The Rusted Weathervane

I’m seventeen, and I live in a small farming town called Hollow Creek, nestled between cornfields and a slow, muddy river. My grandmother and I share a creaky farmhouse that’s been in our family for generations. She always said our bloodline has a touch of the sight—her grandmother spoke to the dead, and my uncle once predicted a fire. I never believed it, not until the week the weathervane started spinning in circles on calm nights.

That week, our town was struck by a wave of deaths. Not just old age—Mrs. Albright, the school librarian, drowned in her bathtub. The Morrison twins, only ten, were found in the barn, their necks broken. Old Man Hester, who ran the feed store, just keeled over in the dairy aisle. And then there was the strange case of the Harlow family—father, mother, and their teenage son all dead in their beds, their faces peaceful, but their eyes wide open. The county coroner called it a ‘cluster of natural causes,’ but the whole town felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn wind.

I tried to shrug it off. My grandmother was in the hospital with a bad hip, so I was alone most nights with my hound dog, Rufus. Two nights ago, I let him out back for his midnight business. The moon was full but veiled by thin clouds, casting a sickly silver glow over the yard. I stood on the porch, watching Rufus sniff around the old well, when I heard a creak above me. The weathervane on the barn roof—a rusted rooster—spun once, then stopped, pointing directly at the Hickory tree at the edge of our property. I felt a shiver, like a cold finger tracing my spine. I told myself it was just the wind, but the air was still, dead still.

Then I saw him. A figure standing under the tree, tall and thin, wrapped in what looked like a long coat or a shroud. No face—just a dark hollow where his features should be. He raised one arm, slowly, and pointed at me. I couldn’t move. My breath fogged in the air, and I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees. Rufus started growling, low and deep, then whined and bolted for the porch, pressing against my legs. The figure held its pose for a long moment, then dissolved like mist, leaving only the rustling of dead leaves.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen with every light on, Rufus trembling at my feet. I tried to convince myself it was a trick of the moon, a case of sleep deprivation from studying for my biology final. But then I noticed something on the kitchen table: a single white feather, not from any bird I knew—it was too long, too silky, and it smelled faintly of rotting flowers. I hadn’t put it there. My grandmother was in the hospital. I was alone.

The next night, I decided to investigate. I took my flashlight and walked to the Hickory tree, ignoring the aches in my bones. At its base, I found a small, rusted tin box half-buried in the roots. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a photograph—an old sepia portrait of a woman with a high collar and a severe bun, her eyes black and staring. On the back, in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘She waits for the midnight hour.’ I dropped it like it burned me.

On my way back to the farmhouse, I passed the barn. The weathervane creaked again, spinning wild, then stopped pointing at the house. I looked up at my bedroom window and saw a silhouette—tall, thin, with the same hollow face—standing behind the glass. My heart seized. I ran inside, slammed the door, and locked every lock. But when I reached my room, the window was open, and the curtain billowed. On my bed lay another white feather, and carved into the headboard was a single word: ‘Soon.’

I called the hospital, but my grandmother’s phone just rang. I called the sheriff, but he said it was probably a prank. I called my best friend, Jenna, but her line was dead. The whole town seemed to be holding its breath. That night, I heard whispering outside my window, like many voices speaking in a language I didn’t know. I peeked through the blinds and saw shapes—dozens of them—standing in the cornfield, all facing my house, all with those hollow faces. One of them stepped forward, raised a hand, and pointed at me. It was the same figure from before.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke to a noise—a scratching, like claws on wood. The weathervane was spinning so fast it was a blur, and the rooster seemed to be screaming. I grabbed a kitchen knife and crept downstairs. In the living room, the moonlight poured through the window, illuminating a figure standing by the fireplace. It turned to me, and for the first time, I saw its face—not hollow, but my own face, pale and twisted into a grin that was too wide. It opened its mouth, and a sound came out—like dry leaves skittering across a roof—and said, ‘You have the sight, just like the others. You will join us.’ In that moment, I understood the recent deaths. They hadn’t been natural. They had been summonings.

I ran. I ran out the back door, past the gasping Rufus, through the cornfield, the stalks slapping my face. I ran until my lungs burned, until I reached the county road, and I kept running until I saw the headlights of a truck. It was Mr. Calloway, the late owner of the feed store, but he was dead too—I’d seen his funeral. Yet here he was, his skin gray and peeling, his eyes white as milk. He leaned out the window and said, ‘Get in. She’s waiting for you.’

I woke up in the hospital, my grandmother beside me, her hand holding mine. She said they found me at dawn, lying in the middle of the road, with a white feather clenched in my fist. She said the fever had broken, and I’d been muttering about a woman in a high collar. I looked at my hand—the feather was still there. In the mirror, I saw a faint mark on my neck, like the imprint of three fingers. And outside the window, perched on the hospital ledge, sat a rusted weathervane rooster, its head tilted, watching me.

They say I’ll recover. They say it was a seizure, a stroke, a dream. But I know what I saw. And last night, when the moon was full, I heard the whispering again. It came from my own closet. When I opened the door, I saw a tall, thin figure—and it was wearing my face. It smiled, and in a thousand voices said, ‘We have you now.’ I don’t know if it was the moon playing tricks, or if what I saw was real. But I know one thing for certain: the weathervane is still spinning, and it’s pointing at me.