I never thought I would write something here. I've always been way too skeptical to believe in random people on reddit. But honestly? Something weird, or at the very least, off… is happening to me. I don’t know if it’s just me or if this place, this farm, has something to do with it. But I feel like if I don’t let it out, I’m going to lose my mind for real.

 

Maybe it’s just loneliness. Being alone in the middle of nowhere can mess with your head.

But okay, let me start from the beginning.

 

I inherited my great-great-grandmother’s farm last month. That’s where I’m living now. It was one of those unexpected inheritances, the kind that shows up in a beige envelope with official letterhead and old paper smell. The message was straightforward:

 

"Your name is eligible as the next caretaker of the ---------- family property, following the wishes of Ms. Hilda ----------, as stated in the will archived at the ------- city hall. We request your presence for the official transfer of ownership."

 

Basically, no one else wanted it, so it ended up with me.

 

When I was reading through the will, which came with the summons, I noticed that only women were allowed to inherit the farm. I thought that was kind progressive of her.

 

But that’s just a guess. No one in my family ever really wanted to talk about her. Everything I know came from a few drunken slips at family celebrations or whispers when flipping through old photo albums with my grandma.

 

What I do know is that Ms. Hilda was a nature lover. She built a perfectly balanced lifestyle where the animals on the farm lived in complete harmony with her. No grooming, no fences, no sacks of feed. Each animal seemed to know its role, and somehow, they all worked together to keep this artificial ecosystem thriving with life.

 

She never had kids. Unlike her sister, my direct ancestor, who married a businessman from a nearby town. So when Hilda died, the place was just left behind. No one wanted to give up the comforts of modern life. And just as that, the farm was frozen in time.

I mean… big city, luxury, entertainment, convenience. None of the newer generations were willing to trade that to live like she did.

 

Being serious, I only ended up here because my financial life was circling the drain. I was in debt even to the pharmacy down the street. So when I got the inheritance papers, I saw it as my last chance to start over.

 

And maybe… to find myself again. To reconnect. Find meaning.

But trying to do that out here hasn’t been easy. As much as I feel connected and even happy sometimes, there are these waves, cold ones, that make every hair on my body stand on end, and I just want to pack everything up and go back to my dad’s home.

 

But at first, everything seemed fine.

 

I arrived yesterday. Alone. After more than four hours of driving, twisting through dirt roads, red clay hills, and eucalyptus groves that bent with the wind like they were whispering to each other.

 

When I finally pulled up to the gate, I was hit by a wall of heavy heat. Crossing through those rust-covered iron gates felt like stepping into a temporal bubble, framed in moss. The vegetation here is radiant, lush, and dense. The garden looks freshly tended. The trees are heavy with fruit, almost begging to be picked.

 

The air smells of earth and wild greenery. But there’s something else in it too, something fermented. Like life itself drifts through the breeze and fertilizes everything it touches. The closest I can describe the scent is musk. A fragrance of sweat, skin, and blooming things. It feels like I’m constantly wrapped in it, embraced by something I can’t quite see.

 

But what really threw me off, what really made me shiver in a weird and silent way, was the animals.

 

Chickens, goats, pigs, ducks, even some dogs, all moving together like a peaceful little society. No piles of droppings, no broken plants, no mess. Just calm coordination. It was like the entire environment had formed its own routine to survive, beautifully.

 

I mean… I’m a city girl. Raised in an apartment. But even I know things aren’t supposed to be this tidy.

 

I still want to double-check if someone’s been living here. Because honestly, if some guy just shows up out of nowhere, I’m going to lose it. There aren’t any fences around the property, and I don’t trust the doors or windows, they’re all wooden and flimsy, in worse shape than my bank account.

 

After spending several minutes completely hypnotized by the whole place, I parked the car and started unloading some of the boxes into the house.

 

Now let me talk a bit about the house. It’s huge. I settled into the oldest wing, built from stone and rammed earth. It’s way more preserved than the victorian-style front, which has already been half-devoured by time and termites.

That rustic part of the house drew me in right away. It holds a locked room I haven’t found the key to yet, the staircase to the second floor, and what used to be my great-great-grandmother’s bedroom.

 

Stepping inside felt like walking into a historical drama set. Everything still in place, the wardrobe, the carved mirror frame, the old books leaning on the shelves.

 

It was like she could walk through the door at any moment, lay down on the embroidered sheets, and pick up where she left off. That thought gives me chills if I think about it too much.

 

There was no way I was going to sleep in that bed.

So I headed back to the car and grabbed my trusty inflatable mattress, I had been dragging that thing around since my days in the scouts.

 

Still haven’t worked up the nerve to lie on the actual bed. The pillows are still fluffed like they’re waiting for someone. So, no way.

 

I woke up this morning wanting to be productive.

 

I was gently awakened by the golden light of the sun slipping through the slats of the old shutter. That kind of light that carries a fine, magical dust, dancing in the air like the day itself is whispering secrets. I got up, still in my oversized sleep shirt, and went to rummage through one of the boxes that I left in the kitchen to make myself some breakfast.

 

The kitchen is enormous. One of the biggest rooms in the house, easily. In the center stands a massive island, surrounded by charming little navy blue cabinet doors, their paint peeling beautifully with age. Came closer and touched the sink. Turned the faucet, expecting nothing but dry clanking, and to my surprise, water came gushing out.

