It was during the last days of Winter that I decided city life had taken enough from me. Being born a country boy, I like many others moved to Saint Peter Port in search of wealth and power. Yet the years spent as the bookkeeper for one of the minor shipping companies had brought me very little of either. The daily sight of grey streets and grey suits and grey structures seemed to drain what little happiness my wages brought me.
It was for this reason that I jumped upon seeing the advertisement for Whistler Farm. It was located in Torteval, one of the parishes on the opposite side of the island, and seeking a new owner immediately. Thinking it to be some excellent stroke of luck, I penned a letter at the breakfast table and sent it to the address, not expecting to hear back within the next few days.
The reply that afternoon read as follows:
Dear Mr Fisher,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and with the eagerness you possessed in your earlier communication to me. I would like to extend an invitation to yourself and your kin to visit at your earliest convenience.
I must also implore you to bring with you on your visit, ten per cent of the asking price for the farm. If you find the property to your standards then I would be all too happy to accept this as a deposit and see the sale finalised as swiftly as possible.
Yours Sincerely,
Mr Finn O’Kelly
Had I been a wiser man, the speed of his reply and urgency at which he was attempting to sell the property would have made me second guess myself. However in my desire for freedom in the countryside, I had not the wherewithal to think. I checked my calendar and sent another correspondence to him, promising to meet him by the end of the week and with the money he had asked for. The next morning I read his reply while eating my breakfast, in which he told me how he looked forward to our meeting. It is only as I reflect now that I realise how much relief he must have felt.
That Saturday I made my way to Torteval on the train, and then caught a carriage to his farm. It was a large estate quite far from any other houses, just as I had hoped for. Just past its front gates stood the farm house, from which an Irishman emerged. He was large, broad-shouldered and with a face covered in a blond beard.
“Mr Fisher?” he asked me as I descended the cart.
“Yes, I am.”
“A pleasure to meet you dear sir. Mr O’Kelly, at your service.”
He shook my hand and tried to subtly search me with his eyes; no doubt searching for the deposit which he asked me to bring. I assured him that if the farm were suitable for me then he would see the money soon enough. His eyes lit up at that.
O’Kelly provided me with a pair of boots before taking me on a tour through the farm. Aside from the house itself, there was the shed, barn and stables. In addition to these was the worker’s hut, in which the farmhands who tended to the fields and animals lived.
“Most of the lads will stay with the farm, I should imagine” the owner explained, “Pay them well, treat them fine, and they’ll never complain.”
“And they know what they’re doing?”
“Oh yes. All of them have been working farms for years. Have you ever run a farm?”
“Never myself,” I confessed, “Although I worked on my father’s during my youth and learnt the business.”
“Then you’ll have no issues here. Just give the boys the tools they need, then sit back and let them rake in the profits. It ought to be a crime to earn cash this quickly.”
“So then… I must ask the question, you understand. Why do you wish to sell?”
O’Kelly sighed as he turned from me to gaze out across the fields. The winter’s frost was still yet to fully thaw, but men were busy everywhere preparing the fields for crop.
“I’ve family back home who aren’t likely to see this year’s end,” he explained, “I figure it’s only right for me to return and make the most of what little time I’ve left with them. Reminisce about the old days, settle a few grudges.”
“And that’s why you’re so eager to sell?”
“I’d have been gone already if I could afford it. The farm earns me a lot, as it will do for you, but I’ve a nasty habit of giving my earnings over to the casino or bookies as soon as I get my hands on it. Never was one for saving.”
“I see. And so you’re in want of money quickly.”
“If you’ve got your deposit on you now, I think I know what’s best for both of us. You take the farm off me now, I take the deposit and head home. You send the rest of the farm’s payments to Ireland for me in the coming months.”
“Really? You would be happy to leave me with the farm on the promise that you’d receive your money?”
“You seem to be a man worth trusting. I’ve no doubt you'd do what's right and pay me my dues. And if all this is yours, you’d have profit o'plenty to pay me with. So what do you say lad, have we got a deal?”
The specifics of our arrangement were discussed in the pub nearest to the farm, called The Old Maiden. There O’Kelly sent for a lawyer that he knew, who came to oversee the handover of the lease. Having lived in the city so long, I was surprised by the speed and simplicity of the exchange. One signature and a handshake, and I was now the proud owner of Whistler Farm.
O’Kelly offered me a drink as the lawyer packed up and made to leave. I joined the Irishman at the bar, where he ordered for us both and waited until the barman’s eyes were off us.
“Thanks for buying the farm now, lad. It’s been a big help to me, you know that now?”
“I can imagine so. When do you plan on going back to your family?”
He looked at me funny, taking a sip of his drink before some realisation seemed to strike him.
“Oh, yes. I’ll be on the boat first thing tomorrow. Will you be back in the city this evening?”
“Only for a short while, I hope. Once I’ve sorted some business there I’ll move to the farmhouse.”
“Perhaps we could share a train then,” he said, drinking through about half of his pint in one swig.
“… But, won’t you need to pack? Surely you’ve belongings to collect, and you’ll want to say goodbye to your farmhands-”He scoffed at that, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spoke again with a cold tone to his voice.
“Nay, lad. There’s no force on Earth that’ll get me to step foot back there again.”
Stunned, I watched him finish what remained of his drink and clasp my shoulder.
“One word of advice. When that woman comes to visit you at night, always do what she tells you.”
O’Kelly’s words to me in that pub stuck in the back of my mind over the next month. As he had said, he took the train to the city and boarded the first boat he found. I settled my business in the city, cleared his old belongings from the farmhouse and replaced them with my own. The winter frost had fully thawed away by the time I took up residence at Whistler Farm.
As the man had predicted, all the farmhands agreed to stay on when I took over. Fergus, the leader of their group, agreed to manage day to day operations while I handled the financials. After my first few nights I found myself quickly beginning to settle into this new life. That was until one Monday evening that I received my first visitor.
