I never thought I’d write anything here. I’ve always been far too skeptical to believe random people on reddit. But honestly, something is wrong or at least deeply strange, happening to me. And I don’t know if it’s just my own shit messing with my mind or if this old farm also has something to do with it. I just feel like if I don’t get this off my chest now, I’ll end up falling completely into some irreversible state of paranoia — if I’m not there already.

 

All of this might just be the fault of isolation. Of coming face-to-face with the unknown while being swallowed by loneliness. It might also be the terrifying sensation of abandonment, or the feeling — stronger every day — of my feet growing heavy and my shins stiff, as though I’m slowly sinking into the failure my father predicted years ago. But maybe all these recurring thoughts are just a bunch of distractions scattered across the shelves of my mind, trying to lead me away from what I’ve been witnessing here.

 

Shit… I think I really am losing it.

 

So I’ll start from the beginning. Try to organize my thoughts and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get an answer: whether I’m crazy or if it’s this place that’s driving me insane.

 

I found out I was the heir to the farm I’m at now in the most mundane way possible. I discovered the official letter summoning me to the notary while rummaging through a pile of eviction notices and overdue bills. The moment I saw that brown envelope, I thought it was just another legal disaster crashing onto my back — especially with that big city hall emblem stamped right in the center. But thankfully, I was wrong. When I pulled out the letterhead inside, the first word that struck my eyes was: INHERITANCE.

 

Once my soul returned to my body, I read it more carefully. It was simple and direct: “Your name has been declared eligible as the next executor of the ------------ family property, according to the wishes of Mrs. Hilda ------------, as stated in the will archived at the notary office of ------- – ---------. We request your immediate presence for the purpose of regularizing the estate.”

 

Basically, no one wanted it, so it fell to me.

 

I came back from the notary that same day thinking this would be my chance for a fresh start, living out some bucolic, self-discovery romance among a landscape fit to be painted on any painting.

 

The only thing that bothered me was — why the hell did no one else in the family want it this place? It seemed like the perfect spot to spend a summer vacation and play out the perfect fairytale that my entire family likes to pretend they’re living.

 

So when I got back to my apartment, I pushed aside some moving boxes (I was getting evicted), ripped the plastic off my couch, and started reading more about the property.

 

The land belonged to my great-aunt. A small, peaceful countryside retreat on the outskirts of my family’s hometown. A hidden little place of fewer than 3,000 inhabitants, over 20 km away from the main commercial area — truly an isolated refuge from everything and everyone.

 

Up to that point, everything sounded great, right? That’s when I ran into the first oddity. In the pages of the original will, it was explicitly stated that only women were allowed to inherit the farm. I thought it was pretty progressive of her.

 

But when I read that, a few fragmented memories about my great-aunt came to mind — bits that might explain such a unique clause.

 

None of the older family members liked talking about her. Everything I know comes from slip-ups my uncles made while drunk, or from quiet whispers exchanged when we looked at old photo albums with my grandmother.

 

And what I did hear was that Mrs. Hilda was a lover of nature. She created a balanced lifestyle alongside the farm animals, who supposedly lived in complete synchronicity with her. No baths, no grooming, no pens or sacks of feed. Each creature understood its role and, somehow, they worked together to maintain this ecosystem which, though artificial, was full of life.

 

As a child, I imagined her as a princess, enchanting every creature and plant as she danced through the fields. But now, after reading her will, I see she was more like a forgotten science revolutionary — erased by time for not fitting into society back then.

 

She had no children and no husband. Unlike her sister, my direct ancestor, who married a businessman from the next town. So when she died, everything here was left abandoned because no one wanted to give up the comforts of city life. And so the farm stayed frozen in time. And well… city life, comfort, entertainment, all those urban luxuries. None of the new descendants wanted to come back to the countryside, renounce their privileges, and live like she did.

 

And honestly, I don’t blame them. I only ended up here because my financial life is in ruins. I owe money even to the corner pharmacy. So this place — this middle of nowhere — is my last chance. 

I didn’t have the option to stay in the city, and I was literally gaining a house while being kicked out of another. I decided to embrace it. I would live my pastoral fairytale.

