Predicting the Unknown

Howard wiped the sweat off his deeply wrinkled forehead. The sun beamed down on his thinning scalp mercilessly as he tried to prune the tomato plants he had growing on his acreage. His crew had missed a few of them, and so he pruned the sucklings from between the stems an hour before sundown was to arrive.

He paid no attention to his backache and the sting of sunburn on his face and hands. It was all part of his life, starting at four in the morning feeding his livestock and ending with tending to his crops. It was also a family affair, where his two sons helped, and so did his wife when she was still alive.

After shearing the last suckling he could find, Howard trudged into his home and wearily sat on his rocking chair near the fireplace. He felt satisfied with himself because he had pruned in time before the heat wave, which was coming in a few days, and which he had predicted, though the town major had ignored his warning.

Waving his hand to the empty room, Howard could recall the countless times people in town would call bluff on his predictions. They would even call him a loony. Only his sons believed him, and they would defend him whenever they could. Lately, they’ve been busy starting their own families and havn’t been around much.

Not knowing where his talent came from, Howard knew at a young age that he could predict what was going to happen by tending his crops. The first time he had a prediction, he was seeding a square footage he had just gained from the bank when an image came to him.

Mr. Fowler, the principal of the secondary school a block from the Main Street, was going to be involved in an accident where he would lose his arm. Howard didn’t know what to do with that kind of information. No one would believe him, not even his parents, who treated him like a child even though at the time he was twenty-two. Two days later, Mr. Fowler was in the hospital having surgery to remove his arm.

Ever since then, Howard tried to warn people. He was ashamed of having kept to himself what he had seen; he felt that he could have saved Mr. Fowler’s arm. Now, at sixty-eight, his face blushed at remembering. He rocked for a while until his belly rumbled with hunger. Looking forward to Ms. Stella’s shepherd’s pie and rocking himself to sleep in front of the fire afterwards; Howard shuffled to the kitchen.

In three days’ time, the heat wave hit, fierce and dry. Howard went into town to buy a cola pop at the soda shop and to see if anyone was around to tell him that he was right. There were a couple of boys sitting at the counter and Mr. Woodrow at a booth. He had dug a large spoon into a custard as Howard approached him.

Looking up, Mr Woodrow greeted him, “Ah, Mr. Steele. Come sit with me.”

A straw hat sat on the table next to the bowl of custard. Mr. Woodrow brought the spoon up to his dark lips and slurped.

“How’s the custard?” Howard asked.

“It’s mighty good.”

Howard waved at the soda shop boy and asked for a pop. The boy rushed to fulfill the order.

“So, I heard you predicted this would happen?” Mr. Woodrow said.

Howard nodded. “No one listened.”

“Oh, I did. Nothing you can really do to protect the crops, but I did everything I could do outside before this hit.”

Howard smiled.

“Now, I’ve been hear long enough to know that I should listen to what you have to say,” Mr. Woodrow said.

The soda shop boy came by with the cola in hand and placed it on the tabletop. Howard dropped a couple of coins in the outstretched hand.

“Well, I can only try to help. Some people just don’t want to listen.”

“You mean, Mr. Crawford? That old fool is only jealous of you. He wants to be the town’s know it all. But he can’t with you around.”

“It’s not only him.”

“Yes, he does have his group of followers. You shouldn’t let it get to you.” Mr. Woodrow said and licked his spoon.

Howard nodded.

They sat in silence as the soda shop boy took away Mr. Woodrow’s empty bowl. The two boys from the counter left and as the door slowly swung shut, Howard could feel the immense hit seeping in.

The heat lasted for a week. On the evening of the last day, Howard surveyed his crops. He lost little of his crop, but it was frail from the heat; they sagged like marionettes.

As Howard started pumping the well to get the flood irrigation going, he felt a tickle in his mind. He knew what it was, it was another premonition coming. He stopped pumping and walked into the field, walking parallel to the water flowing, which eventually dried up once the pumping stopped. Bringing his hands up from his side he touched the wilted crops.

An image came to him of darkness. It was his town of Beverly, shrouded in varying hues of black. None of the businesses on Main Street had lights on; not even the storefront lights. He felt like he was floating there, which was normally how it felt when he saw the future; yet something was off. An eeriness wrinkled the edges of the vision.

Howard found himself back on his farm, in the field, waiting. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but whatever it was, it made him frightened. He was standing in front of his corn crops; which were full grown in his vision. They stirred.

Howard knew it wasn’t the wind because they shook violently as if someone was grabbing hold of them. He realized he was holding a flashlight. Pointing it towards the corn, he clicked it on. A dark form, skittered across the beam.

Jerking back, Howard almost fell onto his back. He peered about him, searching for whatever the dark thing was. Relief washed over him as he noticed his surroundings; he was out of the premonition. It was short-lived as he realized that this was going to happen in a few months.

Howard wasted no time in telling the townsfolk what he saw; it was met with bewildered stares and laughter. The gossip grew worse than the last time, making him stay at his homestead more often than not. Even his sons wouldn’t believe him and had advised him to sell his land and live with one of them. Howard felt alone.

Holding a picture of his late wife, Howard kissed his fingertips and brushed it along his wife’s pictured face. “Ah Muriel, if you were only alive and well. You would have believed me.” He said as he placed the picture back on the fireplace mantel. There was a rapping at the door.

Howard trudged to the living room window and peered through the gauzy window curtains - it was Mr. Woodrow.

Opening the door, Howard said, “Mr. Woodrow, what brings you here?”