 

At first, it spewed rust, sludge, insects I didn’t recognize, and this awful smell, metallic and putrid. But after a few seconds, it cleared. The water turned clean. Crystal clear. Almost sparkling. I braced for a clog, but when I opened one of the small cabinet doors under the sink, I found a wide black iron pipe, thicker than my wrist. I thought to myself: “Things really were built to last, huh.”

 

I even smiled.

 

I ran my hand under the water. It was fresh. Cool. Pure. “Top-tier well water” I muttered. I felt lighter, hopeful even. Ready to start the day.

 

I went back to the car to grab the rest of my things: more food, dishcloths, sponges, kitchen supplies, even some old spices that were stuffed in the back of the cupboard in my last apartment (the one I got kicked out of, by the way). And I also brought in the cutlery, I forgot it before and sadly I’m not Wolverine’s daughter to be able to cut something without needing knives.

 

When I got to the side door of the kitchen, the one that opens to the yard, the first weird thing hit me.

 

A pig.

 

A big one, with a white patch on its face. It was massive and looked pretty old. It stared at me for a long while as I awkwardly tried to open the stuck door without dropping the box I was carrying.

Eventually, I gave up and set the box down.

 

The moment I did that, the pig casually walked up and, with an unnervingly natural push, shoved the door open. Then it just trotted off like it had somewhere to be.

 

I swear, someone must’ve been living here. There’s no way a pig just understands intent like that.

 

It was kind of cute. A little unsettling, sure. I keep forgetting how massive pigs can be. I picked up the box again, set it on the counter, and went back for the rest, this time jamming a stone into the door to keep it from shutting.

 

Once everything was finally inside, I wiped down the counters and made myself a quick sandwich while watching the animals through the big window above the main sink.

 

The sunlight filtered through the window, catching the old embroidered curtain. Even tattered and faded, it was still beautiful. Delicate. The lace filtered the light, casting soft patterns of shadows and glow across the tiles. It was one of those calm, poetic little moments that make you feel grateful to be alive.

 

So I stepped closer to the window, letting the sun hit my face. That’s when I saw them.

 

The spiders.

 

Small, brown ones with long, thin legs and delicate thread-like bodies. At first, from a distance, I thought they were just specks of dust or dirt on the curtain (I seriously need new glasses). But when I got closer, I realized they were moving with precision.

They were working together.

 

And the weirdest part?

They were weaving a single web. One unified, spiraled, symmetrical pattern. Fluid and deliberate. Almost like a choreographed dance among silken threads. And the design…

 

The design matched the curtain.

 

The spiders were copying the embroidery. 

 

My brain just froze.

Do spiders do that? Do they have visual memory? Can they replicate human-made patterns? How do they even communicate something like that?

 

I thought about grabbing my phone to take a photo. But something made me hesitate. Like photographing it would… violate something sacred.

 

I turned back to look outside again, still dazed by what I’d just seen. That’s when I realized…
 

I was being watched it all that time.

 

A group of geese stood at the edge of the yard, just near the hedges that lined the path to one of the gardens. Their necks were fully stretched, all eyes locked on me, unblinking, perfectly still.

 

Those eyes…

 

I was paralyzed. My chest tightened with that eerie, primal sense that you’re being sized up.

 

They weren’t honking, flapping, pecking at the ground, literally nothing. Just stillness. Deep, heavy silence. 

 

Like they were measuring me.

 

After what felt like minutes, I stepped a bit closer to the window. That’s when, as if someone had flipped a switch, they all turned and began waddling in single file toward the bushes, their plump behinds bobbing side to side like nothing had happened.

 

It was a strange mix of relief and embarrassment, getting spooked by birds with fluffy butts who eat lettuce and worms.

Still, something instinctive lingered.

 

I closed the curtains. Carefully. Trying not to disturb the little lace-weavers still tirelessly at work.

 

I finished my sandwich and tried to move on with the day. Took my things to the bedroom, cleaned out the dresser, sorted the pantry, opened some of the windows I could manage, let the air circulate. I scrubbed the living room floor, wiped the kitchen and bedroom moldings, and tried to get rid of the black mildew growing in the corners, but no luck. I’ll try using bleach tomorrow.

 

I also opened the wooden blinds in my great-great-grandmother’s room. The place feels... not haunted, exactly, but dense. The air smells like cedar and some kind of faint floral sweetness. Her clothes are still in the wardrobe. Her handkerchiefs are still folded. The old perfume bottles still have liquid inside.

 

I didn’t touch much. Just enough to dust around.

 

Last night I had to shove the old bed to the side to fit my inflatable mattress.

Only in daylight did I notice the wood beneath it is darker. More porous. It scratches easily. Probably explains the smell. 

 

After that, I made some food, watched a couple of movies, and worked on a freelance project I need to submit next week.

 

When night came, I used my little portable stove to heat some water for a bath.

 

That part felt strange too, but I figured it was just the surreal vibe of showering in a place that feels like a movie set. For some reason, there’s no mirror in the bathroom.

 

Afterwards, I made a bit of pasta and got ready for bed.

 

That’s when something truly bizarre happened.

And why I decided to write all of this here.

