The Harvest and the Watching House

The morning had passed like a dream, but now the sun began to slip westward, and the colors of the land shifted with it. Harvest season was in full swing. The crops had grown beyond expectation, richer and heavier than the couple had ever seen. Even the orchard bore fruit in wild abundance — deep red apples, firm peaches, overripe plums. our small storage shed creaked with the weight of the day's yield. yet there was still more to store.

"We might need to build another shed," I muttered, eyeing the overflow of crates stacked outside.

"Or we could finally go to the market," she replied, brushing a streak of hair away from her sweaty forehead. "Sell some of it. It's good harvest. People will pay."

I nodded, my gaze drifting up toward the sky. The clouds had thickened — not ominously yet, but noticeably. A dark fringe had appeared on the horizon like spilled ink soaking the edge of the sky.

As we loaded another set of baskets into the cart, the wind shifted. It came in low, crawling between the grass like a whisper. She stopped mid-step and looked around.

"You feel that?" she asked, her voice soft.

I turned. "What?"

"The air. It's... heavy."

I paused, took a deep breath, and frowned. She was right. The summer warmth had thinned into something colder and sharper. The kind of chill that doesn't belong in this season. I glanced up again. The clouds were darker now, moving faster.

"I don't like it," she said under her breath. "Feels like a storm's coming."

"Forecast said nothing about rain," I replied. "Whole week's supposed to be clear."

But even as I said it, I could hear something strange. The rustling of leaves had grown erratic, like hands brushing through them rather than wind. The branches of the tall poplar trees lining the field creaked and bent unnaturally. I tried to shake it off, but the wind was not willing to be shaken off this easily.

Still, we kept working. We finished loading what we could into the cart, our hands moving a little quicker now, our eyes darting toward the changing sky.

Then the birds went quiet.

They noticed it at the same time. The silence wasn't gradual; it dropped all at once — as if someone had clapped their hands and silenced the world. No chirping. No buzzing. Not even the sound of crickets. Just the distant rustle of wind and the dull thump of our own heartbeat in our ears.

She stopped again and clutched her arms. "It's too quiet," she whispered. I stepped closer, eyes scanning the tree line. "Let's finish up. We'll take the cart and go before anything hits."

We moved faster now, loading the final items in silence. The moment I clicked the latch on the cart door, the sky cracked — a distant rumble, low but violent, like a throat clearing from deep in the heavens. She flinched.

"Let's go," I said, voice steady but urgent.

As we turned toward the house, the first drops began to fall. Cold, fat drops; the kind that slapped against the skin; not the ones you would dance in. The rain came without warning, and in seconds, it escalated.

A sheet of water descended from the sky, drenching us instantaneously. The wind howled now, swirling the rain in tight circles. The trees bent, and loose branches snapped and flew across the field.

She grabbed my arm tightly, eyes wide. "We can't stay here."

"We won't," I said. "Let's take the truck."

We ran together, soaked to the bone within seconds. She slipped once, her knee hitting the mud hard, but I helped her up. we stumbled into the truck's cabin, slamming the doors behind us.

Inside, the sound of rain against the windshield was deafening. She clutched my hand as thunder rumbled again. It was louder this time.

"No forecast predicted this," she said shakily.

"I know."

Ir eyes searched his. There was fear there, but not panic.

"I don't want to go back inside," she said. "Not alone."

"You won't," I assured her. "We'll go together."

As I turned the key and the engine sputtered to life, the lights from the dashboard briefly flickered. I didn't notice. She did.

We drove off, the tires spinning once in the thickening mud before gaining traction. The rain showed no signs of slowing. The road ahead twisted into shadows and fog.

We were together. But we had no idea what waited for them just around the bend.

We stood beside our truck, soaked in sweat, the last of our harvested crop finally loaded onto the back. The golden glow of the evening sun began to dull behind heavy gray clouds that had crept in without warning. There had been no forecast. No shift in the morning breeze. Yet the sky now churned with a darkness that seemed more than just weather.

A sudden gust of wind swept across the field, rattling the dry stalks and whispering through the leaves in an eerie rustle. I looked up, squinting. "That's not normal," he muttered, tightening the tarp over the crop load. She stood still for a moment, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her smile had faded, and her humming had stopped an hour ago.

"I don't feel right," she said quietly. "It's like… something is off."

I glanced at her,"You tired? Want to stay while I go to the market alone?"

She shook her head quickly; too quickly. "No. I'm not staying here alone."

There was something else in her eyes now. A flicker of fear. Ever since the masked horrors we had faced months ago, there were shadows that never left. Smiles came slower. Silence lingered longer. Nightmares had become common. Peace, though present, was fragile — like a thread stretched too far.

We climbed into the truck together. The engine coughed to life just as a low rumble of thunder rolled in from the hills. The first droplets of rain hit the windshield At first we were light, and then started getting heavier each second.

The truck crawled forward down the muddy dirt road that twisted through the edges of the village. The storm hit faster than expected, a downpour slapping the windows, blurring the path ahead. Iadlights lit up the sheets of water, and I leaned forward, eyes fixed on the road.

At the bend, just before the last turn to the main road, a familiar structure came into view: the old house. It had stood there for decades, untouched, unwanted. People whispered about it. Said it drew people in. Said it watched them back. The stories were always silly — until now.

"Let's pull in there," I said, pointing to the half-collapsed gate. "Just until the rain eases."

She didn't respond. Her eyes were locked on the mansion as we passed through the gate. The truck creaked as it rolled into the covered side yard — a former servant's quarters maybe, now a skeletal frame offering just enough shelter for the crop.

The storm didn't let up. If anything, it got worse.

We stayed in the truck for a few minutes. Silence. Just the thrum of rain and occasional snaps of lightning overhead. Then a wind gust pushed the truck slightly. She shivered.

"We might be here a while," she said. "Should we go inside?"

I hesitated. "Don't think it's safe."

She tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Nothing's really safe these days, is it?"

I nodded slowly, then pushed open the door. We stepped into the rain together, boots squelching in the mud, and approached the house's back entrance. The wood was rotting. Vines curled around the edges of the frame. But when I touched the door — it creaked open. Easily. As if it had been waiting.

The hallway inside was dim, yet oddly intact. Furniture covered in white sheets. A chandelier swaying slightly, though no wind touched it. And the lights — still working. Still glowing. An electricity too stable for a place that had no owner.

We didn't say anything. Just looked around. Dripping water, wet clothes, soaked shoes. But something about the silence inside felt louder than the storm.

She took my hand again. Tighter this time.

"I don't want to be alone," she whispered.

"You won't be," I replied, but even his voice was unsure.

And so we stepped further inside — unaware that the house had not only been waiting…

It had already begun watching.