The Last Rake

The last time I saw my father alive, he was staring out the hospital window, his gnarled hands tracing patterns on the blanket. We thought he was just restless, but later the nurse told us he kept muttering about his fields, about the north quarter, about the raspberry canes. He died that same night, and I drove back to the farmhouse in the dark, the dogs whining in the back seat.

I inherited the farm, but I had been a city girl for fifteen years. The house smelled of dust and liniment, and the floorboards creaked in places I didn’t remember. That first night, I lay in my old bed, listening to the wind rattle the windowpanes, and I swear I heard the back door open and close. But when I checked, it was locked, and the dogs were asleep by the stove.

The next morning, I found the rake. It was leaning against the porch, exactly where Dad always left it, caked with dry mud. I hadn’t touched it, and no one else was there. I threw it in the shed, but the next day it was back on the porch, clean this time, as if freshly used. The tines were wet.

I started to see him out of the corner of my eye: a tall figure in overalls, walking the fence line at dusk. By the time I turned, he was gone, but the crops—which I thought were dying—began to thrive. The wheat grew tall and golden, and the raspberries ripened in clusters so heavy they bent the canes. The neighbors noticed. Old Mrs. Gallagher stopped by and said, ‘Your father always had a gift for the land.’ She looked at me strangely.

Then the dogs started acting odd. They would sit at the edge of the north field and howl at nothing. One night, they both ran off, and I found them circling an old oak tree, barking at the base. I tied them inside after that. That night, I woke to a scratching sound, like a rake being dragged across the floorboards. I followed it to the attic door, which was padlocked. The scratching came from behind it.

I don’t know what possessed me, but I opened the lock. The attic was dark, filled with old furniture and boxes. In the corner, I saw a pile of dirt, and on top of it, a fresh bunch of raspberries. And there, breathing shallowly, was my father—or what was left of him. His skin was gray, his eyes milky, and he was clutching the rake. He turned to me and said, ‘I told you I’d leave feet first, but the land needs me.’

I screamed and ran. The next morning, the attic door was sealed shut, plaster over the frame. The dogs were gone. I called the police, but they found nothing. I called a priest, and he blessed the house, but as he left, he whispered, ‘He’s not at rest. He’s still tending.’

I tried to sell the farm, but every buyer backed out. The crops keep growing, even in winter. And every night, I hear the rake scraping across the porch, and the sound of my father’s footsteps, heavy and slow, going to the north field. Last night, I looked out the window and saw him standing there, silhouetted against the moon, holding the rake. He turned, and even though it was too dark to see his face, I felt him smile.

I don’t know how much longer I can stay. But every time I try to leave, the gate won’t open, and the road is swallowed by fog. I’m starting to think I’m part of the land now, too. Maybe that’s what he always wanted. Guess I’ll be out there soon, with the rake in my hand, tending to a crop that never dies.