I’d done everything right in life. I followed the advice of my father, majored in business, and ended up with a well-paying job. Yet after over two decades of climbing the corporate ladder, surrounded by cutthroat businessmen who cared only for money, I had enough.
I had money, yes; but I hated my life.
I often thought back to the days of my childhood, to the weeks I’d spent at my grandparent’s farm, surrounded by unbound nature. That’s why I left it all behind. For years, I’d toyed with the idea of moving to a rural area for a self-sustaining lifestyle. On my forties birthday, I finally did it. I sent in my letter of resignation and walked away from the corporate world.
It took me only a week to find the perfect place. After all, money wasn’t an issue. It was an old farmhouse with several plots of land around it. It was tucked away on the outskirts of a small town near a mountain range, blissfully far from the urban sprawl I’d grown to hate so much.
When I visited the place, it was clear the old farmhouse had seen better days. The roof was patchy, the walls weathered, their paint chipped and faded. Inside, the old, rotten floorboards creaked with my every step. Even what might once have been a chicken coop was now nothing but a broken down ruin. I sighed, but I’d expected nothing less; I was sure it could be fixed.
A week later, after I’d signed the sales contract and pieced together some makeshift living quarters, I moved in. It was so different out here. The air was fresh, a relief from the oppressive air of the city. The night was quiet; only the sounds of rustling leaves and the occasional call of an animal broke the silence.
At first, I attempted to tackle the renovations myself, but it was clear I’d get nowhere. I’d never been good with my hands, and even hanging up wallpaper was a struggle. Frustrated, I eventually contracted a company to handle it.
While the renovations proceeded, I went on long walks around the property, envisioning the arrangement of my future farm and fields. Every once in a while, however, I caught sight of a certain old man observing my farm from a distance. He never approached me or the workers, never spoke a word, but I could always see him shake his head and what I could only imagine was disdain. I couldn’t help but watch this solitary figure curiously, and a few times, I even waved to him from afar, but he’d always turn and walk away, entirely ignoring me.
Once everything was done, the old farmhouse was barely recognizable. What stood before me was a warm, modern, and, most of all, cozy home. Even the old, dilapidated chicken coop had been restored. After some deliberation, I bought half a dozen chickens and a rooster. Being woken up by his crowing reminded me of those long-lost days I’d spent with my grandparents. Nostalgia washed over me in pleasant waves as I sipped from my morning coffee, half-expecting my grandfather to enter the room, asking what I’d wanted to do today. No, this hadn’t been a mistake. This is what I’d wanted all along.
Eventually, I decided it was time to visit my new neighbors. To the north, about half a dozen miles away, lived a middle-aged woman. Our initial introduction was brief, and neither of us felt it was necessary to stay in contact.
To the south, in an old farmhouse, lived the Roberts. They were a sweet old couple and retired farmers. The moment I arrived, they invited me in for a cup of coffee. For the next hour, they told me a lot about the local area, how far it was to the center of town, and the few local places of interest, including the areas popular hiking trails. When they asked me if I was prone to hunting, I was taken aback. They quickly explained that many of the city folk came out here to hunt, and thus the town council had enacted a law banning the practice entirely.
After that, only one neighbor was left, the one living on the farm to the east. As I approached, I saw an old man in dirty working clothes. I recognized him instantly as the one who’d so intently watched the ongoing renovations. His face was hard, his skin weathered and leathery; yet his eyes were piercingly sharp. His expression, however, was one of disdain, and his lips were pressed together in a single hard line. At first, he tried his best to ignore me. When I called out to him, however, he jerked around and stomped in my direction, leaving heavy footprints in his wake.
“Hey there, I’m Daniel Schmidt, I bought the-“
“Know damn well who you are! You’re the one who bought Lisbeth’s home and made it all fancy and whatnot.”
“Eh, yeah, that would be me. Nice to meet you.”
With that, I held out my hand in greeting. The old man didn’t move a muscle, and continued staring me down.
“The hell do you think you’re doing out here?”
“Well, I thought I’d try my hand at farming. Ever since-“
I was cut off when he broke into bursting laughter.
“You? Farming? Probably never touched a tool in your entire life! Look at those hands of yours. They’re as soft as a girl’s!”