 

I don’t know… somehow be reborn, find meaning, reconnect with something. But doing that here is proving difficult. One moment I feel happy and determined, and out of nowhere I get chills, I glance at a corner and feel wrong. The urge to drop everything grows, the impulse to run to my father and tell him he was always right — but I still don’t have an explanation for it.

 

Everything had started fine! My friend Vanessa helped me pack the rest of my junk while we drank cheap wine and she hyped me up for the four-hour car trip I would take to get here. I was excited, genuinely hoping for a new beginning. After loading everything into the car, I hugged her and left, happy.

 

I arrived yesterday. Alone. After the long drive through hills and dense forest, sliding through the dirt curves, trying to find the farm while my GPS failed harder than my ex’s erection. After wandering for half an hour, I ended up in endless eucalyptus fields bending with the wind as though whispering to one another, forming giant green walls that guided me down a narrow dirt road.

 

The afternoon was hot, the orange sun burned my arm hanging out the open window. After 40 more minutes on the road — refusing to admit I was lost — I finally reached the gates of the property.

 

I got out of the car and was hit by a suffocating, humid heat. Mud splashed on my sneakers, and I felt ridiculous because I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt earth under my feet. I walked slowly toward the gate, taking in the surroundings, until I stood face-to-face with it. Big and sturdy, clearly unopened since the release of the first flip phone — so, a thousand years ago.

 

Carefully, so I wouldn’t hurt my hands, I peeled away the vines covering the latch, and after a few frustrating minutes I found the keyhole and finally opened the gates. I drove in and entered my new home.

 

I think about two minutes after entering the property, I reached the house. The second I stepped out of the car, that same feeling from the gate settled over me like a thin veil. A sort of shiver, a hiss behind my neck, my vision blurring — as if I was slipping into some moss-framed temporal bubble. 

 

The vegetation here is bright, lush, and dense. The vegetable garden is sprouting as if it had been tended yesterday. The fruit trees look ready to tempt you into picking them, and the house — though decayed — has an almost hypnotic charm.

 

The air smells of grass and fertile earth. It carries something fermented, as if life drifts through the wind and fertilizes everything it touches. The closest I can describe the scent is musk. A perfume of life, sweat, and presence. I constantly feel embraced by it.

 

I think spending so much time away from nature makes us forget how deeply it can move us. I don’t know if that’s good or not.

 

But what really threw me off as soon as I got out of the car was when I started watching the animals. I saw chickens, goats, pigs, even ducks and some dogs, all walking together with the tranquility of an oasis. No piles of feces, nothing broken, no trampled plants… It was like the environment itself had created a routine to survive and thrive.

 

I know nature adapts, but it’s still strange to see domestic animals — who should depend mainly on humans — living in such harmony on their own.

 

I mean, I get it, I’m a city apartment girl, but shouldn’t things be a little more… chaotic?

 

I still want to check if no one ever comes here. The last thing I need is some random guy appearing out of nowhere in my house — then I’m sure I’ll go crazy. Because as I said, there are no fences or walls here, just the gate and the house's fragile walls. The only thing separating me from anything,  or anyone, outside? Old wooden doors and windows competing in precariousness with my reputation.

 

Once I snapped out of my trance of thoughts about the animals, I went back to my to-do list before nightfall. I needed to unload my things and find somewhere to sleep — my back couldn’t handle another hour on those stiff car seats.

 

Speaking of the house, it’s big. In her letter, my great-aunt called it a “humble home”… but I guess the concept of “humble” was very different 100 years ago.

 

I settled in the oldest wing, built of stone and rammed earth — much better preserved than the more modern victorian-style front, which had wood half-eaten by time and termites.

 

This part of the house drew me in immediately with its rustic beauty, and because it wasn’t falling apart. When I stepped inside, beyond the endless layers of dust and mold smell, I realized the stone-and-earth sections were the original layout, later expanded with victorian rooms.

 

The “original” center of the house consists of the dining room, kitchen, and the bedrooms — which are on the side and completely locked. The only open one was my great-aunt’s, but I found no keys to the other rooms there.

There’s also a second floor I haven’t explored yet. I don’t know what’s up there, but it was clearly added later. I gave up climbing because the wooden stairs creaked so loudly it sounded like a reprimanding scream telling me to go back down… and as charming as the house is, it has an eerie energy that I’m not ready to challenge.

