u/Chris_El_Deafo — reddlx

Under the Hayloft

Hi guys! This is a story I wrote about a year ago and only remembered just now and thought you all might enjoy. It is based on the Hinterkeifeck Massacre but set in the Midwest United States.

TW: allusions to child abuse. Nothing too explicit.

All feedback is more than welcome. Thanks :)

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Paw Josiah Keifeck. Outside. He chops wood. Thwack. Thwack. His silhouette stands atop the broad Kansas prairie as a single jutting mountain into the otherwise unbroken horizon. It is evening and the sun is casting golden rays across the American heartland. Thwack. Thwack. Further along the horizon a dingy wooden fence begins and then the great looming shape of a barn is seen.

A shadow-figure of a girl totes pails in and out of this barn. She takes them to a pump further down. Back and forth, back and forth. She is Mary Keifeck, daughter of Josiah. She is fourteen. She is carrying water to wash the barn. Back and forth, back and forth.

Maw Leah Keifeck hangs laundry on a wire and it dangles gently. A dog trots around her as she does this. This wire has an end tied to a two-room cabin in which the brothers Jacob and Francis Keifeck currently loll about. Jacob is ten and Frank is four. Another brother, Raymond, has gone to town and will only return later. He has gone to buy salt and canned fruit preserves.

Paw Keifeck heaves the axe down on one final log and the two split halves bounce off the stump and land on the short grass. He holds the axe limp by his side and ambles back towards the homestead. He passes the barn where Mary Keifeck is cleaning. He says something to her that ought not be heard by others. She nods silently and inside she is weeping. Paw Keifeck walks on and greets his wife and enters the home.

A pillar of smoke begins to form out the chimney as somebody stokes up the fire for dinner. Maw Keifeck pins up her last blouse and Mary brings the empty buckets out of the barn. Just as she sets these on the ground a great wind picks up and the hung laundry whips like battle-banners. The dog begins to bark and one of Mary's pails tips over with a hollow tin rattle. It rolls in a semi-circle and stops.

Jacob and Frank run out of the cabin now and invite their mother and sister inside. A storm is coming, they seem to say. So all the family then goes into the hut. The dog follows behind, slinking in last. Each one is a black silhouette on the orange horizon that coalesces into the shadow shaped like a house. All except for one, Raymond Keifeck, who is still in town, bound to return home at first light.

“Sup’s done, children,” says Maw Keifeck not long after. She swings a steaming kettle from the fireplace and each child lines up with pewter bowls and she ladles some soup into each. Bits of chicken float in broth with carrots and potatos. Paw Keifeck sets a stale loaf of bread on the table in their center room. The family gather around and sit on wooden stools. They grasp hands, making a chain around the table.

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Paw Keifeck begins. He holds the hand of his wife on one side and that of his daughter Mary on the other. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.” He caresses Mary’s hand but none sees this through closed, praying eyes. “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.” And now the final phrase of the prayer is said in unison by all the family:

“For yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

They dig in. The two boys eat in silence and Maw barely touches the food. Paw Keifeck takes the loaf of bread and, while gazing around at the family in dreadful, judging eyes, slices chunks off for each person. Mary first, Maw next, and then the boys receive their slice. Mary nibbles softly and takes an occasional sip of soup. The boys are nearly finished with theirs by now and Paw Keifeck rests his elbows on the table and laces his fingers, watching his sons without emotion. They don’t notice.

Maw does. She places a timid hand on Paw’s arm and he glances at her, slightly glaring. The dog watches from the corner. Paw begins to eat his portion. He mulls things over in his mind while he consumes. Big things, little things. Angry things, and quiet things.

He saw some injuns along a solitary hill not long ago, they were horse-mounted and watching the Keifeck farm from afar. He hated injuns, redskins that whooped and hollered and scalped his father when he was but a child. He kept a shotgun above the cabin door, always loaded with buckshot should any trouble come from them. His boys Frank and Jacob used to play injuns, with toy tomohawks made from wood scraps. He put an end to that.

Raymond was still out. Paw thought this for the best. He preferred Raymond to be gone tonight. The less people, the better, he always thought. Except for Mary, he would always have Mary. Dear girl. Beautiful, too. Once she had a lad follow her home from school and Josiah had taken his shotgun and pointed it right at the youth’s brow. The kid runnoft like a bat out of hell. Mary ain’t having no suitors, Paw Josiah knew. She was his daughter alone.

He glances over at Mary, whose eyes point unfocused at the bowl of coldening soup. He reaches into his boot and pulls a flask out and tosses his head back downing a gulp of whiskey. Then another, but this one is stopped short. Empty. He hands the flask to Mary who knows what to do. She takes it away and soon returns it full to the top. He takes another swig and closes it up and stows it back.