Once more, he laughed, shaking his head.
“I mean, you’re not wrong, but-“
“You think it’s so easy, don’t you? Do a bit of that, a bit of this, and there you go. Trust me, this out here’s real work, hard work, and I can tell you aren’t made for it.”
With that, he spat on the ground in front of me, turned around and walked off, mumbling to himself about those damned city folk. For a moment, I just stood there, dumbfounded and staring after him. What the hell was his issue? I couldn’t help but wonder how anyone could act that way. Maybe he was just a miserable old man, the type who hated not only himself but people in general?
Instead of dwelling on the encounter, I focused on what I hoped would soon be a flourishing farm. My knowledge, however, was minimal, or rather, non-existent. I spent days scouring the internet, reading guides, watching tutorials on YouTube, and even began buying an ever-growing library of books on self-sustained farming. Eventually, I realized that all this knowledge meant nothing unless I got my hands dirty.
I started with the small garden the former owner had left behind. I divided it into neat little plots and sowed a variety of vegetable seeds. While I tried my best to follow the guides, I quickly learned that doing things yourself was entirely different. The soil was hard and dry, and I kept hitting rocks that needed to be dug out by hand. I didn’t know how much water each seed needed, and constantly second-guessed if I was under- or over-watering them. Hell, I wasn’t even sure if the fertilizers I’d bought would do anything. This would be much harder than expected. Real life was no Harvest Moon after all. By the end of the month, the only thing I managed to grow were a few measly tomato plants in the greenhouse.
Mathew Roberts and his wife Lily soon noticed my struggles, and were kind enough to offer some advice over coffee. According to them, the ground here had never been great for farming. No one really knew why, but pretty much everyone in the area had their troubles.
“You need a lot of care,” Lily said, “and a variety of specialized fertilizers.”
“There’s only one person whose fields thrive around here,” Mathew added. “Old Werner.”
I learned Old Werner was no other than my grumpy next-door neighbor. When I told them about my first interaction with him, they both laughed.
“You better off staying clear of him, though,” Lily said, the tone of her voice shifting. “Now, it’s nothing but rumors, but there are these old stories about him.”
“Stories?” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “That he’s an asshole?”
“Well… no,” she replied. “But… it’s said he killed someone back in the day.”
I stared at her, taken aback by the revelation. Her husband nodded.
“Nothing but rumors, but folks say he’s got a terrible temper. Apparently, years ago, he beat a man to death after a card game went bad. Cheated him out of his money, they said.”
“They even say he once had a wife and daughter,” Lily added, “but they ran off, never to return. No idea if any of it’s true, but if I were you, I’d be careful with him around.”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered. “I had no idea.”
As I walked back to the farm, their words echoed in my mind. Sure, the old man was an asshole, but killing someone? Yet I couldn’t shake the thought. His rough, calloused hands. Those sharp, piercing eyes. Maybe there really was more to the old man. Speak of the devil, I thought when I saw him lingering in the distance, watching me as I made my way home. His eyes followed my every step, lingering on me for much longer than felt comfortable.
The next day, determined to turn my farming around, I started over with a more careful approach. I got the specialized fertilizer the Roberts had recommended, studied the different types of seeds, and learned how to take care of them. That’s when I realized I’d made just about every mistake in the book. Too many seeds crammed into small plots? Check. Drowned them in fertilizer? Check again. Over-watered? Absolutely. I’d probably washed half of them away.
I didn’t give up so easily, though. Despite the setbacks, I enjoyed the process. There was something fulfilling about the slow, steady process of learning new details bit by bit, and it was satisfying to work my hands.
As summer moved along, my initial content feelings were soon replaced by a familiar frustration, and it was because of no other than Old Werner. His fields were thriving, bursting with ripe grain and fresh vegetables. The Roberts had said he was doing all right, but from what I saw, he was doing great. Meanwhile, I could barely grow a couple of tomato plants in my greenhouse.