 

After that quick tour, I went to check if the open bedroom could serve as my first night’s stay. Entering the room felt like stepping into a period drama set. Everything was in its place. The wardrobe, the dresser, the chipped-framed mirror, the books resting on the shelf.

 

It felt like she would walk in at any moment and lie down on the embroidered sheets — that thought still gives me chills. If I stare too long at the details, I start imagining her routine. Who was she? What did she do every day? Did someone else live here? And a lover? Seems not. Did she live here all alone?

 

This spiral of unsettling thoughts is hard to escape.

 

Trying to pull myself out of her past, I shook my head and opened the window — it got stuck but I managed to do it. With the mission of finding a place to sleep completed, I went back to the car. I grabbed the first box with my important stuff (documents, money, cards…) and enlisted the help of my old faithful friend: the inflatable mattress — because no way would I ever lie on her bed.

 

I was going to grab more things, but realized it was almost night and I wanted to use the last bit of daylight to set up the room. So I took a bag with snacks, a battery lantern, a little cloth, and cleaning product.

 

I locked the car, put the key in my pocket, went in, locked the living room door, checked that all windows were closed — not like it made me feel safer — and headed to the bedroom.

 

When I went inside, that same uncomfortable shiver prickled the hairs on my neck, but I ignored it and focused on my plan — arrange a spot for my mattress. After studying the furniture placement, I saw that if I moved the bed and one shelf just a bit, I’d be able to fit the mattress in a cozy corner by the vanity.

 

It worked, even in the dimness. I quickly wiped the floor and set up my sheets and pillow. Locked the door — the key was on the inside lock — closed the window and went to sleep.

 

I woke up this morning to sunbeams slipping through the blinds and the smell of wet grass. It filled me with a sudden urge to be productive.

 

The soft golden light coming through the slats — that kind that seems to carry some magical dust dancing in the air as though the day is whispering a secret — made me wake up smiling. I got up, adjusted my oversized sleep shirt, opened the window, grabbed my food bag and went to the kitchen to make breakfast.

 

The kitchen is huge. One of the biggest rooms in the house. The center is dominated by a massive island, surrounded by little navy-blue wooden cabinet doors, peeling with age but still charming. I set the bag on the counter while sunlight washed over me. The light streamed through the big side window and reached the sink in the island. Curious, I checked if the water worked.

 

I touched the sink. Turned the faucet, expecting nothing — and to my surprise, water burst out.

 

At first it sputtered rust, sludge, insects I didn’t recognize, and a pungent smell of wet metal and something rotten. But after a few choking seconds, it ran clean and steady. Crystal clear, almost shimmering. I waited for a clog, still doubtful, but when I opened the cabinet below, I saw a thick iron pipe — thick as my fist. I thought: “things used to be built to last.” And laughed to myself.

 

I ran my hand under the water. Cool, soft, pure. “Premium well water.” I was even more excited to start my day.

 

I shut the faucet, took a Snickers from the bag, and went to bring in the rest of the stuff from the car while enjoying my little treat. I needed the boxes with: food, dishcloths, sponges, cleaning and kitchen supplies, even some spices stuffed in the back of my old pantry. That kitchen deserved more than cookies, chocolate, and instant coffee.

 

I wanted to make a real breakfast.

 

I also needed utensils, since I’d forgotten to grab them yesterday and I needed them to cut bread — sadly I’m not Wolverine’s daughter.

 

As I struggled to open the side kitchen door that led to the yard — hands full with a box — the second strange thing about this place hit me… a pig. Big, with a large white patch on its face, old-looking, huge. It stared at me for a long time while I failed miserably to open the stuck door without using my hands.

 

Eventually I gave up and set the box down.

 

The exact moment I did, the pig walked up to me and — with unsettling ease — pushed the door open with a jolt of its scarred snout, then walked away. I seriously think someone lived here. There’s no way that animal just understood what I wanted.

It was cute, though slightly disturbing. I always forget how frighteningly strong and big pigs can be. I grabbed the box again and set it on the counter, then went to fetch the others, this time keeping the door propped open with a rock.

 

When I finished bringing everything in, I gave the counter a quick clean and made myself a snack while watching the animals through the huge window above the main sink.