The boys politely stack their empty bowls and bounce restlessly in their seats. Maw’s eyes focus on them and so do Paw’s. They begin to lightly roughhouse and silently giggle. Now everyone at the table is looking at them in utter silence. Paw glances at his wife Leah who sees this and in an instant snaps at the little ones:

"STOP!"

They fall silent and shamefaced. Their Maw’s got her hand raised at them, a gesture of warning. The dog whines. The family sits there then and those with soup still left finish it. Paw Keifeck lifts his bowl and gulps the last bit down and sets it roughly on the table. He checks each of his kin, then slowly stands as though to make a great and terrible speech, but says nothing and exits out the front door.

Maw and her kids look at each other awkwardly and they all begin clearing the table. The boys resume their quiet play and Mary and Maw wash the dishes in a basin. It seems as though only the boys truly love each other. Maw and Mary both dwell under the same roof and one emerged from the other fourteen years before, but they never talk. Paw Josiah Keifeck never loved Leah. He felt for Mary, though, in his own corrupt way. And Raymond was often glad to be out on errands. He never enjoyed the Keifeck farm. Nobody did.

Damn horse-thieves, Josiah mouthed as he struck a match and brought it low to his pipebowl. Huff, huff. He sucked the flame into the packed tobacco leaf. Poff, poff. He was thinking about the injuns again. Sometimes he could see fires from their camps twinkling, far off on the prairie. Never spoke to one ever, did he. He rocked his chair back and forth. He took a sip of whiskey. He puffed. Something in the dark night howled. Kai-yoats, he knows. But tonight they sound different, like people skillfully mocking coyotes. The hair on his neck stands up and he stops his rocking.

They fall silent, as if sensing his unease, and he takes a swig of whiskey and begins rocking again. Coyotes ate his father’s corpse, he remembered. He hated them almost as much as he hated injuns. They were calling to the moon which was bright tonight. It lit up the whole farmyard in a selenic gray-blue. The dog slinks out of the house behind Paw and trots around in the dim light. Paw chuckles at the beast and slaps the pipe over his hand to dump the charred tobacco onto the ground.

The dog sniffs around the yard and walks towards the beginning of a pasture fence where Paw can hardly see what it is doing anymore. He brings the whiskey flask to his lips and squints as he takes a sip. The dog has stopped moving now and stands stock-still staring at something in the pasture. It lifts one forepaw pensively, completely motionless for an entire minute. Josiah furrows his brow and tries to see what the dog sees. Nothing.

The dog lowers slightly and hair along its neck is raised. Paw’s neckhair likewise bristles. He leans forward in his chair, trying to see. Nothing, so gets up and stumbles back to the house door. He is unnerved. He stops and checks the dog.

"Hey!" he calls. The dog doesn’t move. He calls again. “Hey gal! Lizzie! Git ‘ere, bitch!” He whistles but the note falls flat. The dog is aware of him now and hesitantly turns from the field and trots back to him. Her head hangs low and she slowly swings her tail as she ambles up beside Paw Keifeck, licks his hand, and returns into the house. He gives one last drunken look at the pasture. The cows are out there, somewhere, sleeping under the full moon.

Inside the house now it is warm and bright with lamplight. The boys have quieted down and Maw has prepared their bed. They have a single rope bed in the corner of the main room. Maw and Paw have their own middling bedroom and Mary sleeps in the hayloft above the fireplace. She has already vanished up here, silently changing into her bedgown. Maw prods the coals in the fireplace one last time and Paw stands at the basin and washes his face.

Then, one by one, each family member returns to their beds until none but Maw is left. She snuffs one last lampwick before entering the bedroom with her husband. She too changes into a bedgown and rolls onto the creaking rope-mattress. Paw Keifeck stumbles and collapses on the bed, and lays uncovered facing the rafters above. Maw turns her back to him and tries to drift off. Moonlight comes through the small window and a shaft of light moves through the room as the night goes on. Some time later, Leah still lies awake when she feels the weight of Josiah leaving the bed and hears him quietly leave the room. She doesn’t move or say a word. She just looks out the window from her place in bed and watches the long prairie horizon give way to moonlit clouds.

She knew what her husband was doing with Mary. She hated him for it. She hated Mary for it, though she knew it was never her fault. She hated herself for hating Mary. Innocent girl. Every night she heard their shuffling and wept to herself till morning came. Till Josiah returned to their bed and dozed off in a drunken daze. The shuffling started and Leah thought perhaps to cover her ears but couldn’t move. She looked out the window, an infinite stare into the gloomy, flat expanse.

There were things moving out there. Things she could not see but things she could feel. There were things that made odd silhouettes if ever they came into sight. They never did. The dog, Lizzie, walked into the room and curled up under Maw’s bedside. She didn’t cry tonight, for whatever reason she could not tell. She just listened to the shuffling in the otherwise silent house. Sometimes she heard whispering. Sometimes a grunt.