 

I was already in bed, about to sleep, flipping through some old notes I found in one of the bedside tables, just lists of herbs and homemade remedies. Ordinary stuff. The window was cracked open, letting in the smell of damp earth from the garden, and a chilly breeze that made the curtains sway.

 

I got up to close the curtains and that’s when I felt it.

 

A chill on the back of my neck.
 

A silence so dense it didn’t feel like the absence of sound, but the presence of something that didn’t want to be heard.

 

I leaned closer to the window, trying to spot movement.
 

And then I saw him.

 

The old pig.
 

Frozen. His huge shadow split by a stripe of moonlight, standing right at the edge of the trees, where the dark begins.

 

He wasn’t making a sound. Wasn’t moving. Just staring. Directly into my eyes.

 

And it wasn’t the vacant, curious stare of a farm animal. It was locked in. Intentional. Too aware. Like he was... analyzing me.  Judging me. That same look a teacher gives when they know you’re about to lie. That look that crawls under your skin.

 

My breath caught in my throat. My knees felt weak. My mind flashed back to the geese.

I shut the curtains. Fast. Took a few steps back. Then stood in the middle of the room, frozen, waiting to hear something… hoofsteps, a grunt, anything.

 

But I heard nothing.

 

I… I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe it’s just the isolation. Maybe I’m cracking.

 

But still… has anyone ever seen anything like this?

Maybe I’m overreacting. I’ve never lived with animals. I was raised downtown, surrounded by streetlights and concrete.

 

I know pigs can be smarter than dogs. But that look… That look was something else.

 

The glint in those dark eyeballs, glowing faintly in the moonlight. It’s still gnawing at me while I write this. Sometimes I think that if I open the window again, it’ll be there, right in front of my face.
 

I can almost feel his breath. Smell it. Like he’s still here.

 

Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Sometimes when my eyes glimpse the curtains I see his shadow on them, closer than ever to the window.
 

Maybe these animals are just curious. Maybe they’ve never seen a human before.

 

But some part of me can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone out here. And that this farm… remembers things I don’t understand yet.

 

Tomorrow I’m going to keep searching for the keys.
 

Maybe they’ll open more than just doors.

 

Update 2

 

Tonight feels darker than the one before, and the silence… it carries a different weight now. The air feels even denser, like I could reach out and touch it as I write this. Everything seems damper. And me? I’m just breathing, like someone trying to convince their own body not to collapse. I don’t know if I’m writing this to stay sane, to ask for help, or just to drown out the sound of whatever might come from the window.

 

Sleep feels like either an act of courage or surrender.

 

Last night I didn’t really sleep. It was more like a long, dragging passage through dreams soaked in dread and images that refused to dissolve even when the day arrived. I dreamed I was sinking into mud. The kind of mud that has no end, that pulls you down inch by inch while the air in your lungs gets heavier, denser, harder to grasp.

 

I was in a pigsty. Trapped in a dark barn.

 

There was no sound, no snorting, no footsteps. Just them, staring at me. Motionless. Still. Dozens of pigs surrounding me with eyes dark as engine oil, as hollow as the darkness swallowing that place.

 

They didn’t grunt, didn’t move, didn’t blink. They simply… bore witness to my descent. And the worst part was that there was something in their gaze that reflected my own despair. As if I were just another one, another number in a long line of repetitions inside their memories.

 

They remembered something.

And they seemed to blame me for it.

I woke with my chest aching, the sheets clinging to my body soaked in cold sweat. The room felt darker than I remembered. I sat on the edge of the inflatable mattress, the floor cold under my bare feet, staring into nothing until the trembling in my hands began to ease.

 

I felt ridiculous. Vulnerable. And strangely… sad. The kind of sadness you feel when you miss yourself. When you remember all the times you ran away. From conversations. From commitments. From people. From dreams. From your own reflection. I’ve always been good at running. And now I’m trapped. Literally surrounded. By overgrown vegetation. By memories. By eyes that always seem to be watching.

 

I thought about my father. He knows where I am, but couldn’t even be bothered to respond to my last message. I thought about Vanessa, my most loyal friend, the only one who helped me pack when I was evicted. Just her. Only she truly listens. But I can’t bring myself to send her what I’m writing here. Not yet.

 

Maybe because part of me still thinks I’m exaggerating. That I’m overreacting. Or maybe… because if I say it out loud, if I share it, it becomes real.

 

The comments I got here made me think. One of them suggested that maybe the animals were judging me for not following the rules my great-great-grandmother used to live by. And that hit me hard. What if it’s true? What if this place runs on its own code, and I, just a stranger, am breaking everything just by breathing out of sync?

 

So I decided to try something different.

 

Instead of keeping my distance and simply observing, I decided to follow what someone suggested: be kind. Interact. Feed the animals. Show up. Try, in some small way, to become part of the rhythm and harmony my ancestor seemed to have nurtured here.

 

The morning sun was diffuse, unlike the day I arrived. The sky was veiled in soft clouds, and the air was milder. I left the house with a basket I found in the pantry and a firm goal in my chest. I was going to connect. The garden was vast, bursting with different vegetables and greens, some vibrant and fresh, others painted in dense, dark tones.

 

I recognized pumpkins, zucchinis, tomatoes, kale… but many others I wouldn’t even know how to name. Some had fine hairs on their stalks, others were coated with a thin, slick film on their leaves. Each plant had its own texture, its own rhythm, forming a landscape of edible wilderness.