I opened the door, finding an older woman hunched over my front steps. She strained her neck to look up at me, revealing a face completely devoid of any beauty. A smile made up of rotten teeth formed across that face, spreading wider than any grimace should.
“Oh, hello there,” I said, stepping back and allowing her in from the rain. Perhaps she was a neighbour, come to greet me. Or simply an old woman caught out in the cold and seeking shelter.
“How good to meet you at last, Mr Fisher. Won’t you make this old hag a drink? And spare her some bread?”
“Of course,” I told her, “I’m surprised you know my name. Forgive me, but I do not know yours.”
“No offence taken,” she said as she dried her shoes on the welcome mat and made her way into the kitchen. I followed her, putting the kettle on the hob as she settled onto one of the chairs. Before I could ask her name again, she spoke.
“Ooh, yes. Not one for decorations, are you Mr Fisher?”
“I… I haven’t fully moved in yet. Pardon me, but I still don’t know your name.”
“Oh, you may call me Miss Whistler dear. Is it just you, all on your own?”
“Yes, well, aside from the farmhands, that is. Your family name is Whistler, is it? Any relation to the farm?”
“Yes, yes we are,” she said as that smile came across her face again, “We’ve been here so very long.”
We continued to talk as I gave her some bread and cheese. Once the kettle had boiled I poured her some tea, which she accepted gratefully. Every question which I put to her was met with either a one-word reply or cryptic answer, none of which made me any wiser as to who she was.
“So do you live nearby?” I asked for perhaps the third or fourth time as she finished her tea. A chuckle came from her as she placed the mug down and looked at me.
“Indeed I do. However, it is not my residence I have come to discuss with you, Mr Fisher. It’s your farm I would like for us to discuss.”
“What about it?”
“It’s on my land.”
Confusion came over me as she stared intently. I felt a chill as her once blue eyes, now white due to how clouded they were, locked with mine and seemed to see straight through me into my very soul.
“I believe that you’re mistaken. I purchased the land from Mr O’Kelly, you see. I saw the legal papers for myself, this land is-”
“The farm is your own, once belonging to Finn O’Kelly and now to you. The land it sits upon however, remains mine. Just as it has always been. And as your farm is on my land, you must pay me for it.”
“But… How can I own the farm and not the land it’s on? That’s absurd.”
“If you enter a house and place your coat upon a coat rack, does the house become your property, Mr Fisher?”
“No. But if I were to purchase a home with my own money, as I have done, then I would be the rightful owner of it.”
“I apologise for any confusion, Mr Fisher. I never claimed that you did not own the farm, simply that the farm you own is located on top of the land I own.”
“That’s absurd! I was never informed about any of this!”
“Nor was I informed of the change in ownership. Still, I believe that we can come to an arrangement between us. Every Friday, I claim thirteen percent of the land’s earnings.”
“Thirteen percent!” I exclaimed, “This must be some sort of joke.”
“Then what would you suggest, Mr Fisher? I am nothing if not fair.”
“I want to see some paperwork. This is ridiculous, expecting me to pay just to live on the land which I have already bought.”
“Well, if you are so unhappy with this arrangement then may I suggest you move your farm somewhere else,” she said, standing up, “Until then, however, I shall be expecting my share of profits. Leave the thirteen percent in a bag on your front step every evening, and I’ll be sure to collect it.”
I followed her to the door, insisting that she stay so that we could discuss this further. The rain outside was harsher now, and the light from the doorway was the only thing illuminating the night time. She walked down the front path until she stood at the very edge of this light, her features becoming unrecognisable.
“Next Friday, Mr Fisher. I expect to find my pay on the doorstep.”
Before I ever could protest, she took one more step away from the house, vanishing into the night.
Tuesday came, then Wednesday, Thursday and finally Friday. During this time I had asked Fergus and some of the other field hands if he knew of the woman I had encountered, and he simply shrugged and told me they had never met her. I also contacted a friend from the city, who had worked in law but was long since retired. He used his contacts, and assured me that nobody on the island knew anything about a Miss Whistler who owned any land in Torteval.
That Friday evening was quiet. I sat in my kitchen, waiting to hear the sounds of a carriage or footsteps outside, the grumblings of an old woman and then a knock at my door. I prepared myself for an argument with her. Ready to demand some proof that she had any right to my money.
Only she didn’t come. No one came. So when the final light of my candle died I retreated up to my bedroom, satisfied that I had seen the last of her. Peaceful in my bed, I could feel my consciousness fading as the sweet bliss of sleep took me. Just before I fell under its spell, that peace was interrupted.
“What you owe in money, you shall pay with life,” some voice whispered in the darkness.
I cried out, sitting up and looking around the room, sweat dripping from my brow. It was her, I knew that voice was hers. Had she broken in, come to kill me for the debts I did not owe?
To my surprise the first few rays of daylight were coming through my window. I had slept the night away. Slowly as my brain began to reason, I concluded that it must have been a nightmare. Laughing at myself for having been frightened of something so childish, I changed into my clothes and made my way downstairs.
“Mr Fisher!” cried one of the farmhands as he barged through the door. I looked at him, confused by the dishevelled state he was in. With wide eyes, filled with a kind of terror I had not yet seen in my life, he looked at me.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Come quickly.”
He shot out the door, not waiting for me to follow. I put on my boots and stepped out into the yard, seeing the man making his way towards the barn. There two other men were waiting just before the farm doors, peering inside as though they were some children too scared to enter a dark room.
“Won’t one of you tell me what the matter is?” I asked as I approached them. As I made my way across the yard, I caught a whiff of some unpleasant smell. Not the usual stink of the animals I had learned to live with. This was closer to that of decay.
“Well? I asked, recoiling as I tasted the odour in my mouth. The closer I came to the barn, the stronger it had become. Now standing with the other three, next to the open doors, it was almost unbearable for me.
