighter and his shoulders no longer drooped. His skin was smoother and more full of color. Even his hair seemed thicker and darker.

After another glass of water, Grandpa said goodnight. Hearing his bedroom door close, Gavin fought to stay awake, waiting for Grandpa to fall asleep.

Three candy bars from his suitcase gave him the energy to get to his feet. Grasping the railing, he made his way down the hall. Snoring from Grandpa’s room encouraged him to continue, and he slid down the stairs on his backside, one step at a time. Inside the basement door, he felt around for the light switch, then sat down and descended the stairs.

The basement looked like an auction house storeroom, crammed with old furniture, antiques, and artwork. Gavin pulled himself to his feet and foudn himself face to face with bulging white eyes. He started to scream but quickly reeled it in, nervously laughing at the creepy mannequin with cracked skin and an oddly painted face. A long workbench cluttered with stained glass lamps, wooden radios, and dusty phonographs could have been an electronics museum. Among the antique devices was a black telephone the size of an old school lunchbox. He held the receiver to his ear and sighed in relief at hearing the dial tone.

His mom answered after one ring. “Is it done?”

“Huh?”

There was a long pause. “Hi, honey. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. I’m super tired all the time.”

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Are you listening to me?” Gavin’s voice started to waver.

“Of course, honey. Grandpa can help you, so I’m wondering where he is.”

“He’s asleep.”

“And where are you?”

“In the basement.”

Another long pause. “You know you shouldn’t be in the basement. Grandpa keeps valuables down there. I want you to go straight back upstairs. No snooping.”

Gavin held back tears. She seemed more concerned about Grandpa’s antiques than him. He looked around the room just to spite her. Among the mess of old wires and cables, something on the workbench caught his eye. Reaching reached behind an old lamp, he tugged on a thin black cable.

“Gavin, are you there?” The voice came through the receiver, but he didn’t reply. He was speechless, staring at the phone charger he thought he’d left at home.

“Gavin?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m here.”

“I’ll drive up first thing tomorrow. Now straight back to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

Gavin hung up the phone and looked around the basement. Something strange was going on. How did his charger get there? Why were the phone lines suddenly working? Why did his mom sound so nervous? And… honey? She never called him that. Delving deeper into Grandpa’s extensive collection, large canvas paintings stacked five deep leaned against the walls. Portraits, landscapes, epic battle scenes, they all looked old and valuable, but were probably worthless. Wouldn’t he know if Grandpa was rich?

He stopped at a bookshelf. A bright blue photo album seemed out of place among the archaic, leather-bound tomes. He set it on the workbench and opened it to the first page. It was the oldest photo Gavin had ever seen—a black and white picture of a young boy wearing a bow tie. Handwritten in pencil beneath was Henry, 1864. He turned the page. Two more photographs just as old, of boys named William and Frank, from 1870 and 1876. Gavin flipped through the album. Each page held a single photo of a boy around Gavin’s age, each one six years apart. They looked fairly similar but had different names.

Photo quality improved with each turn of the page, switching to color in 1966, with a boy named Michael. The picture from thirty years ago was labeled Rob. He was followed by Rick, Jeff, and Paul. Gavin recognized the names, so he knew to expect Ryan when he turned the page. But it was the photo opposite his brother that shot ice through his veins. It was his own school picture, taken that fall.

It made no sense and he began to question whether the photo was actually him. He took a silver hand mirror off the workbench and held it up to his face. He looked nothing like the boy in the photo. His gaunt face, hollow and withered, was like that of an old man. Then the eyes in the mirror widened as a creak on the basement steps ripped through the silence. Gavin froze as the lights went out. He never got the chance to scream.

THE SUN SHONE THROUGH THE WINDOW, warming his face. Gavin opened his eyes and looked around. He was in bed. He tried sitting up but it was like he was under blankets of lead. He struggled to remember the night before. The owl at the window, phoning his mom, finding his charger, and that creepy photo album full of boys. Topped off with his terrifying reflection. The nightmare felt so real.

Checking the nightstand for his charger just to be sure, he discovered his phone was now missing as well. A car pulled up in front of the house. He heard Grandpa bound down the stairs, then open the door with a boisterous hello. Gavin was too curious to sit still. He rocked back and forth until he rolled off the bed. Dragging himself across the floor, he stuck his head out the door and aimed an ear downstairs. The sound of his mom’s voice filled him with relief.

