The Farmhouse

Chapter 1

After the war, in what had once been western Missouri, two men sat in an old Chevy at the end of a long and rocky driveway. The driveway, worn down by years of neglect, led to a quiet farmhouse—a relic of a time when life flowed with friends and family. The farmhouse, like its surroundings, belonged to anyone who claimed it.

Marcus, the city boy, turned off the ignition, allowing the engine’s last sputters to fade into silence. He glanced at his brother Bodhi, the cowboy, who sat beside him. Bodhi, younger by almost two years, was no longer a boy. His attractive face hid the scars of battles fought both within and since the war. He adjusted his hat, the brim pulled low over his eyes, and checked the chamber of his 9MM Glock handgun—a cold, mechanical click that accentuated the quiet of the world around them. Bodhi’s lips curved into a grin, revealing teeth so perfect it made you want to punch them or paint them.

“You know what’s wrong with people these days?” he quipped.

Marcus waited, knowing that Bodhi’s humor often carried a darker truth.

“They’re all dead,” Bodhi chuckled, his eyes scanning the landscape as if counting ghosts.

Marcus didn’t smile. “Not yet,” he replied softly, shifting his gaze from his brother to focus on the farmhouse. “Not yet…” Marcus took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and grabbed the shotgun from the backseat, chambering a shell.

The men stepped out of the Chevy, their boots settling into warm fine dirt. They had encountered farmhouses like this one before, abandoned, forgotten, yet still clinging to life. But this would be their last stop before heading home, or what they now called home.

As they walked toward the porch, a dry and tattered newspaper danced along the ground, carried by a playful wind. Bygones, Marcus thought. Memories scattered like leaves; remnants of lives once lived. Above them, birds swung on invisible currents, their colorless wings a stark contrast to the vibrant past they represented. The farmhouse revealed its age, the yellow siding weathered and cracked, ugly fissures running through its weary facade. An unsecured shutter drifted back and forth on a rusty hinge, occasionally banging against the house.

Whack… whack, whack.

The wrap-around porch, once adorned with varnish, now offered only bare wood to the elements, a losing battle against time and decay. An empty rocking chair sat near the edge of the porch; its wooden slats worn smooth by countless seasons. It swayed slightly in the breeze, a silent witness to the passage of years. Marcus wondered who had rocked there last, whose stories had been whispered into the wind.

The steps creaked under their dusty boots as they approached the front door. Marcus gripped the shotgun, its weight reassuring. Bodhi’s Glock remained close, a reminder of reality. They kept a close eye on the windows, now broken behind wooden barriers nailed into the siding. They were scavengers, seekers of the forgotten, and this farmhouse held secrets waiting to be cared for again.

Marcus glanced at Bodhi, their eyes meeting—a silent pact forged between brothers. Marcus eased the front door open, its hinges protesting with a low groan. Cool air spilled out, a balm against the oppressive heat of the dying day. But it carried something else—an odor that made his nose twitch in discomfort. Together, they crossed the threshold, leaving the wind and weeds behind. Inside, shadows clung to the walls, memories etched into the fibers of the wood. The air smelled of dust and decay, a scent that smothered what once was hope with desperation.

Inside, the farmhouse quietly held its breath. Marcus and Bodhi split up; their footsteps muffled by the dust that clung to every surface. They had performed this ritual many times. Downstairs, the rooms stood frozen in time—lonely remnants of lives once lived. A worn leather sofa dominated the room and sagged under the weight of memories, its cushions indented by the butts of countless conversations. The coffee table bore rings from forgotten cups of coffee, a testament to mornings that would never return. Nice place, Marcus thought, a good family place.

Beyond the family room lay the kitchen, its linoleum floor scuffed and faded. The cowboy—Bodhi—headed there, Marcus, however, climbed the creaking staircase. The smell grew stronger, clinging to the walls like a desperate plea. Above the banister, family pictures clung to the walls. A middle-aged man swung a softball bat, frozen in mid-swing. A pre-teen girl twirled in a ballet pose, her grace captured forever. And the largest picture—a family portrait taken in front of the freshly painted farmhouse. Everyone smiled, bathed in sunlight. The children, now grown or gone, stood beside their parents. There were no more pictures being taken, and certainly not like this. The image was a lie, a snapshot of a world that no longer existed. There were no more pictures being taken, certainly not like this. Only the weight of memories remained.

At the top of the staircase the scent was stronger, he had encountered this scent before, recently. It was the smell of sweet rot, of life abused by time. The master suite awaited him, its door slightly ajar. Marcus listened, senses alert, and checked the safety of his gun. Off. Good. He pushed the door open with the barrel, revealing a room cloaked in darkness. The window blinds were drawn tight, shutting out the world and keeping the room cloaked in shadow.

The smell hit him like a physical blow, and he recoiled in defense. It was sweet yet acidic, a nauseating blend that clawed at his throat. Vomit and decay. His eyes adjusted gradually, revealing the contours of the room. The master suite. Faint light filtered through the blinds, casting elongated shadows on the floor. The bed, once neatly made, now lay in disarray—a tangle of sheets and memories. A dresser stood against the wall, its mirror cracked and clouded. In the corner, a rocking chair sat motionless, its wooden arms worn smooth by countless nights of concern. He stepped farther into the room. He pulled open the blinds and gave his eyes a moment to adjust. On the nightstand, half-empty glasses stood in a row—a macabre collection of fruit juices with thin films of sediment on top.

Another door stood partially open, tucked away in the corner. The bathroom. Marcus knew what he would find inside; he had seen it before. Yet he had to look. Never assume safety; always confirm it.

As the bathroom door swung open, a wave of rotting air enveloped him. This was the scent of the dead—a deep, decaying flesh smell mixed with sweet vomit. It clawed at his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. Marcus stumbled backward, the tip of his shotgun dipping toward the floor. His stomach churned, and he lost his lunch on the dresser pressed against the wall.

Bodhi’s voice echoed from downstairs. “Looks like you found the stink,” he called out, his footsteps approaching. “The rest of the house is clear, no one around.”

The cowboy entered the room, his expression a mix of curiosity and horror. “Ah, damn it, Marcus,” he muttered, averting his eyes, and raising his arm to cover his nose and mouth. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Well, what did you think would be in there?”

Bodhi’s face twisted in disbelief. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, turning to leave the room.

“Yeah, yeah” Marcus agreed.

“I’m serious Marcus, this is messed up.” The cowboy yelled as he left the room and descended the stairs.

Inside the bathroom sat the dead, worse than Marcus had seen before, and this scene burned his brain. The father from the pictures sat on the floor between the toilet and the tub. His eyes were now empty and grey, staring nowhere; pale milky white sockets rimmed with blood turned to crimson droplets drying on his cheek. His mouth was open spilling dark red vomit onto his Chicago Bears sweatshirt. His outstretched hand reached along the edge of the tub holding the delicate hand of his little girl. The little girl, once captured in ballet poses, lay in the tub—swollen, waterlogged flesh sagging and peeling. Fat and rotten.