Without a word, one of the men pointed towards the back corner of the barn. There something had been stacked up, like a Winter stockpile of meat which was now spoiled. I convulsed as I realised that I was almost correct.
My barn, where the cows, pigs and goats had all been sleeping, was now absent of any living animal. All around were patches of red-stained hay, and thin trails leading away from them towards the where this spoiled meat was stored.
Livestock was no longer a fitting name for the animals.
Fergus, the other farmhands and I met in the workers hut. By now word of the horror within the barn had spread, and the same questions lingered within everyone’s mind.
“Sabotage,” Fergus said bluntly, “Somebody must have broken in during the night.”
“But we already searched the whole farm,” one of the younger men - Gilligan, I believe his name was - said, “Every gate is locked, every fence and wall is still up. How could they have gotten in?”
“They could have just jumped the wall. Sure the ones around here are high and safe, but think about the far fields. They’re all low down, aren’t they?”
“But then they’d have to walk through all the fields. There’d be footprints. More than just our own.”
The debate continued, although the details of what was said were lost on me. Instead, my mind replayed the nightmare I had had. The words of the woman in my dream were vivid, as if she were repeating them to me.
“What you owe in money, you shall pay with life.”
The woman asked for thirteen percent of my earnings. I had refused, and the same night that she had demanded the money for, my animals were dead.
“Mr Fisher?” I heard Fergus say. Blinking, I realised that all were now looking at me.
“My apologies. Say that again.”
“It might be worth having one of us patrolling the farm for a few nights. Not all the fields, just the yard area. That way we could catch whoever did this if they come back.”
“Yes, yes, a good idea. Um, I’ll give a bonus to whoever wants to do that.”
“Well, we could all pitch in. Set up a rota,” added Brandon, one of the men who had been at the barn doors that morning.
“Hold on just a second,” Gilligan - I was now sure that was his name - interrupted, “What happened in that barn. Whoever did that, they have to have been incredibly strong. Any of you ever been able to pick up a whole grown cow? Especially a dead one.”
“Well…” Fergus said, thinking for a moment, “I suppose… There could have been more than one person.”
“And say we do find these people breaking in. What do you think we’re gonna do about them?”
A few looks were exchanged between the farmhands. The enthusiasm they had shared was quickly fading. We had some tools of course, ones which could cause a great deal of damage to an intruder. But there was only so much a pickaxe or sickle could do against a group of troublemakers.
“Alright, alright,” Fergus said, standing up, “I’ve got that sorted. Don’t you worry.”
The crowd parted as he walked towards one of the many beds that lined the room. I assumed it to be his own as he opened up the drawer in his bedside cabinet and rummaged around. All eyes were fixed upon him as he took out an outdated pistol.
“By Selene, Fergus.” I cried as he returned to his position, dropping the gun onto the table.
“This here’s my old grandfather’s, back from the French war. Still works, at least last time I checked. So I say, whoever’s out on watch at night gets the gun. If you see anyone, you shout for them to lay down. If they don’t…”
“How long have you been keeping that in there?” Brandon asked.
“Since my first day here. Haven’t had a need for it until now.”
“Does this feel a little too much, for anyone else?” another farmhand asked. “Look, do you wanna stop intruders, or don’t you?”
“I don’t wanna kill anyone!”
“You don’t have to,” Fergus said, “Not unless they try to kill you. The way I see it, if a man wants to break in somewhere and cause trouble, he can’t complain when he gets himself into trouble.”
“Has anyone here even used a gun?” Gilligan asked.
“It’s easy. Point this end at whatever you want to kill, then pull the trigger.”
“But what if I don’t want to kill?”
“Mr Fisher?” Brandon asked, looking at me, “You have any thoughts? It’s your farm.”
I tapped the table with my fingers as I thought. Should I tell them of the woman who visited me? Fergus and a few others already knew of her visit; they watched me with the same expression as those who I had not told. But did they suspect, deep down, that this hag may have had a hand in what had happened.
“One person keeps watch each night. That person gets the gun. If they see anyone, grab them and take them to the hut.”
“And what if they don’t-”
“If they do anything other than what you tell them, shoot at their feet. That should be enough to frighten them without killing.”
“It’ll also wake all of us up too,” Fergus said, nodding along, “That works well. No way anyone’s gonna try anything against all of us.”
“Does anybody have any objections to this plan?” I asked. Once again every man looked to their peers, then shook their heads.
“Good,” I said, getting up from the table, “I shall go and draft a rota and sort out your additional pay. Meanwhile, may somebody please clear out the barn?”
The next six nights passed without event. True to their word, one man would remain awake during the hours of darkness, armed with the pistol. He would sit out in the yard or patrol the out walls of the farm until daylight came again.
Friday evening came once again. A quiet kind of dread filled me as I sat in the armchair of my living room, book in hand. My mind was elsewhere as my eyes were focused not on the pages, but on the window that looked out onto the yard. I had scheduled Fergus to take this watch, trusting him more than any other to stay alert.
I heard a gentle tap as a drop of rain hit the window and slowly made its way down the glass. A second came, then a third and fourth and fifth. Then a torrent of water began to fall from high above, pounding against my roof and windows. The quiet of the nighttime became replaced by that thunderous noise, and that was when the next knock at the door came.
Cautiously, I placed the book down and left my living room. At the front door the knocking came again, and over the sound of rain and winds I heard her voice again.
“Mr Fisher,” she called out. I opened the door to find Miss Whistler waiting for me, her face still with that grotesque grin that she had been wearing when we first met.
“Hello again,” I said to her, “How may I be of assistance?”
“I see,” she said slowly in that horrid voice, “That your farm still sits upon my land.”
“Is that so?”
“You must be more careful, dear. It appears that you have forgotten to leave a payment for me. It is lucky I am able to remind you. A more vindictive landlord may have-”
“Have you brought with you any proof that you own the land?”
“… I assume that you did not mean any offence by your question.”
