The Case in the Compost

When my family inherited my great-uncle’s farmhouse in the Missouri Ozarks, we knew it came with history. Great-Uncle Eli had been a devout follower of the Ozark folk saints, a blend of hill country Christianity and older, earthier beliefs. His prayer room, a small space off the kitchen, still held his altar – a rough-hewn table covered with a faded cloth, a carved wooden figure of a saint with antlers, and a collection of smooth stones, each etched with a symbol I didn’t recognize. We turned that room into a pantry, stacking canned goods and dry staples in front of the altar, thinking it was just old junk.

Our first trouble came last fall, during the harvest moon. A visiting minister, a circuit preacher named Brother Caleb, was staying with us, discussing the strange occurrences that had started – objects moving, doors closing on their own, a low humming at night. My mother had bought my younger sister, Lucy, a new phone case for her birthday. It was bright yellow, with a bold, black cross and the word ‘SAVED’ emblazoned on it. After Brother Caleb led us in a prayer over dinner, my mother asked Lucy to put the case on her phone. We searched the house – under cushions, in drawers, on the porch. Nothing. Then my father went to the compost heap behind the barn to toss some vegetable peels, and there it was, lying in the rotting pile, the ‘SAVED’ side facing down, as if deliberately turned over. The smell of decay clung to it, and when my father picked it up, the case was warm, almost feverish.

Brother Caleb turned pale. He muttered something about ‘the old ones’ and ‘the sign of the lifted hand.’ That night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept to the pantry, drawn by a faint, sour smell – like old leaves and burnt herbs. The altar stones were glowing, a sickly green, and the antlered saint’s eyes seemed to follow me. The humming grew louder, and I felt a presence, heavy and ancient, pressing down on my shoulders. I ran back to my room and buried my head under the pillow, but I could still hear the sound of dry, papery footsteps in the hall.

The next morning, Lucy was missing. We found her in the pantry, sitting cross-legged in front of the altar, her eyes wide and unblinking. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognize, a minor-key melody that seemed to come from the walls themselves. When she saw us, she smiled, but it wasn’t her smile. Her voice, when she spoke, was a low drone: ‘The harvest is ready. The faithful must dance.’

We called Brother Caleb, but he had left in the night, leaving behind his Bible, with a page torn out – the book of Revelation. My father tried to remove the altar, but the stones were fused to the floor, and a terrible chill filled the room, as if we had opened a door to a winter deeper than the one outside. And now, as the moon wanes and the hum grows stronger each night, I fear we are not just living in my great-uncle’s house. We are living in his faith, and the harvest is us.