 

While exploring, something on the beaten earth caught my attention: two large, shaggy-haired dogs were carefully unearthing beets and carrots, digging with surgical precision, as if they knew exactly where to go. They didn’t sniff around. They just knew. I approached slowly, and they didn’t growl, just kept their distance. I offered the nicest carrot I picked. One took it gently, and both bolted off.

 

As I followed them with my eyes, I saw something stranger on the far edge of the garden. A small group of mice, tiny, agile, and remarkably organized, hidden among the leaves, were carrying mushrooms and a kind of dark, round tuber. Almost furry. Like tiny black pom-poms. They were dragging them in single file toward a tree in the distance.

 

About a kilometer from the house, I followed their trail and found myself face to face with a massive tree. But not just any tree.

 

It was dead. Colossal and hollow. The trunk split wide open, with a wound large enough for a person to curl up inside. The only tree among dozens that looked… extinguished. But even so, it was smothered in life. Dense moss, winding vines, an entire city of mushrooms clinging to its bark. And the thing that seized my eyes the most was the slime.

 

A viscous, wet kind of mold pulsing at the center of the hollow wound.

It shimmered green-blue, with a gelatinous sheen. Fine strands reached out from it, veinlike, wrapping slowly around the inner bark like hungry, ghostly fingers.

 

I took a photo. Looked it up on my phone and found something called Physarum polycephalum,  a primitive organism that behaves almost like it has a nervous system. Not a plant. Not fungus. Not an animal. Something else entirely. A unity. A body that thinks.

 

But this one? This one wasn’t like the photos. It was larger. Denser. With that strange, pale-blue glow and an almost intelligent pulse to its presence.

 

I drew closer. Watched it breathe. Watched the dew slide across its flesh like rain on skin.

That’s when it hit me.

 

A memory struck me like a rusted blade, sharp, sudden, leaving something infected in its wake. I was thirteen. My father and I were driving upstate in the middle of a violent storm. Rain slashed the windshield, and then, a thud. He hit a deer.

 

The sound was so dry, so final. Blood splattered the glass, thick and dark, only to be washed away slowly by the useless, jerking wipers. I remember the smell of iron, the noise of my dad’s breathing as he stepped out, rain soaking his back, dragging the deer’s body to the edge of the muddy road. The animal was still twitching, gasping, unwilling to die. Its eyes met mine through the glass, huge, round, terrified. I couldn’t help. I didn’t know how. I just stared.

Back in the present, I blinked, and realized all the mice were watching me. Frozen at the mouth of the tree’s hollow gut. Fifteen, twenty, maybe more. Their eyes gleamed like tiny beads. Shining. Still. They stared at me like I’d just interrupted something sacred.

 

And then they ran. All at once, back into the tunnel.

 

But something in me, curiosity, fear, or sheer stupidity, made me follow.

 

I tried to grab one.

Everything felt so unreal, like I was dreaming with my eyes open.

 

The mouse dropped the tuber it had been carrying and bit my hand.

 

The pain was sharp and dirty.

Its little teeth punctured my skin like needles. I screamed. Blood welled instantly. The others vanished into the wet, pulsing dark of the roots.

 

Hand throbbing, I looked into the hollow.

 

And I saw.

 

Two eyes.
 

Large. Iris, pupil and sclera. It was human. Floating in the dark. Not moving. Cloudy. Dull. Dead.
 

But they saw me. I know they did.
 

The pale blue slime coated them like an open wound left to rot in moonlight.

 

My entire body locked up.
 

Tears welled uncontrollably. Those eyes… they latched onto mine like fishhooks. I started backing away before I even realized I was moving. I scrambled, tearing my skin on bark and leaf, the cold earth sticking to my knees and elbows as I crawled.

 

Panicked spasms threw me backward.

 

I pushed myself upright, trying to get enough control over my legs to run.

 

While crouched, half-standing, half-collapsing, I saw it.

 

One of the mice.

Dragging one of those eyes in its mouth like a marble.

 

The nausea hit me like a punch. I fell again, vomit rising fast and sour. My hands broke my fall, but that only brought me closer to the hollow. Instinctively, I pushed forward to stay balanced.

 

And that’s when I felt it.

 

Burning.

 

Not like alcohol. Not like heat. Something living entered my skin through the open wound. It slipped into the cracks of my flesh, embedded itself in the bite, and filled the cut like molten wax. It was hot. Sharp. Consuming.

 

I yanked my hand back, screaming. The slime clung to me, thick as glue.

 

I didn’t think.

I scraped my hand furiously in the dirt.

I felt the bark, the mud, the stones, all of it grinding against my open wound, taking blood with them. But I didn’t stop. I had to get it off.

 

When the panic faded and I was sure I wasn’t going to die on the spot, I stood. My legs felt like hollow branches. My vision swam. But I ran.

 

I ran until I was back at the house, turning the kitchen faucet, letting the water rinse the blood and slime down the drain. Cold water. Too much soap. The pain in my hand matched the beating of my heart. Then… the smell.

 

That same sickly-sweet, bile-like scent I’d noticed the first day. It was coming from the drain. I refused to think about it.

 

I sat on the kitchen floor, pressing a cloth against the wound. The tiles were cold, and the water was still running, diluting the blood into pale pink spirals. My body trembled. I didn’t know if it was from pain or from terror. Maybe both.