 

The sun shining through the window illuminated the beautifully embroidered curtain. Torn and worn, but still beautiful. Very delicate. The lace filtered the light, casting soft patterns of brightness and shadow across the kitchen. It was one of those peaceful moments of such simple beauty you feel grateful to be alive. So I walked closer to the window to get a better look at the yard and let sunlight wash over my face.

 

That’s when I saw them.

 

The spiders. They were small and brown, with needle-thin abdomens and long, agile legs.

 

From afar, at first, they were just specks of dirt on the worn curtain. But when I realized what they were, I assumed they were nesting there because of the old fabric. But when I got closer, I saw something bizarre. They were moving in coordination.

 

Working together.

 

And what shocked me most — they were weaving the same web. A single collective web, spiral, symmetrical, fluid. As if dancing together among the threads. And the pattern… it was simple but almost identical to the embroidered lace. They were copying it somehow. The lace had little rocaille shapes, flowers, foliage. And they reproduced them perfectly.

 

My mind froze. Do spiders do that? Do they have visual memory? Can they replicate human patterns? How were they communicating? Was it some collective instinct? Or were they, in some way, learning?

 

I thought about grabbing my phone for a picture. But something made me back away. As if photographing it would… profane it somehow.

 

I looked back outside, still in a dazed state from what I had just witnessed. My mind was desperately trying to latch onto something normal. That’s when I realized — I had been watched the whole time.

While I stared wide-eyed at the spiders’ meticulous work, other animals were staring at me from a distance. A group of geese watched me through the window, standing near the edge of the yard by the bushes framing the path to the vegetable garden. Their necks stretched entirely, eyes locked on me, unblinking. Motionless.

 

All those eyes fixed on me froze me in place… what did they want? They didn’t honk, didn’t peck, didn’t flutter. Not even the slightest wing movement. They were perfectly still. Watching me. And I swear I can’t explain how analytical and deep their stares felt — far too much for simple animals.

 

After a few minutes — I think — I moved closer to the window to look at them. Then, as if by magic, they suddenly decided to move and walked in a neat line down the garden path, disappearing into the bushes, waddling their fluffy butts.

 

Once the last one vanished, I was hit by a mix of relief and amusement, followed by mild embarrassment for being intimidated by birds who waddle and live off veggies and worms. Still, some instinct lingered — I closed the curtains carefully, trying not to disturb the tiny weavers working nonstop.

 

I gave up on my special breakfast, finished my sandwich, and moved on with the day, trying to stop thinking about everything I’d seen.

 

I walked back to the bedroom slowly and lazily, eyeing every corner while imagining just how many tons of dust must be piled around the house.

 

Inside the room, I resumed my analytical — and slightly panicked — assessment of the grime crusted onto each object, grime that at some point would have to be scrubbed away by my hands for a very long time. But then my mind slipped from the anxious suffocation of a lazy housekeeper into the abyss of spiders and shimmering goose eyes.

 

At that moment, I decided to start cleaning.

 

I need to distract myself — I said out loud, scanning the room, my own voice echoing among the dust suspended in the mite-filled air.

 

I took the last bite of my snack and got to work.

 

I began with organization, bringing all the remaining boxes inside. Most went to the room I’m staying in; others — the food and cleaning supplies — I left in the kitchen. Then I opened the windows in the rooms I was “inhabiting.” I couldn’t open all of them; despite the decay, the rusty locks were still surprisingly sturdy. But it was enough to bring in some fresh air.

 

With the windows open and my lungs working more easily, I moved on to the cleaning.

I pushed and stacked the boxes in the corner and wiped the floor. Then the shelves, the vanity, even wiped the dusty wardrobe doors — I still haven't had the courage to open them.

 

Feeling that the room was slightly cleaner, I went to the kitchen.

 

There the cleaning was heavier, since the tiled floor allowed more “aggressive” methods. I took my broom, bleach, and plenty of water. All that crust — formed by endless layers of dust and grease — was finally saying goodbye.

 

After hours of scrubbing decades of dirt, I felt satisfied. I wiped everything dry and admired the result proudly before moving on. The next victims were the doorframes, cabinets, and shelves — which were, to put it kindly, grimy.

