The Farm on Bleak Pond

The unnatural odor akin to wet wool with a hint of singed hair told Marjorie something was wrong before she could see so in the sleeting rain and darkness. Her feet were carrying her down toward the shore of Bleak Pond even though she willed them not to, and she found herself repeating a kind of prayer in her head: This isn't real. This isn't real. This cannot be real.

Three days earlier, November had introduced itself rudely, forcing its painful and icy grip on the landscape, and its biting cold creeped into the many small and unassuming draftways of Marjorie's ancient home. Living alone since her husband, Earl, had passed away 8 years ago, the elderly Marjorie sat at her old wooden kitchen table in front of the window overlooking the pond and wrapped herself tighter into the afghan she had draped over herself. A cup of tea (decaf black tea with a splash of cream, as always) sat and steamed on the table to her left. She had always enjoyed the quiet and peace of living on such a remote piece of land, surrounded by the remains of the now derelict farm that her husband of 55 years had inherited from his family. The tiny farm sat on the shores of a large pond that someone in the family eons ago had named Bleak Pond. And that it was: bleak. Nothing lived within it except the occasional toad in the summertime, and it's black mud banks and bottom gave the water the appearance of being black as well. Marjorie could recall how Earl's family had delighted in scaring her by telling creepy stories about the dark pond. As a young woman, she had pretended to not be affected by the tales, wanting to put on a brave front for her new in-laws, but secretly, some of what they told her had laid a small seed within her mind that she would never forget, even all these years later.

Earl's aging parents had told dozens of stories to young Marjorie in those early years, many inside of the small hand-built farmhouse where she now sat as an old woman. The farmhouse was really a two room stone house, with the kitchen and sitting area combined into one small space, a tiny bedroom, and then a small root cellar with dirt walls and dirt floor beneath. Many of these stories she could giggle at later, but one in particular stayed with her. She remembered it not only because the tale itself was unsettling, but because of the circumstances in which it was told.

Earl's mother had made dinner that night and they had eaten together as a family. Earl's father, always a heavy a drinker, but a generally jovial fellow, had consumed a bit more than his usual amount of alcohol that evening, and had stumbled over to his place in front of the hearth.

"Marjorie, have I ever told you about the little girl who used to come from the pond?" the old man asked. Earl's eyes immediately jumped over to his mother and met her gaze.

"Oh, nonsense! Enough of your ghost stories, dear. It's the whiskey fueling them tonight, I'm sure!" The old woman interjected in a way that was meant to sound light-hearted, but her voice had a tremble underneath. The old man continued on nevertheless.

"The first summer my grandfather lived at this farm, there was a little girl who used to come from town to buy the eggs." The old man slurred.

The old woman was silent, and appeared to be frozen in place in front of the kitchen sink, holding a plate in one hand, and a flour sack towel in the other hand. Marjorie had been unsure what to do and was becoming increasing aware of the uneasy tension within the room. The old man continued on.

"Cute girl, maybe eight or nine, small with blonde hair, always in low braided pigtails. She was a mute, you see. And terribly meek. So she never uttered a word, just came and got the eggs and left the amount due in the mailbox as she left. Then one day grandfather noticed she hadn't left anything in the box for the week. They checked the chickens, and the eggs were never taken. Later that day the girl's father came to the farm and was very angry. He was rather accusing, you see, and said he would kill whatever man might have hurt his daughter. But my grandfather hadn't seen her so grandfather told him so. That night it rained. And I tell you, it was a hard rain that came down so fast you couldn't see a foot in front of your face. Flooded the whole damn cellar by morning, it did, and Bleak pond had swelled to twice its size. Then, when grandfather looked out over the pond's surface he saw it. Two blond braided pigtails floating on the surface. Well, they thought of the girl's angry father and how he would accuse grandfather of hurting her and he panicked. He dug a hole and buried the girl next to Bleak Pond. Now-"

The old woman now spoke up, and did so strongly. "That's enough for tonight," she said decidedly, and set her jaw in a way that told Marjorie and her new husband it was time to call it a night.