 

I didn’t want to look outside again. I couldn’t bear the idea of being seen.

That sensation, of eyes on me, had returned. Heavier than ever.

 

I went to the bedroom. The smell of the slime lingered on the back of my tongue. I could still taste it, like mold and metal. I found the first-aid kit, bandaged the bite, and checked my phone. It was almost 6pm.

 

I left for the garden around 10am.

 

What I thought would be a quick errand had become an eight hour descent into madness.

 

I hadn’t eaten all day. The lunch I’d planned to cook… it had been left back there. With that thing.

 

Before I could decide what to do, I heard something outside.

Something being dragged.

I crept toward the front window, peering through the dirty glass.

 

The basket.

It was there. Left on the porch table.

 

Everything intact.

And more.

 

On top of the vegetables, nestled between the greens, were seven black tubers, just like the ones the mice had been carrying.

 

I froze. Then, driven by something I couldn’t name, I opened the door, grabbed the basket, and shut it behind me fast. Didn’t look around. Didn’t breathe.

 

Inside, I washed every vegetable obsessively. Nothing had bite marks. Everything looked fresh. Like someone, something, had harvested it and left it for me. I didn’t know if it was a gift or a warning.

 

I picked up one of the dark tubers. It felt solid, earthy. I sliced it open with a small knife.

 

Inside was soft. Spongy. Aromatic. Familiar.

 

It was a truffle.

 

A real, black truffle.

 

Excitement surged through me. My heart started racing.

Money. A second chance. A secret I could control.

Maybe this was how my great-great-grandmother survived. A trained ecosystem. A farm that sustained itself, and rewarded those who respected it.

 

I grabbed a larger knife. I was going to cut the rest. I wanted to weigh them, list them, start planning who to sell to, which restaurants would pay.

 

And then I looked up.

 

He was there.

 

The white-patched pig.

Standing on its hind legs.

Paws braced against the kitchen external walls. So close I could see the condensation from his breath fogging the glass.

 

He was staring at the truffles. Or maybe at me.

 

Saliva dripped from his mouth, thick and blue. Mixed with blood.

In his teeth: truffle flesh… and scraps of something pink and soft.

 

He knew.

 

Pigs are truffle hunters.

 

And he was starving.

 

I gripped the knife tightly. Every part of my body told me to run, to scream, to fight. But some ancient instinct overruled it all. I let go of the blade. Opened the window, just a crack.

 

Grabbed the last whole truffle.

 

Tossed it.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

 

He knew there was more.

 

Hand shaking, I gathered the sliced pieces, the crumbs, every last bit.
 

Threw them out.

 

Then I heard it.

 

A noise I will never forget. Not chewing. Not grunting. Something deeper.

 

A gurgling growl.
 

Like bile from the throat of something long dead.
 

It shook my spine.

 

He dropped to all fours and devoured everything. Gnashing. Gulping. Slobbering. Tearing.

 

And then… silence.

 

I closed the window. Locked it. Ran to my room. I barricaded the door with a chair. Shut the wooden shutters. Sat on the mattress.
 

Shivering.

 

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

 

And now… here I am.
 

In the dark.
 

The battery on my phone is dying.
 

My backup charger is in the living room, and I’m too scared to fetch it.

I’ve taken three sleeping pills.
 

But sleep won’t come because my body knows what my mind can’t yet accept.

 

I don’t know if what I saw today was real. I don’t know if I’ll laugh about it tomorrow.

 

But right now… this very moment…

 

That thing out there saw me.

 

It knows who I am and it doesn’t want me here.

 

I need answers. I will get them.

 

Tomorrow I’m finding the keys and I’m going to open every door of this house.

 

Update 3

 

I found... many things. Books, notes, memories, corpses buried in melted rock from a past I shouldn't have touched.

 

I spent four days without internet, without my phone. It was the first time in years that I was alone, truly alone, just me and my thoughts, surrounded by the farm. I had plenty of time to reflect, to cry, to think about giving up and to despair, but I needed, and still need, more answers.

 

I'll transcribe here everything I managed to write in an old notebook during these four days exploring the house.

 

    Day 1   ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Before I realized I was alone and unable to talk to anyone, I woke up. One of those poorly slept sleeps, where you just wake up as if you had turned off and turned back on hours later. I was still very tired.

 

I woke up with the feeling that I shouldn't have slept. As if that moment of surrender, when I finally gave in to exhaustion, had been my certificate of weakness. As if I had closed my eyes and let the world seep through me, permeating everything.

 

The truth is that my body couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't take it anymore, everything just... collapsed. The night before, I took three sleeping pills and one for pain. Everything was expired in the medical kit I found among my things, but it was all I had, and I needed to forget those eyes.

 

I lay on that sagging inflatable mattress, the sound of cracked rubber damp with old, stale sweat made my head twist. Every joint throbbed, the stagnant air saturating my lungs.

 

Fear was still latent in me, my eyes scanned the entire room at every little noise I thought I heard. But somehow it felt as if my soul had lost its breath. And without it to keep me alert, only the weight of everything I went through remained, crushing me.

 

And now, here I am. The day dawned with a pale light, not as if the sky were overcast, not exactly. The sun is outside, hot, crossing slow clouds that filter the light like cotton veils. But I don't see light, I see only a fading.