“Quite frankly I could not care if you were offended. You’ve come to my farm to demand money which you have no right to. I’ve checked with the best lawyers on the island; you own nothing!”
“You youths don’t know when to hold your tongues-”
“Before I kick you out, I have one more question. Last Friday somebody broke in during the night to slaughter my animals. Were you involved with this?”
The grin that had remained on her face throughout our conversation grew even wider.
“An old woman like me do a thing like that? Perhaps you may be going mad, Mr Fisher. Why not try and get some rest?”
“You’ve no right to call anyone mad. Now leave this farm, and never return. If you ever come to this door again I shall call for the Church to come and remove you. Do you understand me?”
“Certainly, Mr Fisher. If this is how you wish to be, then so be it. I, of course, have not the strength to force you to pay the rent you are due. Should you wish to deny an old lady her rightful-”
“Begone!”
I shut the door with such force that I feared it may have been damaged. One minute, then two, and then I opened it once again. I had never heard the woman leave.
I returned to my living room and read for another hour until my candle had burnt out. Then up to bed I went, satisfied that my farm would be safe. If the woman wished to call upon some help and attack my farm as retribution - as I am sure she had done last Friday - then Fergus would stop them.
“Just rest,” I told myself, “Just rest.”
The rain was enough to lull me to sleep in minutes.
“How much must you spill until I am gifted what I am owed?” asked the shape in the darkness. It was still night, although somehow my eyes could see what lurked near the foot of my bed. I felt a heavy pain in my chest, as if some invisible weight had been placed upon it. This same weight seemed to pin my arms and legs down so that I could not fight back against this nightmare.
My mouth would not open as I tried to shout. I felt as though two hands were wrapped around my throat. Surely with this and the pressure on my lungs, I was to suffocate.
“How many chose to play this game before you? How many made it to the end?”
It changed now, morphing into a human-like body. Its legs grew to be as long as my room was high. It bent ninety degrees at the waist so that its torso could stretch out horizontally across my ceiling. The head hung over my own as though it were a guillotine; ready to drop at any second. Still I could not scream.
“No one. Either I shall win or you shall lose. That is how it ends.”
I landed hard upon my wooden floor, still screaming. Rolling to my back I looked up, and then around me. My bedroom, lit once again by morning light, was normal. No figures waited at the end of my bed, none stood over me, no one was anywhere.
I rose to my feet and opened the door, finding nobody hiding behind it. The rest of my home was fine as well, all my windows were still closed, every door locked and bolted. Quickly I dismissed the things I saw last night as just another nightmare, before my brain was able to convince me otherwise.
I made myself some breakfast, which I was in no mood to eat, and then ventured out into the yard. It did not take long before I found Brandon - exiting the worker’s hut - with a concerned look about his face.
“Oh, Mr Fisher. Are you alright sir? You look a little shaken, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“I am quite alright. Do you know where Fergus is? I have some business I would like to discuss with him.”
Brandon looked back to the hut.
“I don’t think you’ll get much from him at the moment sir. By Selene, you should have seen him when we found him. We opened the door this morning, and there he was curled up outside, scratching himself and muttering.”
“I say.”
“The cold must have gotten to him. I mean, we all heard that rain last night.”
“Well, is he okay? Does he need a doctor?”
“No, no,” Brandon insisted, “A bit of food and a bit of rest. He’s asleep now, so I’ve assigned the lads their duties this morning. I’ll have someone go check up on him later today, and we’ll see if he’s alright by lunch time.
“Right on. I shall see him later.”
Returning to my home I set about my own work, calculating profits and expenses caused by the new livestock which we were waiting for. All the while I wondered if that woman had anything to do with Fergus and his sudden illness. Before lunch I left my work to check on him once more. I knew the farmhands would still be out working for a while, giving me enough to to speak with him in private.
I entered the worker’s hut and approached the man groaning in his bed. I saw his face, almost turned completely grey, and how his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper into their socket. My immediate thought is that he needed a doctor, as clearly whatever cold the man carried this morning had developed into something more.
“Fergus,” I said quietly, not wishing to startle the man. I was forced to repeat myself a few more times before he seemed to take notice of me.
“You look terrible, man. I’ll have a doctor come to check on you, as soon-”
My heart raced as he flung himself off the bed and began to pull himself across the floor towards me. All the while he groaned heavily with pain.
“Fergus! Fergus, stop this at once. Go back to bed, you’re in no st-”
“… Your. Not yours. Farm.” he managed to stammer out, “-Whistler. Farm.”
The remainder of his words were meaningless noise as he carried on across the room. I stepped back, which only motivated him to move faster. It was only when I had made it back to the door of the hut that he stopped, panting in the centre of the floor.
“Fergus,” I said, now approaching, “You’re very sick. Come now, I’ll help you back to bed, and you just rest. Okay?”
He didn’t respond. Cautiously, I knelt by him and grabbed his shoulders. The man was a foot taller and nearly twice as muscular as myself, so I had no hope of lifting him without his help.
“Alright Fergus. You’re going to need to help me out here. On the count of three, I need you to stand. One, Two”
His giant hands grabbed me, trapping me in the same way a predator may catch its prey. I struggled as he lifted his head just enough for me to see his face. That withered face.
“You can’t,” he said as he coughed, “You can’t make her leave. The woman.”
“You mean the old hag, from last night? Did you see her? What did she say to you?”
He laughed now, watching me with bloodshot eyes as he did so.
“This is her land. You owe in money… Pay in…”
His head drooped as he let go at me, slipping onto the ground once again. I rolled him onto his back and shook him, trying desperately to wake him. What had the old woman said to him? What had she done to him, to cause him such pain.
The door to the hut opened again. I saw not who it was, but heard their gasp as they saw us on the ground.
“Call a doctor!” I cried, “Somebody, come help me get him to his bed. Someone call a doctor.”
