The Cinder Man’s Harvest

The summer I turned eleven, my cousin Carl and I were sent to our Uncle Silas’s farm near a dried-up riverbed called the Ash Flats. Uncle Silas was a wiry, weather-beaten man who kept to himself mostly, but he had a way with animals and knew the land better than anyone. That year, the drought had been cruel, and the river that usually ran with snowmelt had shrunk to a chain of green pools connected by thin streams of clear water. Silas said the rabbits would be desperate and easy to find, but I think he just wanted to keep us busy away from the house.

We set out early one morning, the sun already a pale disc in a hazy sky. Uncle Silas gave me a single-shot .22 rifle, keeping the bullets in his pocket. ‘One shot, one rabbit,’ he said, and Carl, who was two years older, got a similar lecture. We trudged along the riverbank, where the ground was cracked and dusty, and the trees—mostly willows and poplars—hung limp, their leaves dull and heavy with dust. The air smelled of dry grass and something faintly metallic, like the tang of old coins.

We had been walking for a couple of hours when we came across a strange sight. In a small clearing, half-hidden by scrub, stood an old stone well. Its rim was chipped, and a mossy bucket hung from a rusted chain. That was odd enough in that dry country, but what caught my eye was the pattern carved into the stones—a spiral that seemed to go inward, like a maze. Uncle Silas stopped, his shotgun held loosely, and stared at the well for a long moment. ‘People used to say this was a bad place,’ he said quietly. ‘Never much believed it. But we’ll steer clear.’ He turned and led us away, but I glanced back and saw something glinting at the base of the well, half-buried in the dirt. I couldn’t tell what it was, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze.

We continued along the river, but the animals seemed scarce. I got off a few shots at a rabbit that darted between bushes, but I missed, and Uncle Silas sighed. He kept a small leather pouch at his belt, from which he took out a pinch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. As we rested by one of the green pools, I noticed the water was still, almost glassy, and deep. I could see my reflection—a thin boy with a sunburned nose—and behind me, Carl’s silhouette. But for a second, I thought I saw another face in the water, pale and thin, with dark hollows for eyes. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was just a trick of the light.

Just as we were about to move on, Carl whispered, ‘Do you hear that?’ We listened. Above the buzz of insects, there was a faint humming, a low, rhythmic sound like a distant engine. It seemed to come from downstream. Uncle Silas held up a hand. ‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘No one lives down there.’ He pushed through the undergrowth, and we followed, curious despite our unease. After a hundred yards, we came to a break in the trees, and there we saw the source.

It was an old waterwheel, half-submerged in the river, its wooden paddles rotten and green with algae. The wheel was turning slowly, creaking, and it was that creaking that made the humming sound. But the water was barely moving, and the wheel seemed to turn of its own accord. Beside the wheel stood a small cabin, built from gray, weathered logs. The door was open, swinging slightly on its hinges, and inside, we could see a dark interior.

Uncle Silas’s face had gone pale. ‘That’s the old mill,’ he said. ‘Been abandoned for years. The man who ran it, they called him Cinder Man, on account of his skin, burnt black. He was a recluse. One day, he just disappeared. Some said he went mad from loneliness.’ Carl and I exchanged glances. I didn’t want to go in, but I was more afraid of seeming cowardly in front of my cousin and uncle. So when Uncle Silas walked toward the cabin, we followed, our footsteps crunching on the dry leaves.

Inside, the air was musty, and the floor was covered in a layer of dust. There was a small cot in the corner, a table with a single chair, and a fireplace with a cold ash heap. On the table lay a leather-bound book, its pages yellowed. Uncle Silas picked it up and opened it. The writing was cramped and faded, but I could make out some words: ‘They come to the well at night,’ it read. ‘They come to drink and to leave their seed. I must not let them see me. I must not let them see me.’ The entries went on, each more frantic, ending with a scrawl that was barely legible: ‘They are in the walls. They are in the water. They are in me.’

Uncle Silas dropped the book as if it were hot. ‘We’re leaving,’ he said, his voice tight. But as we turned to go, I heard a sound—a soft, insistent scratching, like claws on wood. It seemed to come from all around us. Carl gripped my arm. ‘What is that?’ I saw something move in the shadows of the ceiling, a black shape, like a huge spider, but it was too quick to see clearly. Then the door slammed shut, and the cabin went dark.

We rushed to the door, but it wouldn’t budge. We pushed and shoved, but it was as if something was holding it from the outside. Uncle Silas cursed and slammed his shoulder against it, but to no avail. Then the scratches stopped. The silence was worse. In that silence, we heard a child’s voice, singing a simple nursery rhyme: ‘Round and round the cinder pile, one step in, and one step wild.’ The voice was high and thin, and it seemed to come from inside the wall. My blood ran cold.

I looked at the table, and the book was lying open. The pages were turning on their own, fluttering until they stopped at a page with a diagram—a spiral, like the one on the well. Underneath, a caption: ‘To call them, walk the spiral at midnight. To leave, walk it backward and scatter salt.’ Uncle Silas saw it too. He let out a breath. ‘We need salt. I’ve got some in my pack.’ He fumbled in his bag and produced a small box of salt, usually used to season his meals. ‘Okay, listen. We’re going to the well. We’ll walk the spiral backward and throw salt over our shoulders. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try the front door.’

We pried the door open with a crowbar we found in a corner—it had been there all along. Outside, the sun had gone behind thick, gray clouds, and the temperature had dropped. The river seemed darker, the water sluggish. The well waited for us at the edge of the clearing, its mouth a black circle. As we approached, I saw the glint again—now it was a small, tarnished silver locket lying in the dirt. I picked it up. Inside, there was a faded photograph of a woman, and a lock of hair. On the back, engraved: ‘For my dearest, who waits.’ I put it in my pocket without thinking.

We positioned ourselves around the well, facing outward, and began to walk backward in a circle, following the spiral grooves in the stones. Uncle Silas had us pinch salt and throw it over our shoulders as we shuffled. I remember the sensation of moving against the grain, my legs feeling heavy, as if I were wading through mud. The humming from the wheel grew louder, and the sky darkened further. Then, a sound like a thousand insects, a chittering that rose to a crescendo, and suddenly, it stopped. We were facing the well, and the spiral was gone—we had completed a circle, and the ground was smooth.

We stood still, breathing hard. The door to the cabin was wide open, and inside, it looked as it had before. I felt a sense of relief washing over me. But then Uncle Silas pointed at the well. There, on the rim, sat a small figure—a child, perhaps five years old, with pale skin and black hair that fell over its face. It wore a tattered white dress. It didn’t move. It just sat there, watching us. And then it spoke, in that same high, thin voice: ‘He sees you. He will come for you.’

It raised one arm and pointed a finger at me. I felt a sharp pain in my chest, as if something had pinched my heart. Carl grabbed me, and Uncle Silas shouted, ‘Run!’

We ran without looking back, crashing through the undergrowth until we reached the truck. Uncle Silas fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking, and we drove away from the Ash Flats as fast as the dirt road allowed. None of us spoke until we were back on the main road, the house in sight. Later, as the sun began to set, I emptied my pockets onto the kitchen table. The locket was still there, but when I opened it, the photograph was blank—just a gray smear. And on the back, the engraving had changed. It now read: ‘He waits.’

I never told anyone else about that day, and I never went back to the Ash Flats. But sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, feeling a pinch in my chest, and I hear that faint humming, like a wheel turning, and I know that the Cinder Man has harvested another memory from me, and that one day, he will come to collect what remains.