The Harvester’s Mark

June 9, 2014

by Rey

4 min read

Story Premise 4 min read (632 words)

"I’ve always been drawn to the strange and unexplained, so when I moved into a rundown farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Fen, I thought I was ready for anything. The locals warned me about the fog that rolled in from the marsh, and the way it seemed to carry whispers. But I dismissed […]"

I’ve always been drawn to the strange and unexplained, so when I moved into a rundown farmhouse on the edge of the Blackwood Fen, I thought I was ready for anything. The locals warned me about the fog that rolled in from the marsh, and the way it seemed to carry whispers. But I dismissed it as superstition, eager to explore the decaying barn and the overgrown fields that bordered the fen.

My first week passed quietly, save for the constant creaking of the old house and the occasional splash of something in the murky water. But on the seventh night, I woke to a sound that wasn’t part of the usual chorus: a rhythmic scraping, like metal on stone, coming from outside my window. My clock read 2:33 AM. I pulled back the curtain and saw a silhouette standing at the edge of the yard, holding a long, curved blade that glinted in the moonlight. It was too tall to be human, and its posture was wrong, as if it had too many joints. I blinked, and it was gone.

I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the fog, but the next night, I was prepared. I set up a camera facing the yard, but when I reviewed the footage, there was nothing but static. And again, at 2:33 AM, I heard the scraping. This time, I saw it closer, its face obscured by a tattered hood, but I could see a mark on its chest: a spiral of rust-colored lines, like a brand. It raised its blade and pointed it at me, then slowly traced a circle in the air. I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, and I knew it was marking me.

I tried to leave the next day, but my truck wouldn’t start. The phone lines were dead, and the road to town was flooded. I was trapped. Desperate, I dug through the house’s history and found a journal from a previous tenant, a farmer named Elias. He wrote about the same entity, calling it ‘the Harvester.’ He claimed it appeared every harvest moon, and that it took a ‘tribute’ from the land, or from those who tended it. He wrote that the only way to avoid its mark was to offer something it valued: a secret, a memory, or a piece of your own flesh. His last entry ended mid-sentence, with a sketch of the spiral mark.

On the night of the full moon, I waited in the barn, the journal in my hand, the air thick with the smell of damp earth and rot. At 2:33, the Harvester materialized in the doorway, its blade dripping with a black liquid. It didn’t move, but I felt its gaze on me, and I knew it was demanding an offering. I thought of my grandmother, who had taught me to see the beauty in decay, and I whispered her name. The Harvester tilted its head, and for a moment, the mark on its chest seemed to pulse. Then it vanished, leaving behind a single black thorn on the ground.

I thought I had escaped. But the next morning, I felt a burning sensation on my chest, and when I looked in the mirror, I saw the spiral mark, fresh and raw. I tried to scrub it off, but it only deepened. And now, every night, I hear the scraping outside my window, and I know the Harvester is still there, waiting. It has marked me, and I have nothing left to offer. So I sit here, writing this, hoping that someone will read it and understand: if you live by the Blackwood Fen, never look out your window at 2:33, because the Harvester will see you, and it will mark you, and there is no escape.

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