Harvest came and went, and my frustration only grew. Occasionally, I found myself watching the old man with the same disdain he’d shown me during our first encounter. He noticed, of course, and his knowing, mocking smile taunted me from afar. What was even worse was that despite my resentment, I couldn’t help but be impressed. He was just an old man, yet he’d managed to accomplish all… this. Me? Nothing. One day, in a fit of rage, I tore out my meek tomato plants and hurled them from the greenhouse. As I stood there, staring at the mess I’d made, the anger slowly ebbed away, leaving me wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to replicate his success, not on my first try, maybe not my second, but eventually, I might.
Still, living next to Old Werner was more than frustrating. The Roberts had been right, he had a terrible temper. I could hear him cursing from my garden whenever things went wrong. More than once, I saw him chase away stray animals, and even kicking them. One day, he even threatened a group of local kids who’d dared to wander into his cornfield. The strangest part? At night, I could sometimes see him patrolling his farm, as if he were on the lookout for something. Occasionally, he’d stop and glance in my direction, almost as if he knew I was watching. It felt like an unsaid threat, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
These unsettling feelings grew stronger come autumn, because I noticed another one of his peculiarities. On certain nights, he’d get into his car, leave his farm, and not return until the early hours of the morning. I discovered it by pure accident. One evening, I went for a walk to enjoy the mild autumn night and stargaze when I heard a car speeding down the dirt road between our farms. When I turned around, I saw Old Werner’s car coming towards me with its headlights off. For a mad second, I thought he might run me down. Instead, he sped past me, leaving me in a cloud of dust. I cursed under my breath. Damn old fool probably did it on purpose to scare me. Yet even on other nights, his headlights were always off, as if he was trying to hide something. What it was, I didn’t know, but it definitely didn’t feel right.
When the new year arrived, and spring came around, I decided it was time to do what every other farmer did: work the fields.
Old Werner had been right about one thing; this was damned hard work, even with all the costly machinery I’d bought. What made it worse was his ever-present, mocking figure. The man always seemed to be around when things went wrong, watching, laughing, and occasionally tossing a snide remark my way. I tried to stay above his petty behavior, but every so often, I couldn’t help but get angry. I’d throw down whatever tool I was holding, turn toward him, and call him out on it. Once, I even threatened him to come over, but all I ever got in return was more laughter.
During that time, I grew close with the Roberts, especially Mathew. He was a godsend, offering plenty of helpful advice, and even visited my farm to give me pointers. Interestingly enough, Old Werner was never around during these visits. So I was left lamenting my frustration about the old man without ever having proof to back it up.
Still, nothing I did mattered. Things just didn’t want to grow. Day after day, I walked the fields, only to see row after row of barren earth. Here and there, a few lonely plants were growing. Old Werner’s fields, on the other hand, thrived, and he never missed a chance to remind me.
“Told you, you city folk just don’t have it in you. Never learned what hard work is, and it shows,” he mocked me one day.
At other times, he was a condescending asshole, almost pitying me.
“Why don’t you just let it go? That’s as far as you’ll get. You gave it a try, but it’s not for you. Best you can do is pack up, and leave. It be better for all of us.”
God, how I hated that old man. Just seeing him out there was enough to ruin my day. As much as I tried myself to let it go, I couldn’t.
One day, after watering what few plants I’d managed to grow, he came over again to throw out another of his comments.
“Wouldn’t water them too much. You’ll end up with absolutely nothing to show for the entire year.”
That was it. I’d had it. I threw the watering can aside and jerked around to him.
“All right, what the hell do you get out of this?!” I demanded.
He didn’t say a word, and just stared at me with the same smug smile.
“You’re doing great, aren’t you? Why the hell do you have to constantly rub it in like that? How the hell are you even doing it? Everyone’s having trouble, but your crops are growing fine. And don’t give me that city folk crap!”
His face twisted into a knowing grin, but he still said nothing.
“It’s that fertilizer of yours, isn’t it?”
I’d seen him spreading unmarked bags of something over his fields.
“Guess you city folk aren’t as dumb as you look,” he finally said.
“So, what type is it? You make it yourself?”
Old Werner burst out laughing.
“You think I’m going to tell you a damned thing?” he snapped at me. “This is my formula, and you’ve got no idea what I went through to make it, to perfect it! Before I’d tell someone like you, I’d rather have the devil take me away!”
With that, he turned around and stomped away, leaving me standing there, furious.