But then she heard something else. A steel-grating whining noise from outside the house. Like a squeeling metal hinge. Distant, perhaps from the barn. It went on for a moment and the dog stood abruptly, ears perked. It stepped cautiously out of the bedroom and out of Maw’s sight.

She heard nothing now. Even the shuffling had stopped and everything in the house had gone still. She could almost feel something breathing on her neck but she dared not turn over to look. She lay there, on her side and facing the window for what seemed like ages. Until quietly, she got up and tiptoed to the bedroom door and peeked into the cabin proper.

Paw Keifeck had descended from the hayloft where Mary was and was looking out the window into the dim night. The dog Lizzie was standing ready at the door and the two boys had sat up in their bed. Nobody spoke. Paw reached for his shotgun above the door, checked it was loaded, then with this at the ready in one hand he cracked the door with another. Instantly, the dog bolted out.

“Lizzie! Gaddamn bitch, doncha runnoft…!” he hisses. He raises his gun, steps out the door, and into the night. It closes behind him and he is gone. The family hears nothing for several minutes until Lizzie, far off, barks at something. Then silence, again. Maw Keifeck checks on Frank and Jacob who are scared. She sits on their bed and comforts them with a soothing hum. She hugs them both close to her and they begin to drift off again.

It has been a long time and Paw Keifeck is not back. Maw lets the two younguns to themselves and walks towards the window. She looks out and sees the empty farmyard lit by a high moon. She takes a shawl and wraps it round herself. Then she grabs a lantern, lights it, and silently leaves the house.

Mary watches her exit from the hayloft and after a moment climbs down and looks out the window as well. She sees her Maw walk carefully through the yard and past the pump. She sees Maw open the barn’s side-door, and lamp held aloft, then disappear within. Through the slats that make the barn’s four walls she sees the occasional glimmer of lamplight as Maw moves throughout, looking for Paw. Looking for Lizzie.

Then, the lamp snuffs out. She doesn’t see it shine through any more cracks and for a long, quiet moment watches for it to reappear. It doesn’t. She waits longer still and finally, after a dreadful break, the light springs back to life and she sees it shine through a window at the furthest corner of the barn. She waits longer but nothing happens.

Mary doesn’t like this. She checks on the brothers who have returned to sleep again. She moves to the kitchen and grabs the fire-poker and a knife. Injuns, she wonders. Her father was always whispering about them. The door creaks as she opens it and the chill night air hits her all at once as she steps out. She hadn’t worn a shawl like Maw but stepped bedgowned and barefoot across the yard. Past the pump and to the barn she goes, knife raised in one hand and poker in the other.

Her heart beats as she approaches the barn and still the lamp-light flickers in the far window. Maw left the side-door open and so Mary walks in and quietly looks about. She sees the aisle with empty horse-stalls lining it. A rope leads to the hayloft above. It is swinging gently as though some breeze had hit it. But the air was still in the dark barn. She walks from stall to stall, approaching the final corner from which the lamp flickers.

She rounds the corner then and sees the lamp, sitting on the hay-strewn floor, calmly flickering. There is nobody here. No Maw, no Paw, no dog Lizzie. She realizes, dreadfully too late, that something terrible has happened. Something terrible that was in this very barn with her. The darkness presses in on her and she begins to quake. The lamp sputters.

If one watched from the house window then, they would have seen the lamp go out one last time. But no one was there to witness it. The boys were asleep again and no one came to wake them. The night was completely dark and nothing moved except for the occasional wind on the prairie. Silence. Utter silence. Stars twinkled and a coyote called a single, lonely whine.

Then, something gentle wakes the boys.

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Raymond Keifeck had been away from home the entire day and night. He’d lodged at a saloon in town where he’d found the fruit preserves his Maw had requested. He had these and other amenities in a knapsack on his back. He had walked five miles since early sunrise and was approaching his family’s farm. He follows the horse-path and passes rickety fences he and his Paw had built years back. He couldn’t see any of the livestock from where he walked.

“SOOOO-EE!” he calls. Nothing. No cowbells or calls in return. Huh. He walks on and sees the homestead, peaceful in the late morning light. Nobody is about, which strikes him as odd. Always, at the very least, his Paw would be outside doing some menial work. He steps up to the two-room hut and onto the porch. He swings off his bag and, carrying it beside him, enters the house.

The front room is empty. His little brothers’ bed is empty. He finds his Paw and Maw’s room likewise devoid. He calls up to the loft for Mary but nobody answers. He looks around one last time before marching outside with an air of concern. He glances all about, looking for signs of his family. He walks up to the barn and grasps one of the great double-doors. He pulls it open and light streams into the large stable. He looks inside.

Lying near his feet he sees a shattered lamp. He looks up and further into the barn and for a long time stands motionless, staring at what lies within. Then, with a quivering lip, he whispers:

“My God.”