The Hollow Tractor

My first months with Lena were spent in her brother-in-law’s house, perched on a hill in the older part of town, where the newer developments gave way to a dense, unruly forest that stretched for miles. The house itself was a relic, with creaking floors and windows that rattled in the wind, but it had a strange charm. Our room was the former study, its window facing that wild expanse. During the day, the forest was just a tangle of green, but at night it became a wall of black, pressing against the glass.

Jake, my then-boyfriend, worked in special effects, and I was a set dresser. The industry had gone quiet, so we spent our evenings in that room, watching movies or reading. Jake’s brother, Marcus, had explored the woods and found old vehicles rusting among the trees, some from as far back as the forties. He’d laugh about it, calling them relics of a forgotten past. But there was one thing he never mentioned: the tractor.

It was a massive, rusted machine, half-swallowed by the undergrowth, its seat rotted away, and its wheels sunk into the earth. I stumbled upon it during a rare afternoon walk, trying to escape the house’s oppressive stillness. The moment I saw it, something felt wrong. The engine block was intact, but there were strange symbols scratched into the metal, like a child’s desperate attempt to write. I didn’t touch it, but that night, I dreamed of it.

In the dream, the tractor was running, its engine a low rumble that vibrated through my bones. The symbols glowed a sickly green, and I could hear a voice—not from the tractor, but from all around me—whispering in a language I didn’t understand, but somehow knew. It spoke of a bargain, a trade of flesh for harvest. I woke up gasping, and Jake was still asleep beside me, his breathing steady.

A few nights later, Jake was called to a last-minute shoot, leaving me alone. The house felt even more oppressive without him. I tried to sleep, but the window drew me. The forest was darker than usual, and I could swear I saw a faint light flickering among the trees, moving slowly. My heart pounded, but I convinced myself it was just a trick of my eyes. I pulled the curtains shut and forced myself to read, but the words blurred.

Suddenly, a sound cut through the silence: a low, rhythmic rumble, like a distant engine. It was coming from the forest. I crept to the window and parted the curtains. There, among the trees, the tractor was moving. It wasn’t on a path; it was crawling through the underbrush, its headlights dim and yellow, casting long shadows. I watched, frozen, as it stopped at the edge of the clearing, facing the house.

Then it spoke. Not in words, but in a vibration that shook the glass and made my teeth ache. I stumbled back, and the rumble stopped. The next morning, I found footprints in the soft soil outside our window, but they weren’t human. They were deep, with wide, splayed toes, and they led from the forest to the house and then disappeared.

Jake returned, and I told him about the tractor, but he dismissed it, saying it was probably a dream. But I knew it wasn’t. That night, I woke to find Jake standing at the window, staring out. His eyes were wide and unseeing, and his lips were moving, but no sound came out. I shook him, but he didn’t respond. Then, in the moonlight, I saw the symbols from the tractor etched into his skin, appearing like bruises.

I screamed, and he blinked, as if waking from a trance. He had no memory of it. But the symbols remained, and they grew darker each day. I tried to scrub them off, but they were part of him. The next night, the tractor returned, and this time, its headlights were brighter, and they shone directly into our room. Jake began to convulse, and I held him, crying, as a sickening crack echoed from his bones.

When it was over, he was still, but his eyes were different—cold, distant. He spoke in a voice that was not his own: ‘The harvest is ripe.’ I fled the room, but the door wouldn’t open. The walls seemed to close in, and I could hear the tractor’s engine growing louder, closer. The last thing I saw before the lights went out was Jake’s face splitting into a smile that reached his ears, and the symbols on his skin glowing with an inner fire.

When the police found me, I was wandering the woods, my clothes torn, and my mind shattered. They never found Jake or the tractor, and they dismissed my story as trauma. But sometimes, late at night, I hear that low rumble, and I know it’s waiting for me to return, to finish the harvest. And I know that when I do, the tractor will be waiting, its engine running, and the field will be full.