Genre: Fairytale, Horror Short Story
Author's Note: A creative reimagining of “Spirit Monster Tracks a Rider,” from Kenneth J. DeWoskin and J.I. Crump, Jr., trans., In Search of the Supernatural: The Written Record (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1996).
I watch the family from the fields.
The fur of my belly is wet as I crouch in the grass, hiding so they cannot see. They must not see, otherwise they would greet me with their sickles and their shouts. I wish not to feel the bite of iron, nor the spittle thrown from their mouths.
The sons work the fields in tandem. My eyes follow the slice of their blades, my ears cocked toward the snik of metal cutting stalk. They are many paces away from each other, each engrossed in the harvest, yet they move in sync, as though they share a heartbeat to keep time. I am tempted to inch closer and listen, just in case their chests do beat as one. I dare not. I simply watch the blades and hear the snik.
* * *
Sometimes they whistle. It is usually as the day draws to a close and they return from the fields. They walk together, the younger just a step behind. First, he only listens to his brother’s tune. After finding the melody, he joins the whistling in earnest. The eldest’s lips twitch in a smile, though he keeps it at bay to hold his notes clear. They challenge each other to whistle faster and faster, chasing tempos even as they walk at the same speed. If the youngest stumbles over a particularly tricky bar, the brother will hook an elbow around his neck and ruffle his hair.
The mother comes out then. She knows the boys’ whistling as I do. She tells them to hurry inside before the food gets cold, unless they want to go to bed hungry. That is when the sons quicken their pace, from walk to jog to sprint, laughing and shoving their way through the door and into the warmth.
I watch as long as I can, at the edge of the fields, until the lanterns go out and the house is dark and still. The night is lonely. All there is left to do is to wait until morning, when the sons burst out of the house and race to the fields, and I listen to the snik and the whistling once again.
* * *
I grow bolder as the harvest wanes and the sowing begins anew. There is a nook below the house that I tuck myself into during the night. The family laughs above my head, the giggles of the younger son, the deep chuckles of the father, the middle pitches of the mother and elder son’s laughing. They speak as well. Phrases like “There will be rain soon,” and “Welcome home,” and “Dinner is ready.”
Phrases like “I love you.”
The ease with which their voices fill those three words—I try to mimic it, after they have all fallen asleep. My mouth does not fit over the syllables. My teeth are too sharp, my jaw too long. I cease my attempts and instead imagine the words are for me. I love you, I love you, I love you. I have never heard it before. What is it like?
* * *
The father does not appreciate the words. The boys say them too much. Before they leave for the fields, they embrace their mother—I watch from a hole in the floorboards now—and say “I love you” to their father. He grunts in response, waving them out the door. He does not look up from his work at the table, the cloth wraps for the grips of the sickles. When he bestows them to his sons so their palms don’t blister from harvesting the rice this season, he does not say “I love you.” How ungrateful he is.
I would appreciate their love. I would drink it in, savor it, relish the sound filling my ears. He does not deserve the sons’ affections. I must make them see this somehow.
* * *
It is the first time the sons see me.
I walk on human legs, speak in human tongue. My teeth are not sharp and the words come freely from my mouth. It is the father’s face I use, his voice to revile them, his hands to beat them. They try to duck under my blows, stumbling over the crops in their desperation. It is for their own good. I am showing them how their father should not receive their love. They cannot see for themselves, so I must make them see.
Confusion in their eyes, tears streaking through the dirt on their cheeks, they run back to the house. I slip into my true form and follow silently behind. Their mother gasps at the bruises when they walk in. They tell her it was the father. He pursued them in the fields and beat them. She hurries to clean the grime from their skin, promising to speak to him when he returns.
I must wait until nightfall. Then they will see how undeserving he is. I will listen for their angry voices, no longer laughing.
* * *
They believe him. My tail thrashes, stirring up dust. They believe him without question. How could they know it was not him who beat them? My disguise was—is—perfect. I was the exact image of their father in the field, berating them with all the venom in the world, yet they believe him when he says he was not the one who committed those acts. How can they not see?
The youngest rushes to hug him, says, “I love you,” into his chest. The father says nothing. All he does is hold the youngest fiercely, rubbing circles over his back. He meets the eyes of the eldest and reaches out toward him. The eldest steps closer and grips his father’s hand on his arm.
“You must hack the creature to death,” the father instructs, never looking away from the older boy. “Kill the fiend so it torments you no more.”
They trust him. They nod and go to bed, planning to murder me—me, who has done nothing but try to help them—in the morning.
Very well. If they cannot see, I will simply give them someone who appreciates their affection. Someone who will listen to their love and be grateful.
* * *
I practice my human walk. Great strides on two legs, a rhythm slower and louder than the one I create with my four paws. I practice my human voice, saying, “Good work, son,” and “You’ve grown into strong young men,” and most important of all: “You have killed a wicked spirit. It will darken this home no longer.”
The sons set out to the fields in the morning, sickles gripped tight in anticipation. I bide my time, whispering the words to myself so I am ready. The afternoon sun fades to orange in the sky when the father finally quits his worried pacing and goes to the fields to investigate. I gleefully follow to watch my plan unfold, taking my fox form so I may hide in the grass.
The father approaches the sons in the field, his brow furrowed over his eyes. The eldest shouts to the younger, and their footsteps pound toward us. They call for revenge, for justice, finally, finally realizing how undeserving of their love he is. It is such a beautiful noise.
* * *
The blades do not snik this time. They sink into flesh with a thick, moist sound, though it is soon drowned out by the father’s screams. He cries that he is not the spirit, he is their true father. They do not listen. They do not believe him. His blood sinks into the fields, ready for harvest. The sons drag his body away to be buried.
Elated, I race back to the house, growing taller, stride lengthening, four feet turning to two. I arrive at the door a man. A father.
The sons—my sons—appear from the fields. They shout when they see me, waving their sickles and hollering their success. I smile my dull-toothed smile.
“You have killed a wicked spirit,” I say as they approach. “It will darken this home no longer.”
My youngest wraps his arms around me, the eldest following soon after. I return the embrace, feeling our heartbeats meld as they say, “I love you,” into my chest.
I am humbled. I am grateful.
I am loved.
About the Author: Elsa Richardson-Bach is an English and creative writing major, and yeah, she uses “too many packets,” but it’s the best mug of Swiss Miss you’ll ever have in your life, so checkmate.
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