Of the following events of which I cannot explain, I would not be so inclined as to begrudge you should you not believe me. In fact had I only heard this tale and not experienced it first hand, I would be hard pressed to find truth in it s telling; however, I was there and can assure you that what I speak here to be the truth. The only other party to share in this weird tale is that of my friend and comrade Clint who plays a key role in this. You see it was he and I who bore witness to the thing of which I am about to tell you, the thing which dwelt in the field.
It was in the gloaming of a mid-summer’s day that Clint and I were outside enjoying the relief from the hot and sticky afternoon which was common in the western foothills of North Carolina during the summer season. The sun had dipped below the western horizon, casting the land in deepening hues of crimson which inlaid even the silhouettes of the barn, and various hardwoods that bordered the yard of the old Victorian-style farmhouse with highlights of rich vermillion. We had been laughing and carrying on as we talked about everything from video games, to girls, and movies, as well as countless other topics.
“Terminator 2 is awesome man. I’m telling you, Randy; you have to see it,” Clint said as he pushed up his wire-framed glasses. We had been throwing daggers at the old oak tree which had in my earlier years been struck by lightning leaving the front scarred and lifeless while the rest of the old tree lived on. Clint did a two-step and turn to add a creative spin to his toss. The dagger, an Arkansas toothpick style knife made a rattling clank as it bounced harmlessly off the dead wood, We laughed despite the failed attempt, as we didn’t expect the knife to actually stick anyway. There had been more than a few times when we were pleasantly surprised by the random success of a particular throw, and when it happened, Clint and I would spend the next hour or so doing it over and over again to see if we could get the throwing style perfected. Such were many of the days we spent laughing and carrying on as we developed our craft. As the sun sank lower behind the distant mountains, it quickly became too dark to continue our game.
Nightfall soon found us sitting on the steps of the front porch of the old house wondering what to do next. Sure, we could have gone inside and played Nintendo, or watched a movie or something of the like, (…and I was never opposed to a good game of Simon’s Quest) but we weren’t like that, for there was a call of the outdoors that overrode the desire to be stuck indoors, even after nightfall. In the east, we could see the deep golden-orange hues of the lunar disk peering over the edge of the trees. It was clear that tonight would be one of those nights where the moon was so bright that it would be almost like daylight even in the dead of night. So after a little bit of talking, we decided that we would gather our things and camp out in the field for the night.
By the time we gathered all that we either needed or wanted to take with us on our expedition to the middle of the field; it was getting pretty close to midnight. Pop and Mom had lowered the lights, with the final one being the porch light giving us just enough time to light the lantern which we used for such excursions.
“We better light the lamp,” Clint remarked, imitating one of the Halloween Sound Effects tapes that I had. At that, we laughed, and so it was with good humor that we set off carrying our things to the center of the field. A fairly large piece of old paneling lay out on the ground where we had dragged it to serve as a barrier between us and the stiff hay stalks underneath. Upon this we laid out our bedrolls and set up our gear. The lamp gave off a warm golden glow which sharply contrasted the silvery pale of the moon which hovered over the horizon like a cold unfeeling eye. The old house and its surrounding environs seemed like an eerie caste of etch art which had been brought to life as shadows and moonlit highlights gave the whole a monochromatic etherealness which put Clint and I into the mind that it appeared as though we had somehow been transported into the setting of an old black and white horror movie. As if to accentuate upon that notion a cool breeze stirred the air, lending a chill to the already cool evening.
“You know we’re not going to see anything,” Clint stated, his typical skepticism poisoning the statement. I had grown used to this sort of response from him, but there were times when it got under my skin but it was who he was and the Old House had a tendency to make believers out of those who were skeptical when they least expected it.
“We may or may not,” I replied as usual, “but I still love being out here in the dark, especially when the moon is full and on the rise.” The pale silver of the moon had become more prominent in the last few moments setting the nightscape aglow in a pale imitation of the daylight. One could vaguely make out color in the bright nightly hues, yet as a rough drawback it made peering into the heavens a chore as the halo surrounding the moon obscured the stars beyond. Somewhere a screech owl began its eerie moaning, its mournful sound carrying through the midnight air.