 

The cabinets and shelves, though dirty, cleaned up decently. But the doorframes were another story. After tons of scrubbing and slowly peeling away decades of grime from the wood, disappointment hit. All the corners were stained with a black, almost velvety patch — maybe mold or mildew — and even after all the products I used, nothing changed. I think it seeped deep into the wood.

 

Once I gave up on removing the black stains, I went back to my great-aunt’s room. It was getting dark.

 

I went inside, changed clothes quickly — I couldn’t stand the smell of old air and mold clinging to my skin — and sat on my old inflatable mattress, feeling it sigh as it deflated a little under me. In that moment of quiet, now seeing everything more clearly after cleaning, I was able to observe the room more intently, without focusing only on the grime covering it.

 

There’s nothing overtly bizarre or out of the ordinary here, yet the place feels steeped in a strange aura. Something flirting with a sinister morbidity but distant enough to only suggest discomfort… something dense and viscous, slithering at the edges.

 

That strange and quiet presence becomes more tangible with each detail I notice. At times I feel like my great-aunt is about to walk through the door, sit in the vanity, and read the book still open by the mirror. It’s impossible to escape this sensation — the disturbing anticipation of waiting for someone who will never come — because even when I close my eyes and try to focus on my own thoughts, the house is still there: present, watchful. Manifesting itself in a very particular way — through smell.

 

Of all the rooms I’ve been in, this one has the strongest scent, clinging to my nose and refusing to let me forget — even for a second — where I am.

 

The closest description is a warm smell, almost alive. A dense, humid vapor. Every time I breathe, that heavy mist invades my lungs and rises to my mind. For a moment, suspended in dust, it feels like I can touch everything the house keeps in silence, but then it all dissipates along with the dust and my dry sneeze.

 

When I breathe again, the scent is lighter. Old and moldy, like walking into a library’s “classics” section. But then, slowly, other notes creep in. Crushed plants sinking into mud, something rotten with a faint sweet rancidness.

 

And specifically in this room, there’s an additional layer, overshadowing all the others — something sharp and aldehydic, reminiscent of mothballs softened by dried flowers.

 

Maybe it was her perfume… another memory trapped here.

 

After an endless cycle of closing my eyes and staring at the room, I gave up.

 

I shifted a bit and scooted back until the cold wall touched my spine and raised goosebumps on my neck. After settling into a comfortable position, I resumed observing with more intention, accepting that I wouldn’t get rid of the sense of wrongness that permeates this house.

 

The bedsheets are still folded, the perfume bottles still have liquid, the book is still open.

 

Everything was untouched until I arrived. But last night wasn’t so hard — I was euphoric, and the veil of night muffled my senses to all the details marking her presence, the house’s presence. The hot air seeping from the walls hadn’t yet settled on my skin.

 

I only noticed everything today, with daylight and clarity — the overlooked details, like the fact that the bedroom floor is completely different from the rest. It’s made of darker wood, which scratched easily when I moved the furniture. Another little “why” in my mind.

 

I stayed there thinking for a while but didn’t reach any conclusion. When I realized it, night had already fallen. So I grabbed my little portable stove to heat water and shower before making dinner.

 

It was strange… but nothing too weird. Probably just the unsettling feeling of showering in a place that looks like a period film set — and that, for some reason, had no mirror. Thankfully I brought my own; prepared girls survive.

 

I left the shower with my body and mind refreshed and made some pasta. I was too tired, and a simple bolognese felt like the perfect balance between my exhaustion and my self-judgment, which would never allow me to eat instant noodles for another week.

It was quick — quicker than I expected, considering how long I’ve been out of practice. It tasted mediocre, but it did its job while I sat on my half-deflated mattress, responding to emails about a design freelance job.

 

After finishing my Michelin-quality dish, I felt ready for bed. I stood up and set the plate on the vanity. As I lay down again, I saw an old notebook of my great-aunt’s on the bedside table. I picked it up to read, hoping it would help me fall asleep — my eyes were tired of staring at my phone. 

 

When I finished my Michelin-worthy dish, I already felt ready for sleep. I got up and set the plate on the vanity. When I lay back down again, I noticed an old notepad of my great-aunt sitting on the bedside table. I grabbed it to read, hoping it would help me fall asleep — my eyes were already exhausted from staring at my phone. 