 

My eyes see the world as if something were between me and reality. I feel like I'm in a refuge outside everything. Outside of me, outside the farm, away from the mud where my skin rubbed yesterday, far from it all. When I started writing, I blamed my scratched glasses for this haze in the first lines, but now I know, this dullness, this absence, is inside me.

 

A membrane of dismay filtering everything too much for my eyes, as if fear had dissolved into melancholy.

 

The air is different. The house... now carries a new scent. As if during my sleep, it had reconnected with the rest of the farm. It’s not a smell that comes from outside, far from wet earth, or mold, or musk. It’s something deeper. I feel the humid vapor rising from the walls, crossing cracks, prickling my skin. A slow, muffled breath.

 

When I opened my eyes, I had the strange feeling that I had slept being watched. But not by something outside, lurking in the distance. It was a part of me. A "me" that no longer recognized myself, watching me as if I had done something wrong. A consciousness that grew in the dark while I gave in to sleep.

 

Still, fear could no longer stop me. I had something clear in my head: "You need answers."

 

The adrenaline had abandoned me, hatred had left my body, replaced by a silent chill that squeezed my brain against my skull every time I remembered the sound of that massive pig chewing.

 

They were thick, viscous layers clinging to my memories, floating atop my mind no matter how much I tried to forget. I hesitated greatly before leaving the room. But there was a dark mugginess inside, a suffocating air that twisted every muscle in my body, tons and tons of briny atmosphere. I couldn’t take it anymore.

 

But before leaving, I redid my bandage. The wound looked different. Not exactly infected, but... strange. The skin around it seemed slightly darker, as if it were absorbing something. Like trampled blood beneath the skin, pulsing constantly. But the pain was only a distant memory, as if my body had decided not to care, or maybe the chemical cocktail was still holding me at bay.

 

After that, I went to check my phone, to see if anyone had messaged me, if any of you could help with answers. My body trembled, my hand failed as I pressed the button, and the phone gave no sign of life. It was dead, just like my hope at that very instant.

 

No signal, no light, nothing. Dead. I was cut off. Without it, I would have no sense of time, no escape route, my link to any life beyond this house had just left me. I went into shock, but at the same time was numbed by exhaustion. Some tears threatened to fall, I was afraid of being abandoned, like this place, but everything felt too unreal for me to care.

 

My first mission was no longer to explore, but to find power.

 

I knew the house had an electric system. There were wall sconces throughout many rooms I had passed, and also large, old lamps hanging heavily from the ceilings.

 

Everything indicated a functional, though very old, system. If I could reconnect the power, I might find a way to charge the phone, and turning on some lights would give me more security and make exploration easier. But... where the fuck was the charger?

 

Panic hit like an avalanche of knives, each possibility slicing through my mind. I started throwing all my things on the floor, opening box after box, tossing every memory soaked by the house's damp air with the same violence that the pig devoured the truffles. I needed a solution.

 

I didn't find one.

 

Before I knew it, I was crying again, like in the previous days. All my spirit had collapsed again, and the air mixed with my choking, anguished my throat.

 

After a while in that decadent scene, I cracked the blinds a little. I couldn't stand the old gloom anymore, the smell of decades of secrets, I needed a bit of light, even if it was faint and dead.

 

A few rays bathed the room, dancing around as if scanning for something worth saving. I began to follow their dance absentmindedly, while salty tears dried on my face, installing the discomfort of knowing no one would wipe them but me.

 

Minutes passed, or hours, I’m not sure, and I started to dig into memories that had remained sealed for so long, boxed in with tape. Photo albums, polaroids, recipes I always wanted to try on a girls’ night but never had the chance to, diaries where I glued every dream I had... I was having a tender, delicate moment with myself, embracing the dreams of a lonely girl. I always had myself, and these days on the farm, or rather, these last months of crisis, I had even lost that.

 

But then, just like the bumper of the car crushed the fragile ribs of that deer, just like he felt terror and despair with his lungs filling with blood, my body froze. All those memories came rushing back. I was staring at an old photo of me, faking a smile while posing with my father behind a cabin surrounded by ancient trees.

 

It felt like I was her, like blood was rising in my throat and I was suffocating, my brain warning me of my final seconds.

 

I panicked so hard I choked on air, flailing on the floor, scratching the dark wood and sliding off the mattress into a sea of memories and boxes. Everything was slipping away. Adrenaline took over me, and I just wanted to breathe for one more moment. Everything spun. I tried to stand, resting my hands on the vanity, only to feel a cloth slide off the wood and fall with me to the floor, taking two glass bottles with it.

 

A strong, aged, intrusive perfume. It flooded my lungs in a single breath.

 

Instantly, I calmed down.

 

It was strange, it felt like emptiness, but I was comfortable under that fine veil that hovered over me and distanced me from the pain that, seconds ago, devoured my flesh.

 

The bottle had fallen on the mattress. It was intact and still had some of its content. That’s how I discovered the unique scent that made the room feel safer than the rest of the house. It was that liquid — burnt, floral, even slightly familiar.

 

I slowly stood up, dragged my hand to the bottle and placed it upright. The liquid seeped into the cracks in the floorboards just like it seeped into me.

