The Farmhouse of Lingering Guests

My childhood home was a sprawling farmhouse in the middle of a cornfield, miles from any neighbor. It had been in our family for generations, but it always felt like the house belonged to something else. I was a restless child, afraid of the dark, and my parents, Edith and Harold, let me sleep in their bed most nights. But when they insisted on privacy, I was sent to my own room at the end of the hallway, where the floorboards creaked and the old wallpaper peeled like dead skin.

Those nights were always the worst. I’d wake to the sound of my own breathing, too loud in the silence, and then I’d see them – the guests. They were not ghosts in the traditional sense, not wispy or translucent. They were solid, terrible, and they filled my room with their presence. The first of them was a tall, gaunt man with a broad-brimmed hat, and he’d stand at the foot of my bed, a razor-sharp scythe in his hand, watching me with eyes that were black pits. Soon after, others joined him – a woman in a tattered wedding dress, a child with a mouth sewn shut, a farmer with a pitchfork. They never spoke, but they moved with an unholy purpose, as if waiting for a signal.

I would scream, but my screams were like whispers against the cornfield outside. I’d flee to my parents’ room, pounding on their door until they let me in, my heart racing. Harold, my father, grew impatient. He thought I was imagining things, that my fear was a phase. One night, he marched into my room with his own pillow and blanket. ‘You’ll see,’ he said, his voice steady. ‘I’m here. Nothing will get you.’ He settled into the chair by the window, and I felt a flicker of safety. But as the minutes passed, the air grew cold, and I saw him – the scythe man – standing behind Harold, his blade hovering just above my father’s neck.

I tried to warn him, but my voice was stuck. Harold felt the chill and turned, but he saw nothing. He laughed, but I saw the man’s lips curl into a smile. That night, I did not sleep, and neither did Harold, though he pretended to. In the morning, he was pale, and he never spent another night in my room. He started leaving the porch light on and propping my door open, muttering that the house had ‘quirks.’ But I knew better.

The guests grew bolder. They started appearing even when I was awake, lingering in the corners of my vision. One night, I decided to follow them. When I woke to find the woman in the wedding dress standing by my window, gesturing for me to come closer, I was paralyzed, but something compelled me to rise. She led me down the hallway, past my parents’ room, to the attic door. The attic was off-limits, but I had never understood why. The woman pointed to the door, then vanished.

I opened the attic door and crept up the narrow steps. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. In the dim light of a single bare bulb, I saw them – all the guests, gathered in a circle. In the center was a large trunk, bound with chains. The scythe man gestured for me to open it. I shook my head, but my hands reached out anyway, snapping the rusty chains one by one. As I lifted the lid, a sound like a thousand whispers escaped, and a cold wind extinguished the light.

When the light came back, I was alone in the attic, the trunk empty. I heard a low hum, growing louder, and then the house began to tremble. I ran back to my room, and in my bed, I saw the guests one last time, but now they were fading, their forms dissolving into the walls. I lay in bed, breathing hard, and then I heard the front door slam shut downstairs. Through my window, I saw a procession of shapes walking into the cornfield – the scythe man at the lead, the wedding dress woman, the child, the farmer, and many others. They disappeared among the stalks.

I never saw them again after that night. My parents and I continued to live in the farmhouse for a few more years, but I never slept well, always listening for the sound of footsteps in the corn. When I grew up, I moved away, but sometimes, late at night, I still feel a cold draft and smell the dust of the attic. And I often wonder – did I let them out, or did I banish them? I don’t know. I only know that the farmhouse is gone now, burned down decades ago, but in my dreams, I still see the cornfield, and I see them waiting at the edge.