The Nightly Reaping: When Shadows Come for Our Souls

I was but fifteen years old when my father and I sought refuge in that ancient trailer nestled deep within the valley. It was a wretched place, barely functional, where the bathroom doubled as the kitchen, and there was no shower to speak of. In the winter, the pipes would freeze, and the tiny room we shared was scarcely warmed by a feeble space heater.

Yet, despite the cramped and dismal conditions, I cherished the time spent with my father. That is, until the incident unfolded.

The trailer was cluttered with belongings, leaving us with little space to move. A narrow path led from the front door to the back room, and the kitchen-slash-bathroom was concealed behind a curtain, which somehow managed to keep the cold at bay.

One morning, my father opened the front door and stood motionless, staring at the ground near his feet. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice tinged with curiosity.

He shook his head, as if dispelling some dark thought, and muttered, “It’s nothing, boy.”

I despised when he called me that. In those days, my father was a heavy drinker, and he often referred to me as “boy” when he was caught between the melancholy and fleeting cheer of his drunken stupors. It was the one thing I dreaded about staying with him.

But the footprints outside changed everything.

Though he insisted nothing was amiss, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had unsettled him. Stepping outside, I noticed a scattering of footprints in the freshly fallen snow—footprints of various shapes and sizes. They were undoubtedly human, and I assumed they belonged to the property owner. My father, I thought, must have believed the same.

How wrong I was.

That night, my father lay on his couch, which doubled as his bed, while I rested on mine. Our room was so small that we could reach out and touch each other if we wished. He was watching TV, and I, grateful for the valley’s cell service, scrolled through my phone. Suddenly, a knock echoed through the trailer.

It was past 10:30 at night, and my father’s head snapped toward the sound. He didn’t rise immediately but stared at the closed door. “What was that?” I asked, but he silenced me with a finger to his lips.

I obeyed, as I always did, and watched his hollow eyes intently. The knocking came again, but this time it was near our heads. My father leapt up, his face a mask of anger and irritation, and stormed out of the room. I peered down the narrow path to the front door and saw him open it.

There was an exchange of words between him and someone—or something—with a voice so vile, so dripping with malice, that it sent shivers down my spine.

“Can I help you?” my father demanded.

The figure responded in a tone that reeked of malevolence: “Your time has come.” Even now, I shudder at the memory of that voice.

My father, ever stoic, slammed the door and shouted, “Stay the hell away from me!” before marching back to our room.

“Who was that?” I whispered, my nerves frayed.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the TV.

He was my father, so I didn’t press further. Life was hard enough, and my incessant questions would only make it worse.

I fell asleep soon after, only to be awakened by the sound of pounding. It was relentless, as if someone—or something—was desperate to get our attention. The trailer was dark, but I could see my father’s eyes were open.

“Ignore it,” he said, startling me. How did he know I was awake?

“Okay…” I murmured, burying my face in the couch. The pounding continued, growing louder, as if multiple entities were outside, hammering against the thin walls. Each thud sent a tremor through my heart. Sleep eluded me that night.

The next morning, we ventured into town. The snow outside was marred by countless footprints, as though a crowd had gathered there the night before. The trailer bore small dents, as if fists had pounded relentlessly against it.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the chaos, and my father noticed. “Pay it no mind, boy,” he said, his voice low and firm. He hadn’t been drinking, so why did he still call me that?

“Who are they? Doesn’t it scare you?” I asked, pressing my fist into one of the dents.

“They are not your concern. Ignoring them will be well,” he replied, his words cryptic and ominous. Was he running from something—or someone? My father was a man of mystery, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he had enemies.

But why did they come at night? My curiosity burned, and I knew my father sensed it.

We went about our day in town, shopping for groceries and necessities. A cloud of gloom hung over my father, his unease palpable. Whoever—or whatever—was coming to the trailer at night had rattled him deeply, but his silence made it impossible for me to understand.

That night, we settled in once more. I ate poorly cooked microwave ramen and a sad sandwich of pickles and mustard. I only spent three days every other weekend with my father, so I endured the conditions as best I could.

My father’s fists remained clenched all evening, as if he expected trouble. But when night fell, no one came knocking. I drifted off to the sound of the TV, facing the only window in our tiny room.

Sometime later, I was jolted awake by the sound of pounding—on the door, on the walls. The trailer seemed surrounded, the fragile walls trembling under the assault. My father sat upright, his eyes wide, and I felt a surge of fear. This was no ordinary intruder.

In the darkness, I saw him staring at the window. Turning my head, I saw a hooded figure peering in, its face illuminated by a faint, unnatural light. Its elongated chin and blackened eyes were horrifying, and its mouth—a gaping void—seemed to twist into a grotesque smile.

My father covered the window with a blanket and gripped my face. “Listen to me,” he whispered urgently. “They are begging for my soul. If they get inside, they’ll take yours too. Do as I say, or you’ll be lost.”

I was terrified, unable to comprehend his words. The pounding continued, accompanied by a low chant: “We have come… The young feed the old... The sound of chains rattling added to the cacophony.

“Who are they?” I asked, my voice trembling.

He held me tightly and whispered, “They have always come. Your mother left me to protect you, but they are after me too. I am the center of the curse.”

“The curse?” I echoed, my mind reeling.

“Enough,” he snapped. “Ignore them, and they will go away.”

I lay back down, trembling, but the sound of shattering glass jolted me upright.

“Stay here!” my father commanded, grabbing the old sword he kept by his bed.

“Are they inside?!” I cried.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “They won’t get past this door. If they do, they’ll regret it.” His resolve was fierce, almost awe-inspiring, but I now realize it was born of fear.

The rest of the night was a blur of pounding, chanting, and the sound of chains. The entities tried desperately to breach our room, but they failed. As dawn broke, they vanished.

Exhausted, my father and I prepared to leave. The trailer was in ruins, claw marks gouged into the floor, the air thick with the smell of burnt wood. Outside, we found an effigy—a crude structure of wood and bone, topped with the severed head of the property owner. His face was frozen in terror.

“God damn you!” My father roared, striking the effigy. “When will it be enough?!”

I asked if he would call the police, but he refused. “The man is gone,” he said. “Now, he’s one of them.”

I noticed a note on the ground, scrawled in blood: “Tonight, you will relinquish your souls to us. The nightly reaping must be performed.”

We left immediately, staying with my grandmother that night. My father was lost in thought, and I knew he was avoiding my questions.

“How long has this been happening?” I asked quietly.

“Long before you were born,” he replied.

“What are they?”

He sighed. “They are death incarnate—hunters of souls. The Grim Reaper, if you will.”

“That’s terrifying,” I whispered.

“Watch your tongue, boy,” he snapped.

“I’m sorry. I’m just scared.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But they can be avoided. We were unlucky this time.”

“You said the curse is centered around you. What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said gravely, “that if you’re near me when they come, they’ll take your soul too.”

Years passed, and my father moved into an apartment. The nightly reaping ceased, and I grew accustomed to spending less time with him. I never stayed the night.

Then, today, I received a text from him:

“I’m sorry, son. I’ve spent half a century running. This morning, I saw footprints—many of them. They’ve come knocking. I won’t fight anymore. I love you, and I hope you know how proud I am of you. The nightly reaping must be performed.”

Tears streamed down my face as I realized the message was from two days ago.

I’m sorry, father. I love you too.