Time passed, but my fields should remain barren. The old man’s, however, were lush and green, just like the year before. What the hell was that fertilizer of his? What was he doing that I couldn’t figure out?
A couple of weeks later, I visited the Roberts again, and couldn’t help but lament about my problems. The old couple was compassionate.
“That’s just how it is sometimes,” Mathew said, giving me a pat on the shoulder.
I sighed, but said nothing. What was there to say?
“Not everyone’s made for this type of work, so maybe-“
Lily started, but one glance from her husband made her close her mouth.
“Sorry, I wasn’t saying-“
“No, it’s fine,” I eventually said. “Maybe you’re right. But you know, I don’t get it. How’s he doing it? I mean, if it’s just because of his damned fertilizer, then I should be able to do it, too, right?”
Mathew shrugged, shuffling in his seat.
“Ah well, it’s never that easy, unfortunately. With the lay of the land and…”
He went on to reiterate some points he’d told me before, but this time, I wasn’t in the mood to listen. Instead, my eyes wandered to a newspaper laying on their coffee table.
Mother of two still missing, I read the headline of one article. I picked it up and began skimming it. In autumn of last year, a woman had gone missing on a hiking trip in the area. When Lily noticed me reading it, I could hear her sigh.
“Such a sad story… keeps happening all the time,” she said, shaking her head.
“Wait, what do you mean?”
“Oh, you know, those hiking paths up in the mountains. There are accidents every year. Slippery slopes, people falling off, going missing, that type of thing,” she said, shrugging.
A strange feeling washed over me, as if something was clawing at the back of my mind. Accidents? And they considered it normal?
“How often does it happen?”
“Each year,” Mathew said, not meeting my eyes. “Been happening since forever. People go out there, don’t follow the normal paths, and that’s that. Back when I was little, they closed them all off, but no one cares anymore. And with all those disappearances, more and more people come. Can’t help but be fascinated.”
“It’s terrible,” his wife chimed in.
“Why isn’t anyone doing something?”
“Oh, they did, all right,” Mathew was quick to say. “The town council put up warning signs and maps, but people just don’t care. All them city folk who come out here know nothing about the area.”
“So this here,” I said, pointing at the article, “isn’t the first time someone went missing?”
Lily shook her head, not looking at me.
“God no, it happens every year, mostly in autumn and early winter. Been more than a dozen people in the last ten years or so. They say it’s because the slops are so slippery during that time because of the early frost.”
Over a dozen people? How in the hell was that not big news?
“Guess I’ll better stick to my walks then,” I said, giving them a little laugh.
Neither of them joined in, but were quick to agree with me. Outside, I could hear the trees rustling in the autumn wind, but the implications weren’t clear to me until I’d returned to the farm.
Old Werner was out there, stalking around his fields as usual. A chill settled in the air, and the same uneasy feeling from before took hold of me. That woman had gone missing in autumn. Wasn’t that when he’d gone on all those strange trips? It finally hit me. Him driving out there in the middle of the night, headlights off, to an unknown location, and only returning in the early morning. A cold shower went down my spine just thinking about it. For a moment, I pictured him lurking out there on the hiking paths, waiting for lonely wanderers to turn them into his specialized fertilizer. I almost burst out laughing. What was I thinking? This was real life, not some fucked-up movie! Yet as I watched him, I couldn’t shake the idea. His strange behavior, the way he patrolled his farm in the evening, always watching me… I’d assumed he did it to mess with me or to keep the local kids away, but what if it was something much darker?
Before long, I couldn’t help but spy on him. Despite telling myself I was being foolish, and was only doing this to figure out how his farm did so well, I knew I was lying to myself. I saw how his eyes darted around constantly, how he stumped over his farm, perpetually angry. No, he was definitely hiding something.
My curiosity soon morphed into an obsession, and I began taking notes on his routine: when he got up in the morning, how long he lingered in the evening, how often he went into town. There was nothing else to do. My fields were a barren wasteland, with only a few scraggy plants clinging to life. After weeks of surveillance, I had his routine down to the smallest detail.
I was surprised to see him get into his car in the middle of Saturday night. He hadn’t done it in the past five weeks, but I knew what it meant. Another one of his strange secret trips. I watched as he drove off, headlights off as usual, and an icy chill ran down my spine. I could’ve sworn I saw a hungry grin on his face as he disappeared down the dirt road.