Two men helped me hoist him up and place him back in his bed, though it was clear to us all now how little we would achieve with this. One man, I think it was Gilligan, ran into town and grabbed the physician. For all our efforts, Fergus would die before the doctor reached the farm.
Dear Mr O’Kelly,
I hope this letter finds you well, and that you have settled nicely back into Cork. Please also find within this envelope a portion of the payment for the Whistler Farm. I am sorry to say a great deal of misfortune has fallen upon the property in your absence; most notably the death of Fergus.
I have no doubt you knew him well during your tenure as owner. If it comforts you, know that he died peacefully while in his sleep. The doctors are yet to fully understand the cause of his death, although in these days of rapid scientific discovery I believe that they shall soon learn why.
There is another matter I wish to raise with you. Just a few weeks ago - at the time I write - I was in contact with a Miss Whistler, who claims ownership of the land on which Whistler Farm sits. So far she has yet to provide any documentation proving her claims, and I have been assured by trusted individuals that no such proof exists.
I wished to know if you had ever had similar dealings with the hag, and if so, have any information that may assist me when next she knocks on my door.
All the Best
Mr Fisher
I drafted my letter again and again, unsure how to tell a man that in the weeks he had been away, death had struck his former home.
Efficiency on the farm slowed in the week following the tragedy of Fergus. I had given the men the day off as the local hospital came and carted the corpse away. Having been informed by the other farmhands that he had no living family, I spent a small amount on a gravestone and service for my friend whom I had known for too short a time.
Brandon, another one of the labourers who the rest of the farm seemed to look up to, took charge. He assured me that it was simply a matter of time before we returned to normal.
“Men die,” he said to me as we stood together in the fields, “Fact of life, that. If you waste your life thinking about its end, then when you get to the end you’ll have nothing to think back to.”
“Still you can’t help but be sad. To die in… Such a way.”
“Yes. Before his time, I think, poor old Fergus. Just goes to show I think, it doesn’t matter what sort of life you have. Still, he’ll be in the castle of Lady Selene by now.”
We had continued to follow the night time rota after that, only with far less enthusiasm. I was now paying double for one man each night to sit awake in the hut and watch out of the window for any intruders. It was nowhere near as efficient as I had hoped for, although it was the most I could convince the men to do.
So that left me to take Fergus’ gun from his belongings. With no more nightly patrols, there was no need for the men to keep it. Instead I placed it inside my own bedside cabinet, with no intention of using it however. It thought it may help to calm my mind, and ward off the nightmares which had become a daily occurrence.
In the past week, I had not slept soundly once.
By this time we had managed to replace a few of our dead animals, the horses being among them. I rode one into town to post my letter, and while there thought I would stop in the local pub for lunch. It was The Old Maiden, the same place where I signed the deed to Whistler Farm.
There were a few people there enjoying lunch, talking and laughing as they did so. As I ate my shepard’s pie in silence, an older man took a seat on the stool next to me and ordered lager.
“You want anything, lad?” he asked, the smell of drink heavy on his breath “I haven’t seen your face around here.”
“No, I’m… I haven’t been here too long.”
“Alright. Pint of cider?”
“No, thank you, It’s a little early for me.”
“Early?” the old man laughed, “It’s gone twelve, how much later do you want?”
I considered his argument carefully for a moment, and then nodded slowly. He smiled as he ordered me a glass of cider.
“Made straight in Castel, you know? None of that English crap. Proper Sarnia drink, that is lad.”
“It's nice.”
“I used to own the orchard the apples came from, you know? Back when I was your age.”
“Oh really?” I said, “I’ve recently bought a farm myself, as it happens.”
The old man took a sip of his drink and smiled at me.
“Oh yeah? A lot of farms around here. Which one’s yours then?”
“Whistler Farm.”
I saw his mood shift. His friendly face soured as he placed his drink back down on the bar. It took a second for me to realise that the rest of the pub had also grown quieter. I looked behind me and caught a glimpse of the other patrons watching me, only to quickly turn away. The old man waited for their conversations to resume before he said anything more to me.
“You’re not local, are you?”
“No, no I was born in Vale but lived in the city. Is there something I should know?”
“Well, I suppose that depends on how lucky you are. But, um, that Whistler Farm is very old. Older than me, if you believe that. You know if something is for long enough, then stories start getting told.”
“Stories like what?”
“The man who owned Whistler before you. What was his name?”
“O’Kelly. Finn O’Kelly.”
“Not a local, I assume.”
I looked at him a little puzzled, before shaking my head.
“No, Irish.”
“I thought as much. You look back on Whistler Farm, you won’t find many local owners. None in my lifetime, in fact. Although my memory’s not what it was.”
“I assume that this is about that old woman, Miss Whistler.”
“She’s no woman boy. At least none from ‘round here. Every story starts with her, showing up on a rainy night and asking for something. Sometimes she wants money, sometimes she wants shrines built for her. Rumour had it she asked one owner to marry her. Only Selene knows how that marriage would have worked.”
“So she is just some mad old woman. I thought as much.”
“No. Oh no, far from it my boy. Believe you me, I don’t know what that old hag is, but it isn’t a woman. You know about the pouques, don’t you?”
“Of course. Are you trying to tell me that woman’s one of the faeries?”
“If it isn’t that, I’d be afraid to say what else. The Church has been to that farm more than once, you know. We’ve seen them bless every fence, wall and door. Doesn’t stop her from getting in though, does it? No faerie I’ve ever heard of could still get in through all of that.”
“This is nonsense,” I told him, finishing my drink, “If she was a pouque, she’d have been killed the first time The Church tried. This is just some deranged old woman and a bunch of old wives tales. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a bunch of children messing about telling stories, trying to scare each other.”
“If that’s what you think. You go ask your farmhands about what I’m telling you, see what they say.”
“I already have, thank you very much. None of them have ever even met this woman.”