That night and the unsettling "story" the old man had told stayed with Marjorie. Now, decades later, even after having spent many years with Earl on this farmstead, and now alone here in her old age, she felt a sickening uneasiness when she recalled that story, and how it had elicited such a strong reaction in the old woman that night so long ago.

Marjorie finished her tea, put the cup in the kitchen sink, and began getting ready for bed. She turned off the lights, and as she did so, she glanced out the window to see that the moon lit a path over Bleak Pond. It was a beautiful, though dim scene, but then she glimpsed something standing in front of the reflection on the black water. She strained her eyes against the darkness to try and make out what she was seeing. It was a small figure, and appeared to be standing in the mud of the pond's banks, unmoving, and looking up toward the farmhouse. Marjorie stepped back from the window, clicked on the lamp, and made her way toward the door of the house. Wearing her tattered bathrobe and slippers, she went outside and walked to the back side of the house that faced the pond. No one was there. Not even an animal like a deer. She reasoned that she must be seeing things. Her old eyes and the dim light of the moon were not a winning combination, she told herself. She wrapped her bath robe around herself tightly, and walked back around the small house to the front door.

She slept fitfully that night, having dreams she did not remember upon waking, but still feeling the unpleasant emotions those dreams had evoked. She was up before the sun rose, and put the kettle on to start her tea.

At the screaming of the kettle, she steeped her tea and sat down at the the kitchen table to drink it. There was an empty chair that sat across from her. A chair that had not had an occupant in almost a decade. She missed Earl, and on this morning she felt the loss stronger than usual. His pet name for her was "Margie" and she smiled to herself as she recalled his voice uttering that name. Marjorie thought to herself that she must have dreamed of her late husband last night, and that had left her emotions more raw than normal on this cold and dark morning.

After tea, Marjorie dressed, rekindled the fire in the hearth, and resettled herself at the kitchen table, this time with her book of crosswords. No sooner had she sat down, then there was a loud knock on the front door.

Marjorie physically jolted in her seat at the sound of the knock. The farm was not regularly visited by anyone and she was not expecting anyone today. She walked over to the door and called out, in a voice that cracked slightly, "Who is it please?"

There was no reply.

"Hello? Who is there?"

No reply.

Against her better judgement, Marjorie walked to the door, unlatched it, and turned the old metal knob. The door creaked open, letting a strong gust of shockingly cold air in with it. The front stoop was empty. Marjorie shut the door and latched it. She stood staring at the closed door for a moment, contemplating what could have just ocurred. There were no trees close to the door that could have rapped on it, and she could think of no other possible explantion.

"I'm losing it," Marjorie was startled to realize she said outloud. "I've finally begun to lose my old marbles!" She let out a small giggle, but there was no smile along with it, and she swallowed hard, then returned to the table and her crossword puzzle.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and when evening came and the moon once again rose over the black stillness of Bleak Pond, Marjorie decided to turn in early and try to make up for the fitful night's rest she had the previous night.

She lay in her bed, moving her feet back and forth slightly to try and create some warmth in the cold sheets. She fell asleep quickly and without effort, drifting into a dreamless dead sleep. Suddenly, a loud BANG awoke her with start and she heard herself cry out like a child awakened from a bad dream. Her own loud cry was almost as startling as the loud noise that had provoked it. She stumbled for the lamp switch, then her hand fumbled on the nightstand in search of her glasses. They weren't there. Without her glasses she was nearly blind- the world being a big blur of color and shape but no sense to it.

"Who's there??!!" she yelled.

No one answered.

"PLEASE! Who is THERE?"

Silence.

Shaking, in a half-dream, half-waking state, she stood up from the bed, her nightgown hanging loosly and oversized on her small frail body. She walked cautiously, like a blind woman with her hand outstretched, out of the bedroom and into the main room of the house. The room was black, except for the moonlight coming in the window by the kitchen table. Marjorie shuffled along the floor, arms outstretched, and listened to her breath, slightly raspy, and quickened by fear. She was heading toward the telephone, the corded green relic that was mounted to the wall by the table. As her hands touched the phone, she felt two sensations at once- a cold blast of air on her body, and the sharp crunch of glass shards underneath her bare feet. Her hand pulled the phone receiver off the hook as her body collapsed onto the floor in fright.