 

Once on my feet, I regained my bearings. I grabbed the cloth I had used to stop my bleeding and dried the floor before the liquid reached my things. Then I saw it, tossed among many other memories, my first phone.

 

My beloved Motorola V3. With everything still on it: the Barbie keychain, the holographic stickers, the rhinestones glued with Super Bonder, and most importantly: the turbo charger decorated with glittery twine. Intact.

I grabbed it, heart racing. I still had a chance. Maybe it would work. I took the SIM card out of my now useless brick and inserted it into the old phone. Then I grabbed the charger and headed for the room door. I hesitated a little before opening, but the perfume had dulled the fear, and I could finally step out.

 

In the blink of an eye, I was charging it using one of the car's dashboard outlets.

 

When it powered on, I celebrated as if I had found gold.

 

Then the universe decided to fuck me again.

 

I called Vanessa. One ring. Dropped. Tried again. Nothing. Tried my dad. It rang, but no one answered.

 

I started punching the steering wheel like I was punching the guy from the city office who handed me those papers. I was furious. Sadness, fear, frustration, numbness, everything in that moment was mixed into a rotting soup of rage. I felt my stomach churn.

 

I got out of the car. Needed some air. Took a deep breath and smelled the muddy, wet earth and the crushed grass. I kicked the ground and dirtied my boots even more, once white.

 

Then I saw them, not just watching. A group of geese near the house porch stared at me. After my crude outburst, they gathered. Some honked, others just ruffled their feathers. Their necks, once stiff and still, now waved with quick movements. They pecked at the ground, and after a collective stir, some pecks and nips, they walked off into a path through the tall grass and pumpkins.

 

I followed them with my eyes, incredulous that they finally looked normal... Then, returning near the house, I saw it: a small blue flyer, heavily faded, stapled to one of the beams holding the porch roof. I went closer.

 

An old, time-stained leaflet with several phone numbers: city hall, well drilling and plumbing, internet (marked as a major novelty), seeds, fertilizer, suppliers of all sorts, and below, in red, a large highlight for “RENOVATIONS.” And in that area, stained with faded red, was the number for an electrician.

 

I took the number, grabbed the phone from the car, and called.

 

He almost didn’t pick up. Thought it was a prank. "No one lives there," he said gruffly.

 

But before he could hang up, I almost shouted my last name and mentioned the animals... his tone changed. From curt and short to something more dry and cautious.

“I’m on my way. I'll be there in about an hour,” he said. Then hung up.

 

He just left. A few hours have passed, and now I’ll tell you everything I discovered after his visit, which cost me a grueling 200 dollars.

 

When the man arrived, in a shaking van that trembled with every pothole in the muddy road, I thought he would turn back. He stopped by the gate and just stared at it. I was already waiting there for a few minutes, a knife hidden in my pocket, ready for anything.

 

Despite being a grizzled, broad-shouldered man, with the face of someone not easily fazed… he only entered when I called him, still eyeing the rusty gate with suspicion. He gave me a wary “hello” and got back in his van, finally pulling it up closer to the house as I walked behind him.

 

He was short, balding, with rough hands and a worn-out uniform,  yet the uniform was neatly kept, as if he still cared about some sense of order.

 

When he stepped out of the van, I saw a huge Doberman in the cargo area, staring out the back window. Its eyelids drooped, and I could see its mouth moving, though the sound didn’t reach me. It was probably calling its owner. The dog clearly didn’t want to be there.

 

I welcomed the man, introduced myself, and led him toward the entrance.

 

As he stepped onto the porch, he took a slow 360° glance, locking eyes with his dog one last time before crossing into the living room.

 

He was very quiet,  or perhaps silenced by the house’s aura. He walked through the living room slowly. I’ll describe more about what I found there later. He scanned each corner, as if trying to find familiarity in the strangeness of that abandoned room,  now inhabited by a disheveled, filthy girl with deep circles under her eyes: me.

 

It felt like I was looking at my own lost gaze reflected in him. I followed in silence, already a bit out of practice with speaking. When he finally finished surveying the room and gave a frustrated tap of his boots, he turned to me, slightly adjusting his toolbelt, and asked:

 

"Where’s the fuse box?"

 

I gave him the most miserable look possible and replied softly that I had no idea.

 

He looked me up and down and followed up with another question:

 

"How long have you been here? Looks like you haven’t even started renovations. This house,  the whole farm,  has been dead longer than I’ve been alive. This isn’t a job for one person."

 

I was afraid to say I was alone. But what could I do? He clearly wouldn’t believe anything else. So, in a mix of confession and awkward honesty, I said:

 

"Uhm… three or four days now? I haven’t been able to do much yet… it’s been hard getting used to it, you know? I didn’t grow up… like this."

 

He looked at me and walked toward the door at the back of the room, leading to the house’s main hallway, continuing his search for the job I had called him to do. As he passed through the doorway, I heard him say, muffled by the walls:

 

"I could tell you weren’t from here… but honestly, missy, no one really belongs to this place. Mrs. Hilda might’ve been a kind woman, but all of this,  it was hers, and only hers. My grandma worked for the bread company, but everything eventually went back to what it really was."

 

So many revelations… bread, company… I knew my family had secrets, but I’d just come face to face with the fact that I didn’t know a thing about my own past.