Hours passed, as I sat in front of the window, only leaving to refill my coffee, its oppressive smell filling the air as I fought to stay awake. I had to know what he was up to.
It was early morning when I finally dozed off, only to be jolted awake by the sight of his car speeding down the dirt road. He was back!
My heart was pounding in my chest as I watched him step out of his car and open the trunk. I leaned forward, almost pushing my face against the window, my hands clammed around the windowsill. My whole body tensed up, and I didn’t dare breathe when he dragged something from the trunk. It was big and long, covered in a thick, heavily stained blanket. Blood, it’s got to be blood!
With tremendous effort, he threw the bundle over his shoulder and made his way toward his shack. Then, something long and thin dangled from the bundle. Oh god… please tell me I was wrong. Had I really seen what I thought I’d seen? No, it couldn’t be. It had to be my imagination. But that looked like… an arm? I thought about the newspaper article. Was this another one? Another ingredient for his fertilizer?
As he disappeared into the shack, my world was spinning. Dear god, it had to be true. He was a murderer, and he was turning his victims into-
When the old man returned outside, and his eyes darted around, I ducked below the window, my heart hammering in my chest. He couldn’t see me. The lights were off, and I was too far away, but every fiber of my body screamed at me to hide. Then, slowly, like a scared child, I peeked over the windowsill. Old Werner was on his way back to his house. He looked exhausted, his body slumped, dragging his feet. He was dirty. No, not dirty, I realized, covered in blood. His arms, his hands, and even his clothes. My whole body was shaking, and a wave of nausea washed over me. For the first time in my life, I was utterly terrified. Terrified of this bloody old man, this murderer.
An hour passed before I’d calmed down. My mind was going crazy with conflicting ideas. I spilled coffee all over myself without eve noticing, too absorbed by the thoughts of what I’d witnessed. One part of my brain insisted I was being stupid, and that I was making it all up. The other, louder part, screamed at me that Old Werner was a crazed serial killer, a maniac who turned people into fertilizer. Even in bed, I couldn’t calm down. The memory of his hard, withered hands covered in blood kept invading my mind until the rooster awoke me the next morning.
The moment I was up, I hurried to the window, watching his house, my heart racing with a mad mixture of fear and curiosity. As if nothing had happened, Old Werner stepped outside to tend his fields. There was no blood on his hands or arms. His clothes were clean, but I knew what I’d seen. Something terrible had happened last night. As I stood there, watching him, I knew I had to find out what he was up to.
Then I got an idea. Every Sunday evening, Old Werner spent an hour or two in his shack, most likely mixing his fertilizer. Once he’d gone to bed, it was my best shot at sneaking in and uncovering what he’d hidden.
I was antsy the entire day. My mind was in uproar, planning my approach, and wondering what I’d do if I actually found something… something like a dead body in his shack.
When night fell, I turned off all the lights in my house, pretending to go to bed early. He’d believe it. After all, he’d tell himself us city folk didn’t work as hard as he did. In reality, I was wide awake, sitting by the window, waiting, and watching his every move. My cue came when he left the shack and returned to his house.
I dressed in all black, put on some gloves, and waited for another hour. When I was sure he was asleep, I made my move. Old Werner’s tall corn provided an excellent cover for my approach. I crouched low, scanning his farmhouse from between the stalks. Dark windows, no movement, and no sounds. He had to be asleep. Still, I waited, my heart hammering in my chest.
Once ten more minutes had passed, I rushed to the shack, my heart beating heavily. The night was dead silent, and all I could hear were my muffled footsteps and my own agitated breathing.
The door was padlocked, as I’d expected. Instead of fiddling with it, I set out for one of the shack’s windows. It was old; two wooden shutters held shut by a single rusty bolt. Carefully, I pried the shutters apart with a small tool. My hands trembled, and even the tiniest of sounds felt too loud in the night’s silence and sent jolt after jolt of fear through me. After what felt like an agonizing eternity, the bolt slid free, and the window opened.