Marjorie awoke sometime later, nearly freezing and bleeding from her feet. The beep beep beep beep of the phone off the hook was sounding nearby. She opened her eyes and saw that it was still black out. She had one solid thought go through her mind before she passed out again: "Please help me... Earl, please. Please."

She awoke again and this time sunlight poured though the broken window over the kitchen table. Everything on Marjorie felt numb. She was terribly cold, and thought that it must not be much above freezing in the house. The sunlight felt warm on her skin and she carefully began to move her creaky body and set herself upright. Marjorie painfully stood on her bloody feet and felt for the table in front of her. There, she was astonished and relieved to feel her glasses. She grabbed them quickly and clumsily placed them on her face, then picked up the phone receiver. Before consciously making the realization, she heard the beeping from the phone had stopped, and put her ear against the receiver. "Hello?" she offered, with a shaking voice.

No answer.

She reached to replace the receiver on the hook, but before she could do so, heard a small voice come out of the ear piece.

"Margie?"

"Who is this?" Marjorie managed.

"Margie?"

"I'm calling the police," Marjorie retorted, her voice cracking with the threat of tears.

"I'm in the Bleak, Margie."

Marjorie slammed the receiver down on the hook as hard as her shaken self would allow. She took a breath, then picked it back up.

Dead air. No dial tone. No beeping. Nothing.

Marjorie, not knowing what else to do, without being able to summon outside help, bandaged her feet as best as she could manage, wrapped herself in her robe and afghan, kindled a fire in the hearth, swept up the broken glass, and then made a cup of strong (but still decaf) tea. Afterward, she walked out to the decrepit barn and grabbed some plastic sheeting that earl had used to weather-proof the windows in the winter. She taped this plastic over the broken kitchen window. She did so just in time before the rain began. And once the rain began, it came down in earnest and with force.

Marjorie forced herself to eat something for dinner that night, then made herself a cup of tea (decaf black tea with a splash of cream.) She sat down at the tattered kitchen table and looked through the broken and badly "patched" pane of glass toward Bleak Pond. There, in the twilight, stood the figure from two nights ago. A small, thin figure that appeared to be standing in the mud on the banks of the pond and facing back toward the house and Marjorie. Marjorie shut her eyes tight, waited a moment, then opened them again and looked out to the pond and the pouring rain.

No one.

She forced herself to breathe an oversized unsteady breath in effort to calm herself. Then, with much effort, she put her cup in the sink, turned out the lights, and got herself into bed. After a long while, she must have fallen asleep because she was awakened by a loud bang- the sound of the heavy wooden front door swinging open and hitting the wall. Without thinking, Marjorie's body reached for and found her glasses, got out of bed, and stumbled out of the bedroom. There, the front door was wide open, the sheets of rain and blasts of icy air welcoming themselves into her house. As she reached the door to close it, she saw a man walk around the side of the house and disappear in the back toward Bleak Pond. Marjorie hurried toward the phone, picked it up, but nothing. No dial tone. No beeping.

Nothing.

Now no longer even rational, Marjorie found herself trudging out the front door, around the back of the house. She could smell something was terribly off before she could see anything as much through the dark and sleeting rain. A strange odor akin to wet wool mixed with the singe of burnt hair had caught her nose. Her feet were carrying her down toward the shore of Bleak Pond even though she willed them not to, and she found herself repeating a kind of prayer in her head: This isn't real. This isn't real. This cannot be real.

Through the rain, in the front of the pond, stood a small girl with blond braided pigtails.

"Nooo! You're not real!" Marjorie cried. But the girl did not answer. She only raised her arm straight in front of her and pointed back toward Marjorie.

"Margie!" came a voice from behind Marjorie. She turned back toward the direction of the voice where the girl had pointed.

No one was there. The sound of Marjorie's cries were drowned out by the slapping of the rain on the black surface of Bleak Pond.