 

Feigning familiarity, I asked:
 

"Oh right, the breads… I don’t remember if my grandma ever told me how that ended. You know how it is,  most people don’t like digging up skeletons from the closet. Do you know anything?"

 

He kept walking down the wide hallway, lined with dusty sconces and framed by locked doors and the staircase leading upstairs.

 

"From what my grandma told me, the old lady used to bake bread to sell around town,  over here, in fact. And she started hiring people who’d been laid off when the factory closed. My grandma was one of them. But then things started going wrong… this place was isolated, and people would get lost… or just not come back. Folks started blaming Mrs. Hilda..."

 

He stopped mid-sentence. My eyes were fixed on him,  I needed to know more. That’s when he said softly, “Found it!” while brushing his hand along the wall leading to the double doors of the small kitchen. He scraped away old wallpaper, which peeled off the crumbly wood with ease.

 

A small metal hatch.

 

"Here, the fuse box!" He seemed genuinely pleased, probably because it meant he could leave soon.

Before he could say anything else, I cut the silence:

"But what happened? Was there some animal attack? Did your grandma have a fight with her?"

He turned to me with a stern,  almost judgmental,  look.

 

"Hand me those red cables over there and the purple pliers in the corner of the case."

 

I handed them over, head lowered, still desperate for answers.

 

While he twisted wires, cut, tested, and tightened things I couldn’t name, he spoke without looking at me:

 

"My grandma was one of the last to leave. She loved this farm… a bit too much, maybe. That’s what made her see things. What made her realize something was wrong. It started with nausea, vomiting, fatigue…"

 

I wanted to interrupt, to ask how and why, but I knew that would make him retreat into a shell of silence. So I waited, patient.

 

"She was pregnant with my mother. The bread she brought home every day started making her very sick. After that, she had a falling out with the old lady and disappeared from the farm. We only heard about it again when the deputy mayor announced her death and the bread production stopped for good."

 

My ears were sharp. I listened to every word as if that man were a lighthouse in the fog.

 

"Do you know why no one ever stayed here again? I mean… it’s a big property, and the bread business seemed profitable, right?"

 

He turned back to me,  the concern in his eyes was obvious.

 

"Look, all I know is what my grandma told me about that old woman. People disappear. They leave. Everyone’s got their own life and reasons. Just like I came, and I’ll be gone in a moment… this story’s not mine. You seem curious, miss,  ask your family."

 

I swallowed that down hard.

 

He went back to the fuse box. A few seconds of silence built up in the dim hallway, until he pulled the lever. A rumbling, static sound followed.

 

Lights. Dim, yellow, but they were there.

 

"Done. That’ll be 200."

I didn’t hide my shock,  I was clearly paying the price for being inconvenient.

 

"I’ll go get my wallet."

 

I opened the bedroom door, stared at the mess, and after some rummaging found it. When I turned back, he was already waiting by the doorframe, impatient.

 

"We all set?"

 

I just nodded and handed him the last bills I had.

 

"Great. All set. Thanks for the business. Any trouble,  electrical, anything with the house,  you can call me." He said that already picking up his things and heading to the exit.

 

Then I remembered: I didn’t have a phone charger.

 

Embarrassed and dying inside, I asked him.

 

I made up a story,  said mine had exploded when I tried to jury-rig it into the wires from a wall sconce in the bedroom. He didn’t believe it, I could see it on his face, but he gave me one anyway. He also left a weird adapter: an improvised outlet with exposed wires and electrical tape, saying I could plug it directly into a switch if I knew what I was doing.

 

I thanked him as I walked him to the van. But before he drove off, something happened.

 

The same two dogs I saw in the garden that day came out of the bushes and stared at me. They didn’t bark. Just watched.

 

Then they turned to the van and let out a deep, hoarse bark,  aimed at the dog inside. That massive black Doberman, easily over 30kg, didn’t move a single muscle. The other dogs crept slowly toward the house, never showing their backs, like guardians reclaiming their territory.

 

They only backed off once the van vanished down the road.

 

Then they looked back at me one last time,  and disappeared too, down a trail leading opposite the garden, toward a distant grove of twisted trees.

 

I went back inside. Plugged the charger into the improvised outlet. Red light flashing. But the damned charger didn’t fit,  the ports were incompatible.

 

I took a deep breath and went to the kitchen. It was already getting dark, and I was hungry.

The lights calmed the memory of my blood dripping into the sink. I made three quick sandwiches, grabbed a bottle of water, and returned to the bedroom.

 

Now I’m here, writing in this journal like I did twenty years ago.

 

I’ll eat and rest a bit. Today was… calm.

 

I took another whiff from that perfume bottle. It sends the thoughts far away.

 

Tomorrow my exploration begins.

 

--------------------------------------------------------------

 

That's what I wrote on the first day. I tried to transcribe everything today, but my vision is shaking and my shitty glasses don't wanna collaborate. A lot has happened. I'm putting together a map, preparing supplies, and getting ready to explore the hollow tree, understand the dreams I had, and learn more about the experiments my great-great-grandmother was doing.

 

But I can tell you one thing for sure: she wasn't a good person, and these animals aren't normal.

 

I saw babies, their bodies soaked in something unnatural, contracting, rotting alive. Tomorrow I'll finish transcribing what I went through and discovered over the other 3 days. I have a lot to say about the lab, the sewage sumps, and the diary of her experiments.