The Harvesters

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air as the travelers approached the village. The dirt road was lined with golden fields, stretching endlessly into the horizon. In a world where crops had long withered and humanity teetered on the edge of starvation, the sight was almost miraculous. 

Claire was the first to speak. “It’s…perfect.” Her voice was filled with awe and disbelief. 

The villagers greeted them warmly. Their simple clothing and old-fashioned manners put the travelers at ease. They were invited to stay for a meal and offered beds in a large communal house. A stoic elder, his eyes as sharp as they were kind, introduced himself as Elias. 

“Stay. Rest.” Elias said. “The road is cruel, but here, we are blessed.”

Over dinner, the travelers marveled at the abundance of food, fresh vegetables, a hearty stew and ripe fruit. Elias stood, his black robe billowed slightly in the breeze. He gave a cryptic toast. “To the harvest. To the Cycle.” The villagers echoed the words solemnly. 

Afterward, as the group settled into their rooms, Dylan, the most curious of the group, couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. The fields had been too perfect. The villagers’ eyes lingered a little too long when glancing their direction. 

That night, Dylan woke to the sound of a faint whisper carried in the wind. At first he thought it was Claire or Mark talking in their sleep. But as he strained to listen, he realized the sound wasn’t coming from the house. It was outside, rising from the fields like a sighing breath. 

Quietly, he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others. He stared out the window at the crops glowing faintly under the moonlight. 

The cool, night air wrapped around him as he stepped outside. The village was still, the only movement was the gentle sway of the crops. The whispers grew louder as he approached the barn at the edge of the field. 

The structure loomed in the darkness. Its warped wood twisted and bowed as if the building itself were struggling under some unseen weight. The surface was cracked and weathered with deep grooves that resembled claw marks. Dylan hesitated at the door, gripping the rough edge of the frame. The whispers were almost deafening now, a cacophony of voices overlapping and merging. His stomach churned as he realized that the voices were not those of the villagers. They were coming from beneath the barn. 

He pushed the door open. 

Inside, the air was suffocating and hot, thick with the scent of wet earth plus something metallic. The barn was empty except for rows of tools hanging from the far wall. Sickles, hooks and shears, none of them were rusty or worn. They gleamed, sharp and polished, as though freshly cleaned. 

Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to pulse faintly, a rhythmic vibration that matched the cadence of the whispers, He stepped forward, cautiously. The heat rose with each step, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. When his foot pressed onto a loose plank, the sound beneath the floor changed. It wasn’t a vibration. Something was moving. 

Dylan knelt and pulled at the loose plank. It came away easily, revealing a writhing network of roots. They looked organic but unnatural, slick and pulsating like veins. The whispers were louder now, emanating from the roots themselves. He stumbled backward. HIs heart was pounding. His foot caught on something and he fell. Looking down, he saw the outline of a face, a human face pressed into the ground beneath the roots. The face shifted, its eyes opened and it stared at him with unmistakable awareness. Its mouth moved silently, forming words he couldn’t hear. 

Dylan screamed and stumbled backward. “This…this can’t be real.” 

The barn door creaked open behind him, he spun around to see Claire and Mark standing there. Their faces were pale and drawn, “What is happening, we heard you calling our names.” Claire said, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

Dylan frowned, “I never called for you guys.” He gestured wildly at the exposed roots, “this, this is what is going on! The crops, the barn, the whispers…it’s all connected. I dunno what the fuck is going on but it looks like they’re feeding people to the plants..”

Mark hesitated, then knelt by the roots. His expression hardened as he touched one. “It’s warm,” he said, pulling his hand back quickly. 

The ground beneath them heaved suddenly, the roots twisting and tightening like muscles. The entire barn groaned as if in protest, and the whispers rose to a deafening roar. 

“We need to get out of here,” Claire yelled, grabbing Dylan by the arm. 

Before they could move the barn door slammed shut. The villagers stood outside, their faces serene but unyielding. Elias stepped forward, his hand clasped behind his back. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said calmly. “The harvest is not for the outsider to see.” 

“What the hell is this?” Dylan demanded, his voice cracking. 

“It is life,” Elias answered, his gaze unflinching. “The earth gives but it also takes. The Cycle must continue.”

The villagers surged forward, grabbing Dylan, Claire and Mark. Despite their struggles, the villager’s strength was unnatural, their grip like iron. The trio was dragged deeper into the barn, toward a gaping hole in the floor that hadn’t been there moments before. 

The hole pulsed with light, and the roots writhed as if anticipating a meal. “Let us go!” Claire screamed, kicking at the villagers. 

Elias knelt beside the opening, his calm demeanor unwavering. “You’ll become a part of something eternal. You’ll nourish the fields and live within the Cycle.”

Dylan managed to wrench himself free and grabbed a sickle from the wall. He swung it wildly, catching one villager in the arm. The man didn’t flinch, he didn’t even bleed. Mark broke free next, shoving another villager into the pit. The man fell with a sickening crunch and the roots wrapped around his body instantly, pulling him into the earth. 

The barn shook violently, and the whispers turned into a high pitched wail. The villagers hesitated, their trance-like calm breaking for the first time.

“Run!” Dylan shouted, grabbing Claire by the arm.

Mark followed, swinging the sickle to keep the villagers at bay. They burst out of the barn into the cool, night air. The fields stretched endlessly before them. The whispers followed, now rising from the crops themselves. 

“This way!” Dylan yelled, leading them toward the road. 

But the road was gone. Where there should have been dirt and gravel, there was only more golden wheat, swaying gently in the breeze. 

“We’re trapped,” Claire whispered, her voice trembling. 

The crops around them began to shift, the stalks twisting and writhing like they were alive. Faces emerged, just like the ones that Dylan had seen earlier. Their mouths were open in silent screams. 

Elias’ voice boomed from behind them. “The fields are endless. The Cycle cannot be escaped.”

Dylan turned to Mark and Claire, his face full of determination. “If we can’t escape. We destroy it.”

He lit a match, holding it against the dry stalks. The flames caught instantly, roaring to life and spreading faster than possible. The fields shrieked, a cacophony of human and inhuman cries. The villagers stumbled back, their serene expression breaking into panic. 

Elias stood at the edge of the flames, his calm expression finally cracking. “What have you done? You have doomed us all.”

The fire consumed everything in its path, racing across the plain. They ran through the chaos dodging falling debris and choking on acrid smoke. Behind them the barn collapsed in a massive explosion of light and sound. The whispers were silenced at last. When they reached the end of the fields, they stumbled onto a road that hadn’t been there before. The night was eerily quiet, the air cool and still. 

Dylan looked back, expecting to see the inferno, but the fields of gold wheat were gone. In their place was a barren stretch of land, blackened and lifeless. 

Mark fell to his knees, gasping for air. “What in the hell was that?” 

“The end of the Cycle,” Dylan said, staring at the familiar desolation. 

They walked down the dirt road in silence, the weight of what they had escaped pressed heavily on their shoulders. Behind them, the whispers began again, soft, faint, distant. 

The Cycle would always find a way to start anew. 

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

© Copyright Kathleen McCluskey. All Rights Reserved.