Day 815

A new postman came to the door this morning and I knew he was a fresh one when he asked about number 58 that was meant to be right next door to me, at least it was on the SatNav thing he had plugged into his van. The regular ones don't ask about the other houses, they just leave the post beside the memorial down the road like they're supposed to. The others will get it when and if they can.

I do hate having to explain the whole story but this lad was just asking so many questions I felt he should be sat down and told what's what in a proper manner which is exactly what I did.

Beginning the story is always the hardest part, you have to know what events are important to it and what can be left behind. The truth of the story starts some eight hundred years ago when the wheat fields were first planted and harvested. The old ways said you had to leave every third bundle of the first day's harvest down by the river to appease the local spirits but some "modern man of science" reckoned he'd rather make profit of it.

From then on something wasn't right about the place, it had the kind of wind to it that makes you hear your name being whispered in your mother's voice when you think you're utterly alone. More recently as the village hit its peak population of 1,805 the field began to grow. Now at that point it was owned by the council who hired local labourers to harvest it and give every last bundle over for profit, much like the first owner himself.

Every night from then on a house vanished with all inside it, replaced by a fresh square of wheat regardless of the time of year. There was no possible explanation and the council's plans to continue to harvest these new squares was met instantly with outrage from the rest of the village. What if the people who'd been in those homes were changed into the very wheat they'd been selling? It was tantamount to murder in their eyes.

And so the field was abandoned as a council money-maker while it continued to grow each night. People soon moved out and left the place to the field and its ghosts. Oh there are so many of the,. They stand in the field each night and count every piece of wheat, tying ribbon to the third strand before moving on. On windy days the ribbons fly like little flags and it's almost beautiful.

Now at this point the young postman was looking at me like I'd grown another head that called his mam a right cow but sure enough as I took him out back to where the wheat fields were lurking on the edge of my own garden, every third one had ribbon on it.

He didn't seem to believe me but said he'd leave the post on the memorial regardless which was decent of him. Still I don't reckon I'll be seeing him again, not after tonight at least. It's my turn to count the wheat with everyone else and I can only hope I do a good job of it.