The Jumper in the Field

I was twelve that autumn, the year the crows started gathering in the pasture behind our house. My grandmother called them ‘the watchmen,’ but she never explained why. I had a dog then, a wiry terrier named Pip, who usually bounded ahead of me on our evening walks. But that night, he stayed close to my heels, his tail low, and he whined whenever I stopped.

The field stretched out like a gray-green sea, dotted with hay bales that looked like ancient stones in the fading light. To the west, the village lights flickered on one by one; to the east, the woods loomed, dark and thick. I remember thinking how quiet it was, how even the wind seemed to hold its breath. I was about to turn back when I saw her.

She was standing near the treeline, half-hidden by the long grass. I hadn’t heard her approach. She wore a red raincoat, the kind that snaps up the front, and her dark hair was plastered to her face as if she had just come in from a storm, though the sky was clear. I called out, ‘Hello?’ but she didn’t move. Pip growled, a low rumble in his throat. My heart fluttered, but I forced myself to walk closer, thinking she might be lost. ‘Are you alright?’ I asked.

She turned slowly, and that’s when I saw her face. It was pale, too pale, and her eyes were black, like pools of oil. She smiled, but it was wrong, too wide, and her teeth were sharp. ‘You have something of mine,’ she said, her voice like dried leaves. I stepped back, and Pip started barking furiously. ‘No,’ I stammered, ‘I don’t know you.’ She took a step forward, and the air around her seemed to ripple. ‘The dog. He belongs to me.’ I looked down at Pip, who was trembling now, his hackles raised. ‘He’s my grandmother’s dog,’ I said, my voice shaking.

She laughed, a hollow sound that echoed in the empty field. ‘Everything here belongs to me eventually.’ She pointed a long, bony finger at Pip, and he yelped, cowering behind my legs. I scooped him up, his small body shaking against me. The woman’s smile faded, and her eyes narrowed. ‘Give him to me, or I’ll take something else.’ She started walking toward me, and I stumbled backward, my feet catching on the grass. The temperature plummeted; I could see my breath in the air.

I turned and ran, clutching Pip to my chest. I didn’t look back until I reached the rusty gate, and when I did, the field was empty. But I felt her watching, felt a cold presence pressing against my back as I fumbled with the latch. I burst into the kitchen, gasping, and my grandmother looked up from her tea. ‘What’s wrong, love?’ she asked. I told her everything, expecting her to calm me down, but instead, her face went white. She took Pip from my arms and held him close. ‘You saw her? The woman in the red coat?’ I nodded, and she whispered, ‘That’s not the first time she’s come for him.’

She told me then about the previous dog, a black lab named Max, who had vanished from the same field when I was three. They found his collar by the treeline, neatly folded on a stump. She said the woman in red had been seen before, always near the woods, always asking for a dog. No one knew who she was or what she wanted, but the old folks called her ‘the Collector.’ They warned that if you refused her, she would take something precious to you, something you held dear. My grandmother’s eyes filled with tears. ‘She tried to take Max, and when we wouldn’t let her, she took your mother instead.’

My mother had died in a car accident that same year, and I never knew the details. My grandmother never spoke of it, but now she was telling me that the Collector had caused the crash, had taken my mother because they had hidden Max. I didn’t want to believe it, but I could see the truth in her face. ‘Why does she want the dogs?’ I asked. My grandmother shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But if she’s come back, she’ll try again.’ She looked down at Pip, who was now calm, sleeping in her lap. ‘You have to take him away. Take him to your aunt’s farm, across the river. She won’t follow you there.’

I didn’t want to leave, but my grandmother insisted. The next morning, I packed a small bag and set out on my bike with Pip in a basket. The farm was five miles away, through the village and across an old stone bridge. The sky was gray, and a cold wind blew from the north. As I pedaled, I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see the red coat in the distance. But the road was empty.

By the time I reached the bridge, the wind had picked up, and the river below was dark and churning. Pip started whining, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I looked ahead, and there she was, standing at the middle of the bridge, blocking the way. She wore the same red raincoat, but now it was wet and dripping, as if she had risen from the river. ‘I told you,’ she said, her voice carrying over the wind. ‘The dog is mine.’ She started walking toward me, slow, deliberate. I turned my bike around, ready to flee, but when I looked back, she had vanished. Instead, I saw my mother standing at the other end of the bridge, waving at me. She looked exactly as I remembered her, in her favorite blue dress, her hair tied back. ‘Come on,’ she called. ‘Don’t be scared.’

But my mother was dead. I knew that. I gripped Pip tighter, and he snarled at the figure. The woman in the red coat appeared again, right next to the false image of my mother, and they both smiled at me with the same twisted grin. ‘Choose,’ the Collector said. ‘The dog, or her.’ Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t lose my mother again, but I couldn’t give up Pip either. In that moment, I remembered my grandmother’s words: ‘She can only take what you love.’

I looked at the false mother, and I said, ‘You’re not real.’ The illusion shattered, and the Collector screamed, a sound like tearing metal. She lunged at me, but I threw myself off the bike, rolling down the embankment, Pip tucked under my arm. I landed hard, but I kept running, splashing through the shallow water, scrambling up the opposite bank. When I looked back, the Collector was standing on the bridge, her red coat billowing, but she didn’t follow. She just watched, and then she slowly faded, like mist in the sun.

I made it to my aunt’s farm, and Pip lived to a ripe old age. I never saw the Collector again, but sometimes, at dusk, I see a red figure standing at the edge of the woods. And I know she’s still waiting, patient, for someone to love something enough that she can take it. But I also know that love is the one thing she can never truly possess.