We sat upon the paneling which separated us from the damp ground and the blankets spread there. The lantern’s glow cast a warm golden light onto the immediate area, as Clint and I talked about a variety of subjects. Time passed and we were talking about one of the incidents which had happened concerning the hallway between the dining room and my bedroom (which was downstairs at this particular time) and a creature of some sort with a weird potato –shaped head or cowl and red, burning eyes. Clint listened but being the skeptic he was, doubted the validity of the claim. A cold breeze stirred across the dew laden field chilling us with its, out of place, icy touch and snatching our attention away from the immediate conversation. We looked around as the whole mood of the night seemed to change. The shadows seemed to encroach upon us, despite the full-moon looming high overhead. I looked at Clint and asked him if he remembered me mentioning something about a strange shadow which had managed to pace my every step through the field one night merely weeks before.
“Uh, yeah,” he replied with a look that plainly stated that he did not understand? “Why is that?”
“I don’t think we’re alone anymore,” I returned with a wary glance around.
“It’s just your imagination, Randy, there’s nothing in the field with us,” Clint stated sardonically as he adjusted his glasses. He didn’t notice that the shadows surrounding us had moved, and in all truth neither would I had it not been for the position of the moon, high in the night sky, casting it’s pale silvery glow upon the surrounding landscape. Being used to the night, especially in this field of which I was so familiar, I could tell that there were shadows where there weren’t supposed to be. Somewhere around the back of the house our dogs, Baby, Trouble, Rascal and Julius (AKA Hogdog) began barking at something only they could see. In many ways I wanted to get us out of the field even if only for a little while until the shadows dispersed, so I grabbed my handmade rope whip and looked at Clint with a daring look in my eye. “Let’s see what they’re barking at!”
With that Clint and I grabbed the lamp and made our way up the field toward the back of the house but not before Clint could put in his statement. “It’s probably a squirrel, or a skeleton; who knows around here?”
I looked at him with a chuckle as we trudged up through the field, though it was meant in sarcasm, there was still a ring of humor to it. Just as we reached the front yard we stopped, seeing the dogs trotting back toward the front porch. Maybe it was a squirrel, or an opossum or something of the like. We stopped by the oak tree and watched as they filed onto the porch, with only Rascal and Julius fussing as they always did amongst themselves. Clint and I looked at each other and shrugged.
“I could have told you that it wasn’t anything,” Clint said.
I regarded him a moment and then replied, “…and one day you’re going to see that there’s more in this world than can be dismissed by skepticism.” I gave him a resigned smile that didn’t let him know what we had really left the field for, however, as we turned back toward the “campsite” we were stopped by a spectacle that neither of us were expecting, for from the twilit shadows of the field, something had risen and stood upright like a man, though that was where the resemblance ended, for this thing was as a living shadow, and bore no other likeness of anything in earth or heaven. The pale light of the full moon glimmered along its back as it shambled along the grassy dip where our bedrolls lay on the paneling. Clint and I did a double take, regarding one another for the briefest of moments and by the time we looked back it was gone.
“Did you see it,” I asked?
Clint nodded. “It looked like-” I stopped him before he could go on.
“Don’t say anything, instead of telling each other what we saw, we’ll get some paper and draw it to see if we saw the same thing,” I stated, knowing that if we began talking about it, we might interfere with the reality of what each of us had perceived in that moment.
The door creaked open and my heart sank because I knew that we would manage to wake up Mom or Pop and that would quickly end the purpose of our trek indoors. Once we knew the coast to be clear, we made our way, silently as the two of us could back to my room. Once inside, I turned on the light and fetched each of us some paper to draw what we had witnessed. To keep from drawing upon what the other was doing we sat on opposite sides of the room, our backs toward one another. The minutes thundered slowly by as I sketched out the shadowy humanoid figure that I had bore witness to only moments before. Clint was intent on his sketch and with heavy anticipation, he was soon done. We decided to reveal the pictures at the same time and on the count of three presented them. The air was heavy as each breath came out like an iron lung. Then it was done; the images revealed. And with the exception to particular drawing styles the pictures were of the same shadowy form lurking in the distance with the moonlight shining on its back, Clint and I had indeed seen the same thing… and we could not explain what it was, nor could we dismiss that which Dwelt in the Field.
~Fin~
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