Mr. Woodrow was fidgeting with his straw hat as he peered at Howard. “Mr. Steele, I came by to ask you about what’s coming.”

Howard opened the door wider, and Mr. Woodrow shuffled in.

They sat in front of the fireplace, which was not lit, but Mr. Woodrow stared at it as if it were. He hadn’t touched his glass of water, and Howard was wondering what this was all about; he waited for him to start.

“Now you know I’ve always believed you when you would tell everybody about your visions. Saved me a good many times, like the heat on my crops a few months ago,” Mr. Woodrow finally drank from his water and placed it back on the wooden coffee table. “Is it possible that it might not be true this time?”

Howard watched him. There has never been a time when his premonitions never came true, maybe there was something a little different, yet they would always come true.

“Since it all started back when I was a young lad and up to now, those visions have happened.”

Mr. Woodrow peered at the fireless fireplace. “Mr. Steele, that vision seems quite terrifying.” He said.

“I know, I know,” Howard said, and it was all he could think to say.

Two days passed, and Howard could feel that the premonition was going to happen that night. Dread lumped down low in his stomach as if he had eaten a full meal at Blake’s Diner off of Main Street. He found himself talking out loud to his wife, wishing she were here. He called each of his sons, and when he ended the calls; he said goodbye to them as if it was the last time he would.

He peered out the window. The stars were twinkling bright, and the new moon was glowing down onto the crops. Nothing stirred, except for a breeze that tugged at the cornstalks. Howard knew that whatever was going to happen, it wound happen among the corn crop.

Deciding to settle down in front of the fireplace and his radio, Howard poured himself a small amount of whiskey, he didn’t want renege on his promise to Muriel and have too much. He needed it for his nerves. Leaning on his chair was his rifle, a gun that was handed to him from his father. Howard learned to use it at a young age, yet he never liked using it. He felt that there was too much responsibility in using a gun.

He noticed the sound of the crickets through the voices from his radio. Howard looked out the window one last time before he drew his attention to his favorite radio show, Dimension X, a show that immediately took Howard’s interest with its storytelling of science fiction. He let the curtain fall back in place; there was no one out there.

As Howard sat down, he glanced at his rifle. He had trouble recalling the last time he had used it, he hope it was like riding a bicycle - you don’t forget how to.

Howard was close to dozing off when the radio show ended. He turned the knob, and all was silent. He frowned. The crickets had stopped. Looking up at the cuckoo clock over the fireplace mantel, it read a little before ten at night. The crickets would have kept their song going at this hour.

He shuffled towards the window to take a peek, and then the radio turned on. It gave Howard such a fright that he grabbed at his chest. Staring at the radio, he saw the dial racing back and forth. As he touched the knob, it emitted static, and he drew his fingers back. The dial kept swinging, so he quickly switched it off.

An eerie silence thickened the living room, it almost felt hard to breathe. Howard grabbed his gun and checked the chamber, it was ready when he needed it. In the kitchen, he grabbed his flashlight. When he got to the front door, he hesitated, he peered back at a picture of him and Muriel up on the wall; he opened the door.

Slowly, Howard made his way to his corn crop, his shoes lightly scraping the buckled-up earth, he winced every time. The sound of the crickets never came back; all he could hear was the breeze rustling the crops. He followed the first row of crops past his home. His flashlight bobbed from left to right; he didn’t want to miss seeing anything in the dark.

He realized his flashlight was dimming and headed back to replace the batteries. Rounding the corner of his house, Howard heard the cornstalks move. He sided away from the sound and swung his flashlight and rifle as far as his arthritic shoulders would allow. Nothing moved. He strained to hear the sound through the pounding of his heart.

The crop stirred, this time a couple of feet from where he was walking. He pointed the gun and flashlight at the crop, but the flashlight flickered briefly and went out. The cornstalks moved in front of him. Howard bolted towards the front door. After slamming the door shut, he set the deadbolt in place, something he hadn’t done in a long time.

Walking backwards, he kept his rifle trained at the door; the flashlight lay dead next to the door. There was a knock at the door. Howard leaned against the farthest wall, his hands shaking. A voice called out his name. His aim wavered, and his eyes widened.

“Muriel?’ Howard said.

“Howard dear, please let me in.”

He took a step and froze. He knew this was impossible, yet he felt compelled to let his wife in.

“You can’t be Muriel.” He said, mostly to himself.

“Well, don’t be silly, let me in,” the voice said on the other side of the door.

“You’re in a grave in Beverly cemetery!”

There was no answer.

Howard’s skin crawled with anticipation. He wondered if they were going to wait or leave. The door rattled as someone slammed it repeatedly. Taking aim, Howard fired. The slamming stopped.

“What do you want from me?” Howard said.

The answer came as a giggle in Muriel’s voice.

Howard rubbed at his face, sweat was dribbling down into his eyes.

“No one believed you like I did. I always stood by your side.”

Tears sprang into Howard’s eyes. His heart ached and longed for his wife.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“It can all go back to that. We can be together again.”

Howard lowered his rifle. “It’s not possible.”

“They can make it happen, Howard dear. They’ll take you there.” Muriel’s voice said. It sounded as if she were in the living room with him. She was so close.

He was at the door, he gradually opened it. For a moment, he saw Muriel in her light blue dress and apron, she grinned; bright light surrounded her. Howard smiled back as the light got brighter and brighter until he was in it too. Muriel reached out to him, he did the same, but instead of Muriel’s hand it was a thin, bony hand taking hold of him. Howard tried to turn back, but was pulled into the blinding light.