A few days passed, and that strange night faded from my mind like a bad dream.
Father was quiet. There seemed to be something heavy on his mind, something he needed to mull over without interruptions. So I left him alone, for the most part. He had times like this before, usually right before funerals - though nobody had recently died that I knew of.
I was out to get the mail, when I saw someone coming down the road.
It was Nellie Jean, a girl near my age who lived a few farms down and who often walked that long dirt road during summer when school was out and there was little else to do.
"Hi, Elias," she called as she made her way towards me.
"Hi, Nell," I replied, "where you headed?"
"Just walkin'," she replied. She smiled at me, trailing her fingers along the wood of our fence. She may have liked me - looking back, I think she did - but in those days, I was clueless in ways that only seventeen-year-old boys can be.
"I saw your dog on our farm the other day," she said, "did he find his way back home?"
"Yeah, Moe's back," I answered.
"What was he doing all the way out there?"
"Something spooked him," I answered, "the other night; he ran into the corn, and we didn't see him for a day."
"Maybe he saw the Harvestman," she said, her eyebrows dancing as she wiggled her fingers at me. I smirked back at her.
"Sure," I said, "that must have been what it was."
The story of the Harvestman was a legend we had told each other as children, its origins mysterious as many childhood nightmares are. We all had our own versions of what this particular boogeyman looked like, whether he ate children or just hapless animals that wandered too close, whether his alien eyes glowed red or blue; but one thing we all agreed upon was where he lived, that he hid amid the tall rows of corn when the stalks grew higher than we could see over. I had never felt particularly frightened by stories of this creature - the 'Corn Man', as we had begun to call him - I was scared enough of the fields without the added threat of monsters.
"Well, I'm glad he made it home safe," she said.
"He's a smart dog," I replied, "he always finds his way home."
A surge of wind swelled across the field in a wave of heat; the stalks murmured as they swayed, their golden tassels bobbing up and down.
"I better get home," Nellie said, looking down the road as clouds of dirt swirled in the breeze, "I'll see you, Elias."
"See you, Nell."
(((0)))
I spent the rest of my day as usual, visiting Mrs. Orson and stopping by the general store to pick up a few odds and ends. When I finally made it home, Father was standing in the kitchen, pouring coffee into his mug.
"How was your day, son?" he asked me, as I lay groceries on the counter.
"It was alright," I replied, "hot."
I opened the cabinet to grab a mug, but he stopped me.
"I got your coffee," he said, handing me an already-filled mug. I took it, wrapping my hands around the warm cup and wondering if this gesture was a quiet apology for his coldness and distance the last few days. Father could be like that sometimes.
"Thanks," I said, taking a sip of the hot coffee. I sat down at the table and picked up my Jules Verne. I read a few pages, but once again found it hard to focus. I must have just been tired. I took a few deep swallows of coffee. Even though it was decaf, it usually helped me stay awake.
Tonight, however, it seemed to be having the opposite effect. A heavy sleepiness was taking over my body, and the words seemed to blur on the pages in front of me.
"Are you feeling alright, Elias?"
I jolted at the sound of Father's voice.
"I'm fine," I answered, "just tired. I might go to bed early."
"Finish your coffee, at least," Father said, and I obliged, draining the last of the cup before setting it back down on the table.
It was then that I noticed.
Father's bible and notebook lay in front of him, but neither of them had been opened. I glanced up at him. He was watching me, and there was something intent in his gaze, as though he were studying me.
A wave of exhaustion washed over me and I felt as though I might pass out on the spot. Suddenly my mouth went dry, the aftertaste of coffee weighing heavy on my tongue.
"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" Father repeated.
He stood, but there was no urgency in his movement. My book slipped from my hands, landing on the floor with a thump. My heart began to race, and I realized I didn't have the strength to pick it up again. I tried to stand, but only managed to get halfway out of my chair before falling heavily back into it.
"What - what's happening?" I asked. I made another attempt to stand, but Father lay a hand on my shoulder before I could. When he spoke, it was in a voice I barely recognized as his.
"Just go to sleep," he told me, "it will be easier if you sleep."
The sluggishness which wrapped around my body had no effect on my heart, which now raced and galloped like a spooked horse. I tried to force my eyelids open, but they felt as though they were made of lead. I fought as hard as I could, but soon the room around me faded and I fell into a deep blackness.