“Oh, but they all know the stories, no doubt. It doesn’t matter what they tell you, each of them knows the stories. When you get home lad, you ask them how long they’ve worked there as well. You’ll learn pretty quick no one ever stays there long.”
“I’ve heard enough of this,” I told the fool, getting off my seat. Suddenly I had no desire to finish my pie. I could feel his eyes, as well as those from everybody else within the bar, following me as I made my exit.
“It’s your farm, after all,” he shouted to me as I opened the door, “Don’t say I didn’t try.”
Back on my farm, I did my best to ignore the old man’s stories. He was a drunk I’d met in a pub, and whose testimony was about as useful as one from a child. Of course I knew of the pouques - as all men did. They were the faeries who lived beneath us, venturing up onto the surface world only when they wished to cause us harm. I would know one if I saw one, and that woman was about as far off as one could be.
Still for some reason, I could not shake the man’s words from my head. Against my better judgement, I found myself looking through the records for the farm's previous labourers. Most of the older ones were incomplete, just being first names or nicknames, and with many crucial details missing from them. But for those in the last few years, a pattern did emerge. Most only stayed a matter of months, with very few making it a full year. Rarer still was anybody, farmhand or owner, lasting more than one year. Even my predecessor, Finn O’Kelly, who had sold the farm to me with tales of how much money it made him, had only lasted a few months.
As the day began to wind down I sought out Brandon again and asked to speak with him in private. We took a walk around the fields as I told him of my conversation in the bar, and of the evidence I had discovered.
“Ah, you can’t go around listening to everything drunkards tell you, Mr Fisher. I’d have expected you of all people to know that.”
“But the evidence supports it. Look, how long have you been working at the farm?”
“Eight months, going on nine.”
“And do you know anyone who’s worked here more than a year?”
“Of course, there’s… Well, there was Fergus. He’d been here just over a year. Then there’s… Well, a lot of them have left now, but there were a few.”
“Why leave? The pay’s good, isn’t it? The work’s the same as any other farm around here.”
“They must of all had their reasons. Some men can’t bear sitting still for too long, I suppose. They want to move around, have a change of scenery.”
That was a poor excuse, and we both knew it. The truth was that something, and I could guess what, drove them away.
“Do strange things normally happen on the farm?” I asked, “I mean like that business with the barn animals. Did anything like it ever occur with Mr O’Kelly?”
That gave him pause, if only for a moment. He looked at me as if he wished to say something, only struggling to put his words in order. Finally though, he spoke with a quiet voice.
“There have been… A few strange things, here and there.”
“Like what?”
“Well, nothing really. Just… When Mr O’Kelly first took over from Mr Langlois, there were a few odd things now and again. Some of the lads working in the outer fields kept thinking they were seeing ghosts appear next to them. One of them even tried telling us a ghost stole his shovel, but we weren’t listening to that now. The Church came and looked around and said it was all nonsense, just like we’d thought.”
“But-”
“I can promise you Mr Fisher, anything odd that’s happened on this farm has been bad luck. There’s no faeries messing around with you. No curses or anything like that. Just plain old luck, and too much superstition.”
The conversation with Brandon hadn’t gone much further. He was unwilling to even consider any of my fears about what might be afflicting my farm. And so I had had enough of him, instead returning to my desk, upon which I penned a letter to The Church asking for their aid. If they had visited and blessed the lands before, then there should be no reason for them not to come again. It may all just be poor luck, though I would feel much more at ease if they were to reassure me,
That night, however, I feared there was very little that anyone could do to help me. Like my previous Friday evenings, I took up my book and did my best to read while I awaited her visit. I had been tempted to leave a bag of money on my doorstep, as she had so often asked, though my principles and sense convinced me not to. I would not give in to the demands of some mad old woman.
To my surprise, she never visited. So as the last light of my candle died, I made my way back up to my room, only to lay awake in bed. The nightmares which seemed to only grow more and more common would no doubt come again. While I could not remember what occurred within most of them, the terror I felt upon awakening from them still remained.
I checked my bedside cabinet again, making sure Fergus’ gun was still where I had placed it. Perhaps it could not shoot my nightmares, but knowing it was there brought me a small amount of comfort.
Finally, sleep took hold of me. When I next opened my eyes however, the feeling of fear was worse than any which had come from my nightmares.
Miss Whistler stood over me, her rotten teeth hanging over my head. Those eyes so cruel, looking into my own and showing me nothing but hatred. As I screamed she laughed, scampering away from me before I could reach out to grab the hag.
I flung open the drawer to my bedside cabinet, taking a hold of the pistol and aiming its barrel straight towards her.
“Now you!” I roared, “Stay where you are! I warn you, I have had enough of you.”
She didn’t speak, instead only watching me as I climbed out from bed and grabbed ahold of her. She did not so much as fight me as I forced her down the stairs and out into what I now realised was the pouring rain. On my way out I had picked up the lantern which sat near my front door, which left me unable to keep a hold of her.
“Now listen to me,” I warned, jamming the gun into her back, “I’ll shove you in one of the sheds and have The Church around as soon as possible. If you try anything, I’ll kill you myself. Do you understand that?”
“Where was this fire when we first met?” she asked me, still not putting up any sort of fight as I walked her out across the yard. I was too enraged to be bothered by the cold, although she seemed to also have no objection to it.
That doesn’t matter, I thought to myself. Who cared if this old woman could stand the cold; I certainly didn’t. Soon now, she would cease to be-
“Stop!” Cried a voice from the other end of the yard. I turned, gun raised in the direction of the worker’s hut. The candle in the window was still lit, with the farm door now open.
“Thief!” The voice, which I now realised belonged to one of my farmhands, called again. The night rota; he was the one scheduled to be keeping watch.
“It’s me!” I called to him, lowering my gun, “It’s me, Mr Fisher! Come quickly!”
He hesitated before running out to me, disappearing when he left the candlelight of the worker’s hut and only then reappearing when he came within range of my lantern.