“There’s the man I know,” his mom said. “It’s nice to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

They giggled and whispered, then it sounded like they kissed.

“Is he asleep?” she asked.

“Dead to the world.”

“I don’t like waiting six years between each boy,” Grandpa said. His voice was smoother, less gravelly. “I get too old and weak, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m aging quicker now.”

“I’ve already told you we can’t have them any closer together. Each one is more curious than the last. I can’t imagine the questions Lucas will have when I come home alone.”

Confusion clenched Gavin’s heart. She’d come to pick him up, so why would she be going home alone?

“Lucas will forget the small things,” Grandpa said. “Just like they all do.”

“They’re getting smarter. And it doesn’t help having a camera in every phone nowadays. It makes it harder to bury the past.”

“We should just go back to the old ways. There are a lot of kids out there. Thousands go missing every year.”

“We’ve talked about this. Electricity killed the cover of night, and the old days worked because people still believed in demons and witches. But the risks are too great now. People don’t even believe in God, let alone the bogeyman.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t age like I do.”

Gavin thought about all the photos he’d seen of his mom throughout her life. For the first time he realized that she always looked the same—never younger or older.

“We can talk about this later. Where is our son?”

Our son? Gavin processed the words, fighting off a paralyzing terror. He dragged himself to the banister and peered through the posts. They stood together at the edge of the living room, and somehow they looked the same age. Grandpa motioned upstairs and they looked up in unison, catching Gavin like a deer in the headlights. With a burst of adrenaline, Gavin jumped to his feet and stumbled back into the bedroom. He slammed the door, looking frantically around the room. He put all his weight behind the heavy oak dresser and he pushed it in front of the door. Seconds later the doorknob turned and jiggled.

“Gavin? It’s Mom. I’m here to take you home.”

Gavin whimpered with his back against the dresser, afraid to reply.

“Gavin, honey? Come on now, open the door.”

Refusing to budge, he started to cry. It had to be a dream—a bad one—because nothing made sense.

“Oh, honey. There’s no need to cry. I’m here now. Let’s go home.”

He wanted to believe her. She sounded sincere. But he knew she was lying. He stiffened his jaw. “Go away.”

She sighed. “I’m not sure what you think you heard, but you’ve clearly misunderstood.”

“I know you’re not here to take me home!”

Whispers outside the door were followed by footsteps receding down the hall. His mom kept pleading through the door, meaning Grandpa had gone somewhere. But where? Gavin’s chest tightened and a noise behind him sent him halfway out of his skin. He spun around to see a familiar figure in the window. The snowy barn owl tapped its beak on the glass. Perhaps Gavin had been afraid of the wrong predator.

Gavin dragged himself across the room, then pulled himself up to the window. The owl flew off as he unlatched the lock and pushed it open. Grandpa yelled something, followed by a loud crack, as an ax split through the door. Gavin stared wide-eyed in terror at the sharp wedge of steel. It yanked free then once again crashed through the splintering wood. He climbed out the window and onto the roof. The sub-zero night nipped at his flesh like a school of piranha, but he dragged himself higher up the roof. His mom popped her head out the window, hair blowing across her face.

“Gavin! Come back here. You’ll freeze to death.”

Gavin thought about his brother Ryan dying out in the cold. About how the newspaper said it raised questions. Then he thought about Lucas, six years from this very fate, and his baby brother Aston, the next line after that. If he died the same way as Ryan, the police would be forced to investigate. People would know the truth—whatever it was—and his brothers would be saved. Climbing to the peak of the farmhouse, he dragged himself along the roof. He stuck his head over the edge to assess the ground below. An old harvesting tractor rusted away beneath a blanket of white, its large spikes poking out from the snow.

“Gavin.”

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Grandpa on the roof, moving toward him with surefooted determination. Any frailty besetting the once-old man had disappeared—and found its way into Gavin, as though Grandpa had usurped his strength. His vitality. His youth. So the notion of pushing Grandpa off the roof was wishful thinking. But if he couldn’t save himself, he could help his brothers escape a similar fate. Newspaper headlines flashed through his head—about “questions raised” when boys die of exposure. But Gavin would do more than raise questions. He’d give the police and press something impossible to ignore. Getting to his feet, he turned his back to Grandpa and stood at the precipice of the roof. Imagining himself as that owl, strong and free, he aimed for the large spikes below and launched himself over the edge.