I climbed inside, sliding over the window sill, and carefully lowered myself to the wooden floor. Don’t you dare make a sound! The space inside was much larger than I thought. I saw shelves crowded with tools, and at the end a giant workbench covered in containers filled with chemicals and bags of fertilizer. A mixing station, I thought. I took out my flashlight and began scanning the room.
Then I saw it: a metal composter shoved into a corner between the workbench and an old freezer. It looked modern, high end, designed to break down organic material quickly. My skin started to crawl as I started at it. Taking a deep breath, I gripped the handle and lifted the lid. The stench hit me instantly, a sickening wave of blood and decay. I gagged, covered my mouth, and almost vomited. Inside, I saw blood, and guts and chucks of half-decaying flesh.
“Jesus Christ…” I whispered, stumbling back in horror.
It was true. There it was, the proof I’d wanted. He was actually… In my shock, I bumped into the row of containers on the workbench, knocking them over. They crashed to the ground, filling the entire shack with a cacophony of noises that soon seemed to spread out over Old Werner’s entire farm.
I froze, my heart pounding, staring at the mess on the floor. Shit, you goddamn idiot! I flicked off the flashlight and waited, every part of my body trembling in terror. Please let him stay asleep, please. For a few more seconds, everything stayed quiet. Then my heart skipped a beat when the front door of his house slammed open.
“Goddammit! What the hell’s going on out there? If it’s you damned kids again…”
He fell silent. Oh shit, had he seen the window? I tried to remember if I’d closed it, but I couldn’t. For all I knew, the shutters were still wide open.
“Is someone there?”
His footsteps grew louder.
“I dare you, whoever the devil you are. Show yourself!”
I didn’t move. I hoped, against all certainty, that he’d go back to his house, but a moment later, I heard him right outside.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!”
The window. He’d seen it, and a second later, he was tinkering with the padlock. Now or never! No way I could explain why I was here. I rushed to the window, but before I could even pull myself onto the window sill, the door burst open. Old Werner flicked on the shack’s light switch, and there I was, caught, dressed all back, trying to flee the scene.
“What the hell are you doing in my shack!?”
Then the smell of rot and spilled chemicals hit him. His anger turned to pure rage.
“You… You goddamn…”
In his rage, he couldn’t even finish his sentence. Instead, he grabbed a rake and came for me. I barely dogged, stumbling towards the back of the shack.
“No, don’t! I swear, I didn’t see-“
He didn’t listen, instead he swung at me again. This time, his eyes caught the open composter and the mess on the floor.
“You just had to know, didn’t you? Couldn’t leave it alone! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? One decade, one who decade… and now you’re trying to steal it from me!?”
Wait, had he just admitted it?
“That’s it! You’re the last person to ever get in here!”
He threw the rake aside and lunged for me. Old Werner might have been an old man, but he was fast and strong. A life of farming had turned him into nothing but stout, hard muscle. I fought back, tried to keep him from overpowering me, but he slammed me against the workbench, face red with anger, eyes wild. He raised one of his hand and punched me in the face twice, sending me reeling, and crashing into the mess on the floor. Before I could catch a breath, he was upon me, his hands closing around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Oh god, he was going to kill me. His grip was like iron, pushing me to the floor harder and harder. My vision blurred and stares appeared in front of my eyes. I clawed at his arms, my feet shuffled over the floor helplessly, but he was relentless. My hands grasped around blindly for something… anything.
Then they closed around something cold and hard. With the last bit of strength, I swung it at him. There was a thickening thud, and Old Werner screamed. Only after the second swing did I realize what I was holding: an old mallet. Surprise came over his face, his grip loosened, but only momentarily. In his fury, he wasn’t just trying to strangle me anymore. He was trying to snap my neck! I swung again. And again. After three more hits, his grip finally loosened, and he slumped to the floor.
I stood there, panting, my lungs burning, staring at his body. I saw the nasty bump on his head, and the blood gushing out of it. So much blood… Time froze. As if in a trance, I couldn’t tear my eyes from the pool of blood spreading beneath him. It must’ve only been seconds, but it felt like forever.
