The Salt Harvest

My partner Dana and I were weekend urban explorers, but our real love was the forgotten farmland that dotted the outskirts of our county. One Saturday, we pulled off a gravel road to investigate a derelict farmstead. The gate hung open, swaying on rusted hinges, and the fields beyond were a sea of desiccated weeds. The farmhouse itself was a skeletal frame with boarded windows, but the large gambrel barn had its double doors thrown wide, as if inviting us in.

We stepped inside, the air thick with dust and the smell of old hay. The barn was a museum of decay: a rusted tractor, a collection of hand tools with wooden handles cracking with age, and a faded motorcycle propped on a flat tire. We wandered through the stalls, running our fingers over the rough-hewn beams, snapping photos of the eerie stillness. But soon, an inexplicable unease settled over us. The silence felt hollowed out, and I could feel the fine hairs on my neck rise. Dana whispered, ‘Let’s get out of here,’ and we hurried toward the open doors, our footsteps echoing.

Just as we reached the threshold, a sound stopped us cold—a low, rhythmic scraping, like a scythe being dragged across a stone floor. We froze, listening. The noise came from the far corner of the barn, behind a stack of burlap sacks. In the dim light, I saw a figure move, tall and gaunt, clad in an oil-stained apron. It turned, and its face was a pale, featureless mask of taut skin. It raised a long, curved blade, and it was clear it had seen us.

We bolted, stumbling through the overgrown yard, not daring to glance back until we were in the car. As we tore down the gravel road, Dana gasped. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the farmhouse behind us, but now the boarded windows had gaps where splintered wood hung, and in one of them was the silhouette of the same figure, watching us. I pushed the accelerator, and we didn’t stop until we reached the highway.

We tried to report it to the county sheriff, but they found no record of the property. A search of satellite maps showed nothing but empty fields. Still, we couldn’t shake the memory. A week later, Dana woke me in the night, her face wet with tears. ‘It’s in the house,’ she said. ‘It’s waiting in the barn.’

I dismissed it as trauma, but the next morning, Dana was gone. Her car was still in the driveway, her phone on the kitchen counter. I called the police, and they conducted a search, but found no trace. In desperation, I drove back to that gravel road, but the property was gone. Instead, there was a new sign, bright and fresh: ‘NO TRESPASSING.’ And in the field, a single figure stood, tall and gaunt, holding a scythe. It lifted its hand and pointed at me.

I drove away, but I couldn’t leave it at that. I spent weeks digging through old county records, and finally found a mention of the farm in a 1930s newspaper. It said that the last owner, a reclusive hermit named Gideon Marsh, had been accused of murdering drifters, but his body was never found. The barn, it said, was rumored to contain a ‘salt harvest’—a crop of souls preserved for the long winter.

Now, every night, I wake to the sound of scraping in the hallway. And in the corner of my bedroom, I see a figure with a pale, featureless face, standing still as a scarecrow. It whispers my name, and I know the salt harvest is coming for me too. I’ve started boarding up my own windows, but my hands tremble, because I know the boards are only a temporary stay against the harvest.