The morning sun spilled over the fields, lighting the golden crops with a soft, warm glow. Jack's hands were already caked with dirt, the comforting kind that stuck under your nails when you worked hard enough to earn a meal. The wooden fence creaked as he leaned against it, wiping sweat from his brow and squinting toward the horizon. Nothing but land and sky — no fences beyond their own, no roads, no neighbors.
Just peace.
The chickens clucked behind him, and the old cow, Betsy, moaned like she always did before breakfast. The only sounds were the wind brushing through the wheat and the occasional buzz of a dragonfly skipping across the tall grass. Jack breathed it in.
This was home.
Inside the farmhouse, the smell of cooked eggs drifted from the kitchen. His grandfather — old but sharp-eyed — had breakfast ready the moment Jack stepped inside. The man never said much, but what he didn't say, he made up for in the way he poured extra tea into Jack's cup or handed him the last biscuit with a grumble and a smile.
"Field's looking good," his grandfather muttered.
"Yeah," Jack replied. "If the storm holds off, we'll get the rest in by Friday."
"Mm."
They ate in silence, broken only by the clink of fork on plate and the occasional creak of the old wooden table. Jack liked it that way. He didn't need much. The farm, his grandfather, and the quiet — that was enough.
But something had felt off that morning. The kind of off that scratches at the back of your neck and doesn't stop. Maybe it was the way the birds had flown off all at once just after sunrise, or how his grandfather had looked out the window for a little too long, like he expected something.
Jack tried not to think about it.
Later that day, he fed the animals, repaired a busted section of the fence, and spent an hour in the barn drawing monsters in the dirt with a stick — weird creatures with too many mouths and eyes that stared into you. Not that he'd ever seen anything like them before, but they just came to him sometimes. He didn't tell his grandfather about those drawings. Didn't seem right.
That evening, they sat on the porch together. His grandfather smoked a pipe and stared into the sky. Jack rocked back and forth in a worn-out chair, the wood groaning under his weight.
"Ever think about leaving?" Jack asked quietly.
"Sometimes," his grandfather said. "But not much worth seeing out there."
Jack didn't respond. He watched the stars instead, one hand gripping the edge of the chair like the earth might tip him off if he let go.
---
That night, the wind howled louder than usual. Clouds had gathered fast — too fast. Rain hadn't come yet, but thunder rolled in the distance like a threat. Jack lay in bed, staring at the wooden ceiling, tracing the knots in the wood with his eyes.
He thought about the monsters again. The ones he drew. The ones that whispered to him in his dreams.
But the night was still.
Until it wasn't.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three slow taps at the front door.
Jack froze.
No one ever came this far out. Not at night. Not ever.
He sat up, his breath caught in his throat.
The knocks came again. This time, firmer. Slower. More certain.
His heart pounded as he stepped out of bed, feet bare against the cold wood. His fingers brushed against the doorknob of his bedroom as he crept toward the hall. From down the stairs, he heard nothing. No movement from his grandfather's room. No creak of the floorboards. Just silence.
And then—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Not a knock anymore.
A demand.
Jack's blood went cold.
He opened his mouth to call out for his grandfather, but something inside told him not to. Something primal.
The world he knew was about to end.
And it had started with a knock.