Then reality snapped back. The blood-soaked mallet slipped from my hands and clattered to the floor. I kicked the body away, staggering back in panic. I started shaking, then lost my balance and slumped to the floor. A second later, I had to cover my mouth to muffle a scream rising in my throat. I’d killed him. I’d murdered someone! No, it was self-defense! He’d have killed me. He killed others! The guts, the flesh! There was no doubt.
I staggered toward the freezer and yanked it open. In the state I was in, spiraling and out of it, I saw unspeakable horrors: human heads, dismembered bodies; a grotesque pile of mutilated remains. Then reality replaced imagination. It wasn’t human remains. It was just an animal, a deer carcass. Its lower part was missing, the innards neatly caved out. The blood, the guts… it was all from this animal. What about that arm I thought I saw? The one dangling out of the bundle? Then I noticed the deer’s legs. They were long and thin… What if my imagination had transformed them into something macabre, something I thought was a person’s arm?
But his strange nightly trips… He always went out at night with the headlights off, didn’t he? My paranoia came back, but then I remembered something. The Roberts had told me about the new hunting laws during my first visit. Old Werner must’ve been poaching, and all he’d done was to avoid detection. Dear god, what had I done? Had I really just killed an old man over nothing but his eccentric behavior and some complicated fertilizer?
I panicked, my body acted on instinct, ready to run. I was halfway through the door of the shack when my brain snapped back to reality. What the hell was I doing? Should I call the police? But what would I tell them? That I broke into his place because I thought he was a crazed murderer, and that I’d killed him in self-defense? Would anyone believe me, dressed like this, in the middle of the night? No, they’d think I snuck in to steal his secret. Hell, they’d probably think I murdered him because of our ongoing dispute! After all, I’d made it no secret that I hated the old man. Shit! What the fuck should I do?
First, I flicked off the lights. What if someone was nearby? There’d been so much goddamn noise! Yet no one no except me lived anywhere close enough. I closed the shack’s door and locked the window again. My hands were trembling as I inspected the wood I’d splintered from breaking in, trying my best to hide the damage. After that, I put everything I’d knocked over back onto the workbench.
Finally, I turned to Old Werner’s body. Was he really dead? With my still shaking hands, I crouched down and reached for his neck. I half-hoped to feel a pulse, but when I looked at his head, the gash, the blood, there was no doubt. He was dead.
I looked around, desperately trying to find anything that could help me. Then I saw the large fertilizer bags. Old Werner had been strong, but he was still a scrawny old man. A mad giggle escaped my mouth. His body would be an almost perfect fit for one of those bags. I stuffed his body inside and dragged it to the front of the shag. Blood had pooled on the floor, and I cleaned it meticulously, scrubbing every surface: the floor, the workbench, and every corner. I couldn’t leave a trace. Using his chemicals, I wiped away all the blood splatters, praying it would be enough.
Once I was done, I cracked open the door and checked the outside. The night was still silent. No one was around. The cornfield was only fifteen meters away, but if anyone saw me carrying a giant bag of fertilizer through his yard, they’d ask questions. And so I forced myself to wait.
When I was sure, I was alone, I put the heavy bag over my shoulder, and sprinted to the edge of the cornfield, almost collapsing when I finally reached the stalks. My head spun from exhaustion, and for a second I almost passed out, but forced myself on before hiding the bag deep within the corn.
When I was sure it was well-hidden, I dashed back to the shack. The place reeked of chemicals now, but that was the least of my worries. I did my best to clean away the remaining residue, closing the freezer as I did. Before I left, I ground up some of the deer meat, and added it to the composter, leaving the bloodied tools on the workbench, to make it seem as if Old Werner had been working as usual before… disappearing.
As I wiped my brow, something caught my eye. It was a small notebook, tucked away in a shelf above the workbench. I opened it, and went through it frantically, hoping, praying for a confession, for some twisted record of his murders. Yet all I found were notes on his fertilizer process, and instructions on how to prepare the deer meat. No human remains. No dark secrets. Just a part of an old man’s meticulous process of running a farm. A fresh wave of nausea washed over me, and I nearly killed over. No, get a grip, you’ve got to get out of here, now!
I rushed for the door, locked the shack, and then began to arduous journey back home, dragging Old Werner’s body after me. Every few meters, I had to stop. I was too exhausted, half-mad, and sick to my stomach, but I forced myself to keep going. Hours must’ve passed before I finally made it back.