 

The little notebook didn’t contain anything special, just lists of plants and everyday notes. I lay down fully and raised my arms in the air, still holding the notebook, as if offering it to the ceiling numbed by the night. The words swayed before my eyes — sinuous, trembling, almost illegible — handwriting that was restless and careless, the kind used for mundane scribbles. And yet its careless shape worked perfectly to lull me to sleep.

 

Already half-asleep, I noticed in my peripheral vision that the window was still slightly open. The stealthy wind carried with it that humid, earthy breath I was starting to get used to, and along with it came a cold breeze that twisted through the room as if the house itself were breathing with me. Shuddering, I stood to lower the blinds and close the curtains.

 

What happened in that moment is what made me decide to record everything I’ve experienced since arriving at this farm.

 

The instant I touched the thick cotton curtains, a cutting chill shot up my spine, making every inch of my body prickle. My scalp burned in pulses of static. I looked outside the window, searching in the dark morbidity beyond for what had triggered my danger instincts so violently.

 

And there it was.

 

The old pig. Huge. Motionless. A living shadow marked by the silver patch on his face under the moonlight, standing at the line of trees where the light refused to reach. He didn’t make a single sound. Two hooves braced against the trunk, neck rigid — he was alert.

 

Even from a distance, I could feel his eyes locked onto mine — two black, murky spheres gleaming in the darkness, reflecting a consciousness that should not have existed there. It was an almost human precision, as if he were analyzing me… evaluating each of my reactions.

I felt invaded. I was the prey there.

 

It was the kind of look a teacher gives a student about to lie. A stare that cuts through your skin, makes your bones tremble and your mind falter. The look of someone who knows exactly what you’re thinking.

 

My breath caught in my throat — I was suffocating inside my own mind. I know it sounds ridiculous, “it’s just a fucking pig,” but the memory of the geese’s stare came back to me, and my legs went weak.

 

That wasn’t normal… it couldn’t be natural.

 

I slammed the windows shut, yanked the curtains closed in a hurry, and stepped back. I stood in the center of the room, balancing on my numb legs, waiting for any sound — a grunt, breaking branches, the dragging of heavy hooves across the dirt.

 

But nothing came.

 

I… I don’t know what’s happening. Maybe it’s just the isolation eating away at me, or my lack of experience with animals, or both together. At least that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.

 

But I want to know if anyone has ever seen something like this.

 

Maybe I’m exaggerating, I know. I’ve never had real contact with animals; I was born in the center of a big city, all lights and tall buildings. My interactions with animals were limited to overweight pugs and noisy pigeons. I get that pigs can be smarter than many dogs — I watched Discovery Channel — but… that fucking stare was unlike anything I’ve ever seen in an animal.

 

The glint of those black sockets, in the middle of the darkness, is still pounding in my head as I write this. I feel like if I open the window right now, he’ll be there, staring at me.

 

It’s as though I can hear his breathing on the other side of the glass, smell his scent mixing with the dust in the air. My phone is trembling in my hands, they’re getting colder, but there’s sweat — moisture everywhere — the walls themselves are sweating, cold droplets sliding slowly down to the floor — everything seems to breathe.

 

I feel a bizarre cold, as if the window were wide open, and even then I can’t bring myself to grab a blanket from the box beside me. It’s like I’m trapped under a steel sheet, pinning me to this old mattress and suffocating me little by little.

 

I may be paranoid, unhinged — “the city girl, too sensitive for the countryside.” I try to convince myself they’re just curious animals, probably have never even seen a person before. But there’s something in me — small, stubborn, and frantic — that whispers, with a certainty I don’t want to hear:

 

I am not alone.

 

I’m going to try to sleep; I need to rest. All this shit will be tomorrow-me’s problem, or else I think I’ll choke on my own heart. I can hear the pounding growing faster and faster, that sound is driving me insane.

 

I need answers, but I can’t take any more of this — not tonight.

 

I need to close my eyes and forget, for at least a few hours, I exist to try to escape this persevering state of hypervigilance. Tomorrow I’ll keep searching for the keys and maybe I’ll find something relevant to make sense of all this.

 

Until then… if anyone has any explanation for what’s happening — please, I’m begging you — just tell me.