“Mr Fisher. Oh I am very sorry, I saw your lantern and-”
“Not now! She’s-” and I turned my head to where she had been but a moment ago. Time seemed to slow as I looked upon the empty space, not registering what had happened. She had gone, this old, hunchbacked woman had managed to sneak away out of my sight. I swung my light to the left and right, expecting to see her hobbling away. Only there was no one.
“Oh, you idiot!” I screamed at the man, “She’s gone! Go to the front gates, don’t let her get away!”
“I-”
“Run!” I cried at him. He nodded, disappearing into the blackness.
“You lot!” I shouted to the hut where my now awake farmhands were lingering, “Get out here! We’ve got another intruder, come and search! She can’t have gone far.”
Through the rest of the night we searched. Some scoured through my home, the barn and stables for her, while others traipsed across the fields in the pouring rain, calling out for anybody to show themselves.
Only when the first of the sun's rays broke though the darkness of night did I allow myself to consider the impossible. This old crone, who had been trapped inside my dominion as a dozen men searched for her, had somehow escaped me. While I kept the men searching for some time still, insisting that there was no way she could have slipped past us, come midday I was forced to admit defeat.
Miss Whistler had managed to get away.
I sat awake in the middle of another sleepless night, praying to Selene to show me forgiveness for whatever crime I had committed against her. The sign of the moon hung on every door and window of my farmhouse. Each morning a priest came to my home and doused it in holy water, muttering his words of wisdom.
None of this stopped the nightmares that plagued my sleep. Figures would appear in the darkness to mock me, others would stand by the foot of my bed, or over me as I laid awake. I had tried to sleep in other locations; the worker’s hut, the stables and even the floor of the barn. For one night a few weeks ago I stayed at an inn not far from the farm, only for my night time visitors to become more violent towards me. They had screamed and screamed until finally I packed my bags and returned to Whistler Farm.
My farmhands, at least the few who remained, were of no use to me either. The degree to which my affliction affected me seemed to be mirrored by the farm itself. Our crops would not grow, regardless of the care put into them. Our animals, whom I had replaced over a month ago after they had been found slaughtered in my barn, were all emaciated. No amount of food or water seemed to improve their health, and I feared that none of them were long for this world.
But that was not the full extent of this farm’s curse. For even when my few remaining labourers would tend my dead fields, or care for the empty shells of animals I owned, they would see things. Phantom men would appear just out the corner of their eyes, disappearing the moment anyone tried to look at them. When alone in my barn they would refuse to look into the back corner of the building, for fear that they would see the pile of rotten carcasses make its return.
A week ago a young farmhand, who’s name escapes me, disappeared. His belongings remained in the workers hut, nobody had seen or heard him leave. With his boots and clothing still here the possibility of him running off into town was low. The night had simply taken him away.
“Mr Fisher,” said Brandon during one of the rare moments that I was willing to see him, “I can’t keep on like this anymore. We’ve no workers, no crops, no animals.”
“And who did I pay to see to those matters?” I ask, “Idiots. I can understand now why so few last in this job, surrounded by you fools. You’ve come to me to tell me how incompetent you are!”
“I’ve come to tell you I quit.”
“Oh, you have? You mean now that you’ve run my farm into the ground, bled me dry of any wealth and happiness I once had, that you are sorry to leave?”
“I shall work until my next pay-”
“No! No you will not! Get out of here! Take whatever wage you are owed and leave my property. Should we ever cross paths again I hope to find you a dead man!”
The next day I had but two farmhands. The day after that, I had none. And that brings us to Friday, where I sat alone in my bedroom.
“Why not show yourself in daylight!” I cried into my yard, “Come on you old hag! I’ve got your money for you! ‘Come up here and take it!”
As I had expected, no reply came from the empty yard. Taking another drink from one of the bottles of wine that I had developed a liking for, I staggered out the front of my house. The priest had already been, and so the only one I waited for now was my special guest. Sure enough, his carriage soon appeared in the distance. I waved to it until the driver came to a halt outside my front gates.
“Mr Mercer!” I called out as a short, balding man climbed down from the carriage. He had been the first, and only person, to answer my advertisement in the local papers. Supposedly, he was some up and coming businessman who wished to turn the land into a factory. He looked at me with some confusion as I approached, holding out a hand for him.
“I’m Mr Fisher. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, won’t you come inside?”
He shook my hand hesitantly and returned the greeting, only I could tell he did not truly mean it. It did not matter. To earn my freedom from this nightmare he did not need to like me, just my land.
A lawyer, the same one who had overseen the sale of Whistler Farm to me, was waiting in my living room. I introduced Mr Mercer to him as I showed him around the farm house.
“Well… I must say you certainly seem eager to sell to me,” he said.
“I dislike waiting for good things to come about,” I explained to my potential buyer, “This land is perfect for you and I have a desire to sell. It seems to me that there’s little point in us wasting time.”
“But I will of course get to see this land, won’t I?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, doing my best to hide any annoyance I felt towards him, “Let’s start out in the yard shall we?”
As we left through the backdoor the stupid, balding man asked me the reason behind the many moon symbols throughout the home. I explained to him my devotion to our Lady Selene, which he seemed to accept.
“So you had a religious upbringing then, I assume?”
“Oh, no. No more than anyone else really. I found it… Quite recently.”
“Ah, marvellous. My wife was rather religious you see, always at church on Sunday, never swearing, never sinning. You know, when out first child was born-”
He talked and talked about each and every irrelevant subject as I showed him my land. Now and then he would point out the obvious; my dead crops or lack of farm hands. I assured him that this was due to a decision on my part, and nothing for him to be concerned about.
“And so, how about it?” I asked the man once I had shown him all of what my farm had to offer, “How about we go back inside and discuss details, then. I can hand over the deed and then-”
“Oh, just wait a moment now. I’ll still need to think about this. The land is good, but I’ll need to consult with my shareholders, have some builders come and look around, that sort of thing. I appreciate your enthusiasm to sell Mr Fisher, but-”
“How can someone so hesitant survive in business, Mr Mercer? You said it yourself that you like the land. Are you not the one in charge? The boss?”