Once home, I hid the body in the furthest corner of the basement, where no one would find it. Then I returned to the cornfield, making sure to cover my tracks. It was nearly dawn when I collapsed onto my bed, unable to process the night’s events. My mind was a blank, the weight of what I’d done not yet crashing down on me. That would come later. Tomorrow.
The next day was a blur. I spent half of it in bed, curled up under my blanket, shaking and freaking out. When I finally got up, I couldn’t eat. The cup of coffee I’d made slipped from my trembling hands, and shattered on the floor. I wandered the house aimlessly, not sure what I was doing. Every few minutes, I found myself clutching onto my phone, ready to call the police, to confess. Then I’d freeze, realizing what I was about to do. At other times, I stood at the window, staring at Old Werner’s farm before I quickly closed the curtains, as if it could erase what I’d done.
In the evening, I remembered his little notebook. Leafing through the pages was the only thing that distracted me, and I found a strange comfort in its mundane details. It’s no exaggeration to say that this fertilizer recipe saved my sanity. I threw myself into studying it, pouring over its instructions again and again. I knew I couldn’t turn my harvest around, but could try the process in the greenhouse.
Over the course of the next days, I procured all the things Old Werner mentioned in his notes: a composter, various fertilizers, chemicals, and bone meal. One thing was missing, however: deer meat. I couldn’t go back to his shack. Not after I’d cleaned it up so well, and hidden all the evidence.
Then an idea crawled into my mind. His body was still in the basement. No. I couldn’t. This was insanity! Yet what else could I do? I had to get rid of him, and I couldn’t just bury him. It was the middle of October. The ground was too hard. People would know something was up.
On trembling legs, my mouth and nose covered with a handkerchief, I descended the stairs to the basement. The closer I got to the bag, the more oppressive the stench became. It was sweet and rotten; the disgusting stench of decay. When I opened the bag, the sight almost made me vomit. Nothing was left of his stout, muscular body; now it was bloated and soft.
For what felt like hours, I just stared at the body. A human being, this had once been a human being, a man who worked his farm, and I had… No stop it. He’s dead. He’s not… But the lie didn’t work.
Goddammit. You know what you have to do, don’t you? I finally grabbed a saw, and with shaking hands, I made the first cut, half-expecting the rotten thing in front of me to jump back to live. With my eyes closed I kept going, back and force, back and force, the disgusting sound of flesh tearing a constant companion.
The longer I cut, the less I felt, slowly going numb. It was just as a task now, just work, and this thing, it was not a person. It was just a husk, nothing but meat. I knew I was lying to myself. Every night, I lay in bed, not able to sleep, wondering what I had become.
When I’d arrived here, I’d felt like the little boy again who wanted nothing more than to live on a farm, but maybe he’d long since been replaced by a toxic, cutthroat businessman, only out for his own advantage. Had I really become a man who’d not flinch at murder to get ahead?
Those thoughts tortured me as I continued on my work of getting rid of Old Werner. Some parts I sealed away in bags and stashed in the freezer. The rest went into the composter, one piece at a time. More than once, I laughed at the bitter irony. This was exactly what I thought the old man had done.
Two weeks later, the police showed up. I’d been dreading it, but the officer was old, tired, and most of all, disinterested. He asked a few routine questions. When had I last seen the old man? Did I know of any problems he might have had? I answered them as truthfully as I could, and that was it. The officer moved on, checking his property with little care. Eventually, a search party was organized, but barely anyone showed up. In the end, Old Werner became just another name in a long list of missing persons.
Months passed. It’s the new year now, and the fertilizer I’ve made has developed nicely.
A couple of weeks ago, I upgraded the greenhouse for winter farming. Since then, the plants have thrived. The tomatoes are ripe and almost bursting with flavor, even bigger than those of Old Werner had been. Maybe it’s the greenhouse’s unique conditions, or maybe it’s because I added something extra to the fertilizer.
As I sit here, eating one of those tomatoes, I can’t help but laugh. The only way the old man could improve his fertilizer was by becoming part of it. But the laugh was hollow. Because in the end, I became exactly what I thought he was.
A murderer who’d turned a person into fertilizer.
