The Sickle of June

The first time I heard the humming, I thought it was the radiator. A low, vibrating note that swelled and faded, almost like a lullaby. But it was too melodic, too deliberate. I lay in bed, the sheets twisted around my legs, and listened. The voice, deep and impossibly sweet, wove a tune I almost recognized—a folk song from a childhood I couldn’t quite recall. I held my breath, straining to catch the lyrics, but there were none. Just the hum, patient and gentle, as if the singer were amused by my attempts to place them.

Then the hum stopped. In the silence, I felt a pressure on my chest, a weight like a sleeping cat, but heavier. I tried to open my eyes, but they were sealed. In the blackness, I saw a pair of amber eyes—not my cat’s, but something older, wilder. The eyes blinked slowly, and I was no longer in my room.

I stood in a field of grass that brushed my waist, green as a new leaf and impossibly lush. The sky was the color of a bruise, and the air smelled of cut hay and something metallic. I knew, with a certainty that made my stomach drop, that I was seeing through those amber eyes. I tried to turn, to move, but I was a passenger. The creature—for I felt its body as my own—began to walk, its paws silent on the earth. I could feel the cool grass against my fur, the tickle of a breeze. And then, a voice, the same humming, now behind me, closer. The creature stopped. The humming continued, and I felt a presence, a tall shape looming, but I couldn’t turn to see it.

The vision shattered. I snapped back to myself, sitting up in bed, gasping. My cat, Juniper, was there, sitting on my chest, her amber eyes fixed on mine. She blinked, slow and deliberate, and I could swear she was smiling.

I laughed at myself, shaky and nervous. ‘Just a dream, Junie,’ I whispered. She kneaded my chest, then hopped off, curling into a ball at the foot of the bed. I flopped back onto my pillow, my heart still racing. I stared at the ceiling, trying to calm down. I had to be at the cannery by six. But as I closed my eyes, the hum returned, louder this time, as if it were right in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it was no use. I was sinking, falling through the mattress, into a dark, warm place.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in the field, but it was night. The moon was full, silver on the grass. I was on all fours, my hands—no, my paws—pressed into the damp earth. The creature I was inside was stalking something, its body low, its tail twitching. I tried to wrest control, to turn away, but I was helpless. A shadow moved ahead, a figure in a long coat, its back to me. The hum started again, a slow, mesmerizing melody that seemed to come from the figure itself. The creature began to creep forward, and I could feel its hunger, a primal need that was not my own.

The shadow turned. I saw a face, gaunt and pale, with eyes that were dark holes. The face split into a grin, and the figure opened its arms wide, as if welcoming me. In that moment, I knew two things: this was not a dream, and whatever was happening was far older than me.

I forced myself to wake, fighting against a pull that felt like quicksand. I broke free with a scream, my voice raw. I was in bed, sweaty and shaking. Juniper was gone. The room was dark, the digital clock on my nightstand glowing 3:33 AM. The humming had stopped, but the silence felt thick, accusatory.

I told myself it was exhaustion, stress, the graveyard shift at the cannery. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that Juniper was watching me from somewhere in the shadows. I turned on the lamp, flooding the room with harsh light. Juniper was not in her usual spot. I called her, a forced cheerfulness in my voice, but there was no rustle, no soft meow. Panic began to rise.

Over the next week, the episodes worsened. Every time I closed my eyes, I would feel the amber gaze, the grass underfoot. I began to see the field even when awake—a shimmer at the edge of my vision, a flash of green. The humming became a constant companion, a low drone that followed me through my shifts, my meals, my sleepless nights. I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. I grew hollow, afraid.

On the seventh night, unable to face the dreams, I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold coffee, staring at the wall. Juniper was nowhere to be found. I had searched the apartment, called her name, but she had vanished two days ago. The coffee tasted like ash. The hum was there, as always, a background to my despair. And then, it stopped.

In the silence, I heard a new sound: a rustling, as if something were moving through tall grass. I turned slowly. There, on the kitchen floor, was a trail of grass—dark, pungent, freshly cut. It led from the back door, which was ajar, into the living room. I followed it, my feet bare, my heart pounding. The trail ended at the armchair where I usually sat. In the chair, waiting, was Juniper. She was sitting upright, her eyes not the familiar green, but amber, like the eyes from my visions. She looked at me, and there was a depth to her gaze that was not a cat’s. She opened her mouth, and the humming filled the room.

But it wasn’t her voice. It was his. The man from the field, the coat, the grin. The hum became words, spoken in that deep, angelic tone, but cold as a winter stream.

‘You’ve been listening to my song,’ he said. ‘Every night, you come to my meadow. You wear my cat like a crown. But you never sing back.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came. Juniper’s amber eyes bore into me, and I felt my body moving without my will, walking toward the chair. I knelt before the cat, and she—he—leaned forward, as if to kiss my forehead. The grass at my knees grew, wrapping around my ankles, pulling me down.

‘It’s time you learned the words,’ the voice said, and the hum began again, a melody that was beautiful and terrible, the melody from a hundred forgotten dreams.

And I began to hum along, the tune rising unbidden from my throat, as the field swallowed me whole.

I woke in my bed, the morning light harsh against my lids. I felt rested, more rested than I had in weeks. I turned my head. Juniper was asleep at my feet, her fur soft. I felt a smile cross my face, and a low hum escaped my lips. The tune, the one I knew by heart now. I blinked, and for a second, I saw the tall grass, the moonlit field, and the man in the coat, watching me with a satisfied smile.

Then it was gone. I got up, stretched, and went to the mirror. My eyes, I noticed, had a faint amber ring around the pupil. And in the reflection, I saw Juniper behind me, her lips moving, singing the same song.

I opened my mouth, and instead of a scream, the melody poured out, richer and deeper than my own voice had ever been. I tried to stop, but my jaw moved on its own, and the song filled the room like a presence.

In the grass, in the field, I knew I would return, and this time, I would be the one walking on all fours, waiting for a new pair of eyes to fall into my song.