The Foxglove Field

In the summer of 1987, my mother, Eleanor, and I inherited her grandmother’s farm nestled in the rolling hills of Vermont. The property had been in our family for generations, but we had only visited twice before. The farmhouse was a dilapidated Victorian with peeling paint and a porch that sagged like a tired old dog. I was twelve, and my mother was a practical, no-nonsense woman, a nurse who trusted science and logic above all. She always dismissed my childhood fears of the dark as ‘imagination run wild.’ But that summer, I saw something that shattered her serene skepticism.

We had arrived in late June, just as the foxgloves were beginning to bloom. They grew in wild patches around the property, tall spires of pink and purple bells. My mother loved them, saying they reminded her of her own grandmother, who had planted them years ago. We spent the first week cleaning and dusting, uncovering old photographs and letters in the attic. Among them was a diary belonging to my great-great-grandmother, Agatha. The entries were mundane at first, but as we read further, they became unsettling. Agatha wrote of a ‘gentle presence’ that would visit her in the back field, a presence that hummed a lullaby she couldn’t place. She described it as ‘not quite human, but not threatening.’ The last entry, dated a week before her death in 1912, simply said: ‘It sings to me now.’

I dismissed it as the ramblings of an old woman, but Eleanor grew pensive. She would often stand at the kitchen window, staring out at the field where the foxgloves grew thickest, as if waiting for something. One evening, as the sun dipped low, I heard a faint melodious humming coming from outside. I asked Eleanor if she heard it, but she shook her head, saying it was just the wind through the trees. But I saw her freeze, her hand paused over a cup of tea. The humming grew louder, and I could swear it was a woman’s voice, wordless and mournful. The next morning, Eleanor was gone from her bed. I found her standing in the middle of the foxglove field, her hair damp with dew, her eyes unfocused. When she saw me, she blinked, then asked, ‘Why did you wake me?’ She claimed she had been sleepwalking, but her feet were bare and she had no memory of walking out. From that day on, her pragmatic demeanor began to crack.

A week later, our neighbor, old Mr. Hargrove, passed away. He had been ill for months, and his death was not unexpected. But the night before we received the phone call, I was woken by a different sound: a clear, sorrowful singing of ‘Amazing Grace’ in the hallway. I tip-toed to my door and peered out. There was my mother, standing at the end of the corridor in her white nightgown, swaying gently, singing in perfect pitch. I called to her, but she didn’t respond. When the song ended, she turned and walked back to her room, her eyes closed like a sleepwalker. The next morning, she seemed exhausted and had no recollection. She brushed it off as a dream, but I knew what I had seen. And I noticed that the foxgloves in the field had grown unusually tall overnight, as if drinking from some unseen source.

Three weeks passed with no incidents, and I almost convinced myself that the summer had been a product of an overactive imagination. But then came the night my father arrived to visit for the weekend. He was a sturdy, no-nonsense farmer from Iowa, a man who believed in facts and not fancies. The first night, we sat on the porch, listening to the chirping of crickets. My mother seemed at ease, but I caught him glancing over his shoulder at the dark field more than once. He claimed it was because he saw a deer, but I knew better. On the second night, we were all woken by a scream. Not a human scream, but the sound of a woman wailing in despair. It came from the field. My father jumped out of bed, grabbed a lantern and a shotgun. He insisted on checking the perimeter. My mother pleaded with him not to go, but he went. He returned an hour later, pale as the moon. He said he saw a figure among the foxgloves, a woman in a flowing white dress, but when he called out, it vanished. He found fresh footprints in the soft soil, but they were bare and child-sized, leading away from the patch. He said nothing more, but from that night on, he slept with a loaded rifle under his bed.

We decided to leave before July’s end. The fear had seeped into every corner of the house, and even the practical my parents finally listened to my protests. But on our last night, as we packed the car, the foxgloves began to rustle as if a gentle breeze blew, though the air was still. A soft humming started, growing into a familiar melody: ‘Amazing Grace.’ My mother dropped a box, her face a mask of terror. My father grabbed my shoulders and pushed me into the car, shouting, ‘Get in and don’t look back!’ As we pulled away, I saw my mother, frozen in the driveway, staring at the field. Just for a second, I thought I saw a woman with flowing dark hair standing among the flowers, her mouth open as if singing. I blinked, and she was gone.

We returned home, but the events of that summer never left us. My mother began to write in a journal, documenting every occurrence. She started seeing a psychiatrist, but she never spoke of the field. My father, ever the stoic, would sometimes wake in the night, drenched in sweat, muttering about ‘the song.’ It was only years later, when I was cleaning out the attic after my mother’s death, that I found her journal. The final entry, dated a week before my own mother passed, read: ‘The foxgloves have bloomed early this year. I can hear her singing. She comes for me.’ I never told my father, but I know he knew. He died a year later, and in his belongings, I found a pressed foxglove flower and a note: ‘For Eleanor.’ I buried the flower at the base of an oak tree in our backyard, hoping to lay the spirit to rest. But that night, I swear I heard a faint humming under the moonlight, a song that had no language.

To this day, the foxglove field remains in the family, overgrown and fenced off. There is a sign that says ‘Keep Out,’ but sometimes, at dusk, I see a figure standing at the edge, and I can almost make out the melody of ‘Amazing Grace’ carried on the wind. I never go back. I never sing that hymn. But I know she is still there, waiting for someone else to hear her song.