The Ground by Sam Hanken The air was clear and cool, the sun peeking up over the mountains. Farmland ran out to the foothills, the ground freshly plowed under, and a corral of horses northwesterly to the house. I always got a shiver looking out at that sight, knowing all that land was mine. I had gotten a bit too old to work all of the land by myself, but my neighbor’s boys always came to help me with the plowing and the harvesting. God love those three. Almost made me wish I’d settled down and birthed children of my own instead of helping Pa on the farm. Almost. Seventy two years I had lived there, on my Pa's farm. Pa left it to me when he died some fifty years ago. I supposed I should be grateful, as I was his only child not taken away by old man winter. Without a son to carry on the line, and with me- a plain, single, spinster of a daughter- Well, he did the best he could. I had been up since dawn, and it wasn’t too much later. I’d been watching the sun come up over the hills, as I did when my poor old bones hurt too much to get out in the cold. The air was crisp about this time of the morning, but there was yet for any frost to be on the ground. "God keep it off the ground for another week," I prayed, knocking lightly on the wooden chair, "'til the Marten boys can come and help me fix my barn doors." My right leg was stiff, thanks to arthritis and the chill, but my bones weren’t hurting that day. The horses were stomping and screaming something fierce in the corral, their cries breaking the still morning. I supposed I should have gotten up to let them into the pasture, run whatever they had out of their systems. But I couldn’t. The morning itself felt wrong. And the ground didn’t look right. Couldn’t exactly call the sheriff over strange ground. They’ll probably get it dismissed as the ranting of a senile old woman. I scowled out the window, imagining their reaction. 'Oh, look, the old hag thought there was something wrong with the dirt.' Well, I was old. A look at my short white hair, or my spindly limbs, wrapped up in my jeans and one of Pa’s flannels, and anyone could tell. I thought I looked about halfway to the nut house as is. And I couldn’t lose my land. Strange as the ground was. It looked like the soil was waiting. Watching even. For what I couldn’t say, but it was. I saw this strange sort of movement across the garden, more a shadow than anything else. Like someone moving a magnet under the ground. I could hear it spooking the horses in the corral from around the corner, and I knew enough that I didn’t trust it either. Just this dark strangeness to the ground, creeping across my farm. The plants it touched went... wrong. It was too early for anything more than a light breeze, no sign of wind to chap my skin, but the tomato plants twisted and lashed about in a stormy sort of frenzy. The vines - peas, squash, all of them - began a slow slither along the ground. Touching the ground just within reach, snakelike. Then back to their bases, testing the dirt. My heart started knocking against my ribs, a hot rush of the heebie-jeebies running up my spine. My hands shook, ice cold, like all my blood wanted to get as far away from that strangeness as possible. Then it reached the horses. I heard the screams cut off. I shot up off my chair, the sudden pain in my leg bringing tears to my eyes. I ignored it, hobbling over to the other side of the porch, pressing my hands to the wooden frame. Horrified by the thought of what it could be doing to the horses. Yet unable to not look. The horses just stood quietly in the corral. I rubbed my eyes, making sure they weren't lying to me. The horses were just standing there. The big dappled gray raised his eyes to my railing and just stared. I watched him back, waiting for him to tear off along the corral. The gray usually did after he'd had a fright. He just stood there. Watching. Waiting. The plants in the garden behind me thrashed about like living things. I saw the vines creeping towards the house, gourds raised high. Raised like blind eyes. Roots trailing dirt as they slithered along. I ran inside and pulled the sash down, the hairs on the back of my neck raising. Rubbing my arms and hunting for Pa's shotgun, a cold shiver worked its way up my spine. Thrashing and twisting crops, staring, silent horses... The idea of going out there went against everything I knew, the urge to crawl into a closet and hide screaming up from my spine. But this was my land, my home. My father left it to me, and I had to fight off city council men with their fancy pants lawyers just to keep it. I was a proud woman, I'd fought hard to keep this place, and no strangeness was going to keep me from working what was mine. I carefully went downstairs to the cellar, making sure to step with my arthritis stiffened leg first. First step, feet together, second step... I grit my teeth unhappily. Even