Daylight spilled through a hole in the roof. Decayed with age and caving in bit by bit, the roof had been damaged by a terrible storm long ago. At least the light made the space brighter and more inviting. Particulates rose up from the mountain of grass in the hayloft. They danced in the morning light, as if they were being moved by a ghost. Well, one particular ghost.
Joan floated in space, looking over the hayloft of the barn for the forty-third day in a row. Wood panels were gray and speckled with lichen. A locked, black oak chest sat pushed against the wall of the upper area. If she phased her head through it, she’d see dust and cobwebs coating the bottom of the trunk.
And there was the grass. Hay had been thrown up there and forgotten, and seeds had fallen between the boards taking root in some of them. A nice place to hide in. Or maybe something else. After all, buried deep in the hay was Joan’s body.
Her azure floral blouse had almost turned black with oxidized blood and her jeans were sagging around her ankle bones. Flesh melting off of the bones. Maggots squirmed and ate their way through organ and muscle. A disgusting rotten mess. The perfect fucking cherry atop her being murdered.
When she went out that night, it had just been to stretch her legs. Maybe get a snack down at the 7-Eleven down the street. The night air was cool as she pushed open the steel gate around her property. Joan only made it halfway when icy steel pressed to her temple.
“You’re going to do as I say,” a male voice hissed. Joan screamed and pushed him away. She made it two steps before the gun smacked into her head. Everything went black. Next, she was outside of her body as the man shoved the gun into his pants and left the barn.
Her granny always said she was destined for heaven when she died, and Joan had believed it and expected that all her life. But no. She was trapped on Earth. And considering how long she’d been here, stuck beside her corpse, no one knew where she was or what had even happened to her.
“Is it so much for people to do some actual investigating?” Joan sneered to herself, swatting at a fly that passed through her hand. But it couldn’t be that simple. She hadn’t even told her family where she was going that night. Her phone was gone. That pervert must have taken it to avoid her being tracked down.
The barn door creaked open, and Joan whirled. She floated over the edge of the hayloft to peer at the noise source. About a dozen state troopers entered the barn. Joan hugged herself with a gasp. Did someone finally give a shit about her and her family to give a lead in the search for her?
“Oh God,” said one of the troopers, grabbing his face. “It definitely smells of dead bodies in here.”
“Spread out,” barked another one. “We’re searching every inch of this place. The Rivers girl could be in here, and we can’t let the family down.”
“Yes Sergeant!” shouted the troopers and they set off in pairs.
“I’m up here!” Joan screamed. No one reacted as the troopers began to investigate. As the troopers methodically swept the barn, the daylight slowly turned amber. A trooper approached the sergeant.
“There’s nothing in here sir,” he said. “Maybe the tip was wrong.”
“Did we check the hayloft yet?” asked the sergeant. “There could be something up there we haven’t seen.”
“Nope,” the trooper responded. “The ladder’s rotted away. Cruz went to find one from somewhere nearby.”
The sergeant shoved a large crate below the ledge of the hayloft and stepped onto it.
“Give me a boost, we’re burning daylight.” The trooper lifted him up and the sergeant grunted as he pulled himself onto the hayloft.
“I’m right here, I’m right here!” Joan screeched, jabbing at the hay pile. The sergeant recoiled a bit at the smell but began shoving hay aside. He pushed aside one handful and flinched.
“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing his nose.
“Get CSI up here,” he called down to the other troopers. “We’ve got a body.”
Grace enveloped Joan and she shivered with joy. There would be light at the end of the tunnel now that she had been finally found.
Featured Image: McVey’s Barn by Andrew Wyeth (1948).
Jayden Klaus is a journalism major class of 2025 at CCSU. She has long enjoyed reading and writing stories.
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