Papa's Farm

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


just a little something i wrote for english class. enjoy!

Submitted: October 11, 2017

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Submitted: October 11, 2017

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I carried the axe over my shoulder, out to the barn. My mind slipped away as I walked, burrowing itself in thoughts of happier, simpler days. Times where I didn’t have to do all of the dirty work.

Papa raised me on a farm, and left it to me in his last days, telling me what a good, strong worker I had become over the years, and how he knew he could trust me to care for his land. He was right, I was strong and more than capable of caring for the fields and the animals. More than capable of taking care of my family, my frail mother, my two children.

My husband was a city boy. Raised in New York, no experience with farming or killing. He was too prissy, preferred to watch the children, to stay away from the mess. That was fine, it was what I did best.

It’s what I was raised to do.

I entered the barn as quietly as possible, latching the door behind me. I had asked my oldest to bring Marie out to the barn for slaughter. She was ripe and fat, and not too old. I always felt bad killing the younger cattle. They were feeble, powerless. There was a certain age range where the meat was best, between nine and twelve.

I swung my axe up, positioning myself beside her. She was oblivious, chewing idly on some hay.

A sound I was accustomed to, a gruesome crunch of breaking bone as my axe split her neck open. Her head toppled, and fell with a meaty thud. Her eyes, filled with shock, haunted me from the floor. I grunted as I struggled with her body, sliding it onto a wagon. I left her head behind, wheeling the rest of her out of the barn.

My son had already set up the giant pot in the kitchen. It was boiling, the hot smell of steam filled my nose as I entered the kitchen with the wagon.

“Help me lift her, would you?” I eyed her body and the vat, wondering if she was a might bit too tall. We’d make it work.

Jordan wrinkled his nose at the idea of touching the dead thing, but he wouldn’t dare disobey Mama. He lifted her up by the legs, and I wrapped my arms around her still-warm torso.

Together, we heaved her into the pot. We’d bought the biggest one we could find, a whopping 33 quart. It could hold roughly seventy pounds, which was good enough.

My husband entered the kitchen, frowning at the feet sticking up out of the pot. “Jordan, go play.”

Jordan looked to me, and I nodded. “Thank you for helping me, darling.”

He scrambled off, and I turned to my husband. “What’s that face for?”

“Don’t you think Jordan is a little too young to be helping in the kitchen?” he asked me, bouncing Sophie, our youngest, on his hip.

“No. At his age, I was doing much more than helping in the kitchen,” I responded, sprinkling some spices into the pot. The scent of the cooking meat wafted through the house, making me smile slightly.

My husband was silent, watching me fuss with the spice rack. My mother hobbled in, cooing at Sophie on Jarod’s hip. “Little baby… Are you hungry?”

“Hello mother.” I rinsed off some vegetables in the sink.

“Oh, let me do that!” My mother bustled around the kitchen, drawing a knife out of the block and setting it on the counter. “You go clean up your mess. I’ll handle dinner.”

I obliged, leaving behind my scowling husband and the fussy baby. You do not dare disobey Mama.

It was dark now, as I trudged across the grass, looking across the field at the livestock. They crawled through the grass, looking up as I walked by. They shrank out of my path, wiggling out of the way as I crossed the field.

I opened up the barn door, listening to some of the cattle stir as I entered. The scent of their own blood always set them on edge, making them uneasy. What if they were next?

I lifted the head on the floor by its long, blonde hair. I scoffed in its face, carrying it outside. To the back of the barn. To the pile.

I set it in a mound of its siblings’ heads, a group of glassy eyed heads staring up at me. Some of them had already begun to decompose, bits of skull poking through purpled flesh.  Other human bones that we had discarded littered the area, crunching underfoot.

Papa raised me on a human farm, and left it to me in his last days, telling me what a loyal, trustworthy worker I had become over the years, and how he knew he could trust me to not breathe a word of our sins.


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