“Of course I am.”
“Then put your foot down, my good man. You go back to your shareholders and builders and you tell them that this is where your factory is to be built, and that it is their job to make it work.”
“Business is not that simple-”
“Says who? It is you that started your business, isn’t it? You who put in the hard work to place yourself in this position. What right do they have to stifle you? Buy the land, you know it’s for the best.”
For a moment, one beautiful moment, I believed that he would say yes. That this fat, old fool would walk with me to my living room and sign away his life. Then I could simply walk away from here, with a smile on my lips and the satisfaction that never again would I endure a sleepless night.
“I will… No, I cannot. I will still need to discuss it with my board. I promise to you that you shall receive a letter from myself as soon as a decision has been reached. Thank you again, Mr Fisher, for showing me around.”
Like grains of sand, the bastard had slipped through my fingers. I scowled at him as he said his goodbye and hurried away from what was still my home. My eyes lingered on him even as he climbed back up into his carriage and was taken away. I said not a single word to my lawyer as he too made his excuses and left me.
“May there be a special place in Hell for men like you,” I muttered, “I pray to one day see you burning there.”
Returning inside I did nothing but drink. There was nothing more to do. With no farmhands there was no farm, and with that came no work. My barn was now empty, although I did not know where my animals had disappeared to. Perhaps they went the same way as that young farmhand, being taken during the night.
Friday evening came once more, and so I took an old sack from one of my kitchen drawers and loaded it with what little money I still had left. For the last few Fridays I had done this, leaving it out on the doorstep just as the hag had asked when we first met.
So far it had achieved little. She would take the bag, take my dwindling funds, and still visit me in my sleep. These nights she would appear holding the sack, counting it out before me, thanking me for it and then unleashing her hellish companions upon me anyways. But I feared how far my life may sink if I were to stop now.
“Take it all!” I screamed into the nighttime, “Why hide from me now, when there is nothing I can do to stop you? Well!”
But of course she did not answer me. Why would she, that vile creature, when she knew that her silence caused me more rage than anything else. Her refusal to explain herself to me, to be upfront with her evil desires. Instead she claimed my land as hers, and as such wished for nothing but my suffering.
Hours passed as I remained seated on the doorstep, knowing already how this story ends. Rain will always fall before she comes, and even if I stay awake she will not show herself to me while I am awake. She lurks just beyond the light of my home, watching me until I fall asleep. Only then will she come to collect that which she holds no right to.
“I know you’re here!” I cried as the first drops of water fell from above. In mere moments this drizzle became a storm, as droplets as hard as iron struck me again and again. My windows and doors shuddered in their frames as the winds rattled them. Far off into the distance I watched a bolt of lightning strike, so large and bright that it looked to tear the sky in two.
“Show yourself to me!” I begged, “Please, tell me what more you want. What will it take to end this torment? How did O’Kelly, and those before him stop your cruelty?”
“They paid their dues, Mr Fisher.”
To hear her voice again, if only faintly on the winds, made me shudder. She spoke in my dreams, although her words held nowhere near the level of wickedness which I now heard.
“I have paid!” I cried, “I have your money! I’ve given you what you asked for!”
“Your debt still stands from when we first met. The blood I have taken from your farm does not cover the cost of your insult. Too long did you wait to pay me my dues, and now the price in blood sits high.”
More bloodshed. That’s all she wanted now, was it? She had butchered my animals, sent illness down upon my greatest farmer, cursed me with this paranoia and still she was not satisfied.
“How much more must I give?” I asked the darkness.
“Place on your step a gallon of blood, and I shall have satisfaction. Do so now, and you shall have peace.”
That was all the motivation I needed. Retreating inside my home, I searched my kitchen for every jug, pot and pan I owned. I carried these out onto the front step - where I noticed that the sack of money had now vanished - and returned to the kitchen to grab my carving knife.
“One gallon of blood?” I asked the darkness, “Is that all you want now?”
“Yes.”
“So be it…”
Brother Greene, of the Torteval Sect of The Church of Selene, rode his donkey towards Whistler Farm. Daylight had barely emerged, although he knew The Lady’s work would wait for nothing. Even still, he would have sinned for an extra hour of sleep.
As he came to the peak of a hill near to the farm, he noticed someone coming towards him. As he grew closer, he realised the figure was an elderly woman, muttering to herself as she shuffled along.
“Good morning,” Greene said as he approached. The woman looked up at him, smiling at the sight of his robes and church necklace.
“Good morning, dear. Doing our Lady’s work, are you?”
“The only work worth doing, ma’am.”
She laughed, shaking her head as she hobbled past. Greene thought nothing of it, carrying on over the apex of the hill and then down towards the farm. He wondered what sort of state he would find it in that morning; what arguments he would hear, or how many farmers would be left. Would Mr Fisher be in his usual intoxication.
It was a shame, in his opinion, that such a great man would waste his days with wine when he could do so much more. Still, he paid his church tithe and committed no sin. Greene had met far worse than that drunkard.
He passed by the gates to the yard and headed straight for the front of the farmhouse, surprised to notice Mr Fisher passed out on the doorstep.
The fool must have locked himself out, thought Greene. As he tied his donkey to a fencepost, then made his way up the garden path. As he grew closer, he saw the pool of blood that Mr Fisher was within. The Church Brother ran the remaining distance, falling to his knees besides the man and examining the body for any sign of life. The farmer’s skin was pure white, like that of the corpses that laid deep within a church’s morgue. It was then he spotted the two red lines that ran across its wrists.
“Oh, oh no…” he said.
Too late to do anything for the man’s life, the brother took his necklace off and pressed it to the corpse. Then, just as the morning sun started to rise over Sarnia once more, he began his prayer.