just ten years ago, this hadn't been a problem. I was determined to work the farm as much as possible by myself, as I had always done. I usually made the five mile rounds by noon, even with arthritis gnawing at my knee. Downstairs, I limped my way past the laden shelves, filled with preserves. I knew the gun was down there, next to the chicken ax. With a stifled groan, I hefted the gun onto my shoulder, knee aching dully. Turning, I eyed the jars full of parsnips, dried tomatoes- I might have to live off these, now that the crops went bad. I limped back upstairs, wandered over to the door. Pulled aside the corner of the lace curtain and peered out at the corral. The horses weren't so eerily still anymore, though their stepping around the corral didn't look quite right. The big gray looked almost predatory, his stride more a wolf-like lope than a horse's canter. My eyes flicked to the ground, looking for that strange creeping, or traces of the twisting vines. Nothing. Letting the curtain fall back, I shivered to myself. I could only hope I must really be getting senile... Seeing strange things. Imagining my sweet, gentle horses were predators. Being afraid of dirt. Those ideas scared me. If I kept having these ridiculous fears, I'd best up and cart myself off to the nuthouse, save the city council a lot of trouble. It scared me more to think I wasn’t. Someone knocked at the door. No, something, came the thought. I couldn’t admit that and stay sane. I cocked the shotgun and let it hang in the crook of my arm, not ready but close. I slowly moved to the door, as much wariness as my knee. Rested my hand on the knob. Turned it, and opened the door. Twisting and lashing its broad-leafed vines, one of the gourds had found my door. The seedy, wet rattle as it looked up - looked! - at me, and slithered at me. Into my house. I hurled the door shut, pieces of the squash exploding as the door slammed into it. Purple-gray juices and wriggling seeds ran down the wall and across the floor, back out towards the wounded rest of the plant. My heart thudded, loud and angry against my ribs, my lungs. Its thumping making it hard to breathe, long unused to the adrenaline running like fire through my veins. "Crops gone bad, very bad, bad, bad crops.." My mouth was babbling on without me, my mind still frozen in cold shock. If the gourds could knock... What could the horses do? That in mind, I dared another peek out the window, my heart pounding in my throat. I looked to see if anything was going to try again -- Nothing on my porch. My eyes scanned the area for the wrecked gourd, perhaps being eaten by the rest of its clan. Nothing. Tightening my grip on the shotgun, I stood behind the door, my hand on the knob. Counting my heartbeats. I knew if something came after me, my arthritis would slow me up. But not seeing anything was worse; I couldn’t keep my eyes on it this way. I gave my wrist a sharp turn to the left, swinging the door inward and bringing up my shotgun, its butt against my hip. Nothing. Stepping out on the porch, my knees gave me a throbbing reminder of how risky this was. I held the shotgun with both hands now, cautious. Creeping forward but staying on the porch, I swung my head slowly left, then right, looking for anything. A shadow loomed towards me from my left, and I swung the barrels towards it, aiming. The youngest Marten boy jumped back, arms thrown up defensively to protect his golden-haired head. "Christ, boy! What are you doing here, frightening an old woman out of her wits?" I lowered the gun slightly, but made a point by staying on the porch and not putting the gun aside. "N-n-no, ma’am! I came over to help you with your barn?" I eyed him and motioned him up onto the porch. "Where are your brothers, Tom?" He fidgeted, his hair falling into his blue eyes, rubbing his nose and leaving a streak of dust on a freckled cheekbone. "Will’s helping dad, and Lee’s got the flu. So it’s just me." He looked up at me, shuffling one foot like he expected to get his ears cuffed. With a sigh, I did another quick check of the farm. Nothing. "See anything on the way over, Tom?" "No, ma’am." He considered, a devilish little smile on his face. I swore I saw the blue of his eyes swallow up the dark centers. "Well, I did see a cottontail." He jumped off the porch and started running to my barn. I put the gun aside with a heavy sigh, leaning it up against a porch rail. It never really would have done any good, I supposed. I began down the porch steps, moving with my arthritis stiffened leg first. First step, feet together, second step... I paused, not willing to step onto the ground. "Coming?" Tom stopped halfway out, head tilted to one side. That devilish grin was still on his face, and I bet his eyes were making that strange blink again. I rubbed my eyes and sighed before calling back. "Coming." Last step, feet together, ground.