The Silo’s Lament

The Redmond place sat at the end of a gravel road that seemed to go nowhere, nestled between vast, undulating fields of corn that turned brown and brittle by late summer. Behind the house, a dense thicket of pines and oaks rose like a dark wall, and beyond that, the land sloped down to a forgotten orchard where the trees bore bitter, knotted fruit. The farmhouse itself was a relic of another century—weathered clapboards, a tin roof that pinged with every rain, and a porch that sagged in a way that felt permanent. I was twelve when we moved there, after my parents inherited it from a great-aunt none of us had ever met. My mother hated it on sight. My father, though, had a strange light in his eyes, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to return to some half-remembered dream.

But the heart of the property was the silo. It stood a hundred yards from the back door, a colossal cylinder of rust-streaked concrete that had once held silage for cattle long gone. The metal ladder that spiraled up its side had rusted in places, and the cap at the top had blown off years ago, leaving a gaping maw that stared at the sky. The silo was the first thing I saw every morning from my bedroom window, and the last thing I saw at night before the curtains were drawn. It hummed. Not audibly, not really—it was more a vibration you felt in your teeth, a deep thrum that seemed to emanate from the ground itself. My father claimed it was the wind playing on the opening, but wind didn’t make that sound on still nights.

My father was a quiet man, but he became obsessed with the silo. He’d spend hours just standing at its base, staring up at the rim, his lips moving as if in conversation. My mother would call him for dinner, and he’d come in with a faraway look, muttering about ‘the worms’ and ‘the fall.’ I tried to ask him what he meant, but he’d shake his head and ruffle my hair, saying, ‘It’s nothing, Ava. Just old stories.’ I didn’t believe him.

My room was in the attic, a converted space with slanted ceilings and a single dormer window that overlooked the back fields. On the third night, I woke to the sound of something scraping against the glass—a dry, rhythmic scritch, like a branch. But the nearest tree was twenty feet away. I pulled back the curtain and saw nothing. Just the silo, black against the stars, and the fields shimmering with a faint silver mist that hadn’t been there before. The scratching stopped. I lay back down, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I pulled the covers over my head and recited the multiplication table until I fell asleep.

The next morning, my father was gone. My mother said he’d gone to town for supplies, but his truck was still in the driveway. I found him at the base of the silo, sitting cross-legged, his hands covered in soil as if he’d been digging. He looked up at me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘The worms are waking up, Ava,’ he said. ‘They’re hungry.’ I thought he was joking, but he wasn’t smiling. He held out his hand, and I saw a small, wriggling creature—not a worm, but something pale and eyeless, with too many legs. It dropped to the ground and burrowed into the soil before I could react. My father just stood up, dusted off his pants, and walked back to the house as if nothing had happened.

That afternoon, I explored the orchard behind the pines. The trees were ancient, their branches twisted into grotesque shapes, and the ground was littered with rotten fruit that gave off a sweet, sickly smell. I found a clearing where the grass refused to grow, and in the center was a trapdoor made of iron, rusted and warped. It was padlocked, but the lock was old and easily broken with a rock. I lifted the door, and a gust of cold, musty air hit my face. A ladder descended into darkness. I should have turned back, but I heard a sound from below—a low, mournful hum that seemed to sync with the vibration from the silo. It was like a song, or a lament. I climbed down.

The ladder ended in a stone chamber the size of my bedroom. The walls were covered in strange carvings—spirals and concentric circles, and what looked like a crude map of the stars. In the center was a well, its opening barely a foot across, and from it emanated that humming sound. I peered in and saw nothing but blackness, but I felt a pressure in my ears, as if I were deep underwater. Then, from the depths, came a whisper—not in words, but in a sensation, a feeling of immense loneliness and an unbearable hunger. I stumbled back, my heart pounding, and scrambled up the ladder, slamming the door shut. I didn’t tell my parents what I’d found.

That night, the humming was louder. It resonated in my bones, and I saw shadows moving in the corners of my room—shapes that weren’t quite human. I heard my father’s voice from downstairs, speaking in a low, urgent tone, but I couldn’t make out the words. When I crept down the stairs, I saw him in the kitchen, standing at the window that faced the silo. He was holding a knife, and the blade gleamed in the moonlight. ‘They’re singing, Ava,’ he said without turning around. ‘Can you hear them? They’re singing for me.’ I ran back to my room and locked the door.

At dawn, my mother was gone. My father said she’d left early to visit her sister, but her car was still there. I searched the house, but there was no sign of her, except for a single, muddy footprint in the hallway leading to the back door. That footprint was enormous, with three toes, like a bird’s. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t call the police because we had no phone, and the nearest neighbor was miles away. My father seemed unconcerned. He spent the day in the silo, and when he came out, he had a wild look in his eyes, and his hands were covered in black, viscous soil.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The humming had become a chorus of voices, a thousand whispers that seemed to call my name. I got out of bed and looked out the window. The silo was glowing—a sickly green light shimmered at its rim, and I could see shapes moving inside, undulating like maggots. My father was standing at the base, his arms outstretched, and he was speaking in a language I didn’t recognize. The light intensified, and I saw the shadow of a massive creature emerge from the silo’s mouth, its form vaguely humanoid but with too many joints. It reached out a long, tapered arm and touched my father’s head. He collapsed like a puppet with cut strings.

I ran. I grabbed my coat and ran into the orchard, past the trapdoor, and into the woods beyond. I ran until my lungs burned, and then I hid in a hollowed-out log, shivering, listening to the humming that seemed to follow me. Eventually, the sun rose, and the humming faded to a faint drone. I made my way back to the house, but the silo was silent. My father was gone. My mother was gone. I was alone.

I found a note on the kitchen table, written in my father’s hand: ‘The worms are coming, Ava. They’ve always been here. They’re under the field, under the house, under everything. You have to stop them before they fully wake. Find the stone well and seal it with blood. Yours. That’s the only way.’ Underneath, he’d drawn a strange symbol—the same spiral I’d seen in the chamber.

I knew what I had to do. I took a knife from the drawer and went back to the orchard. I opened the trapdoor and descended, the humming growing louder with each step. At the bottom, the well was no longer still. The dark water at its bottom churned, and something pulsed beneath the surface. I cut my palm and let my blood drip into the water. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the well erupted, and a great pressure sent me staggering against the wall. The hum became a scream, a sound so high and piercing that I thought my head would split. I clamped my hands over my ears, but it was no use. I passed out.

When I woke, I was lying on the grass outside the orchard, the trapdoor shut and locked as if it had never been opened. The silo stood silent, but the fields around it had changed. The corn was withered and black, and the ground was cracked and dry, as if something had sucked the life from it. I walked back to the house, and when I looked at the silo, I saw a face pressed against the rusted metal—my father’s face, his mouth open in a silent scream. It was there for just a moment, and then it was gone.

I never told anyone what happened. I stayed in that house, alone, through the rest of autumn and into the winter. I watched the fields turn to snow, and I waited for the humming to return. It did, every night, but softer now, like a whisper. Some nights I dream of the creature in the silo, and it always speaks one word: ‘Soon.’ I know I didn’t seal it. I only made it stronger. And soon, very soon, it will wake fully. And when it does, it will sing.

I’m still here. I’m still listening. And I’m afraid.