Mitchell’s in the Barn, Again

It was some minutes past midnight, when Emma looked out her bedroom window. 

 Out at the barn across the gravel driveway. From the glow of the gooseneck lamp, the right double door was partially ajar. 

  Damnit! She thought. Grandpa Mitchell’s in the barn again. 

 Once awhile, usually once or twice a week, Emma had noticed her grandfather would get up in the middle of the night and sneak off into his old barn. The old man was nostalgic, and he had built the barn with his bare hands during his thirties, so he would go inside the barn to reminisce about the past when no one was looking. 

 At least, that's what Emma believed. The old man can be stubborn at times, never talking about the good ol’ days in worry that someone was gonna see him as being soft. 

 Emma sighs. The day earlier was rough, so she was hoping to push the stress of it down with a good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning before she went to work. It was nights like these that Emma would get angry at her grandpa mitchell. But those thoughts fly by fast; it’s not Mitchell's fault, it’s no one’s fault. Someone just has to put him back to bed and get on with their slumber. 

 Emma turned away from the window and crept to her bedroom door, out into the hallway, and peaked into her parents room. Her mother and father were sound asleep. It was a long day for them too. She didn’t want to wake her father, Mitchell's son, since it looked like he was having a good rest. Emma had no problems dealing with grandpa Mitchell, she’d done it before, but she knows her father would probably feel guilty about it and in the morning will say something on the lines of “Awww, sweetie you didn’t need that”, or “Why didn’t you wake me up? I would’ve taken care of grandpa”. But, again, Emma had no problems with it. She was always glad to help her father around the farm, that includes putting grandpa Mitchell back to bed. Emma sometimes gets the feeling that her father is worried that she might make caring for Mitchell her main priority in her personal life such as hanging with her friends from down the lane. But as long as it’s not a constant recurring thing with grandpa Mitchell, she was alright with it. 

 She crept back out into the hallway, avoiding all the creaks in the wooden tiles, and made her way down the stairs. It took awhile, she had to take her time down to avoid the crannies in the steps, but she got down and walked to the front hall. 

 She went straight to where the umbrella stand stood. The foot of it was where she also liked to place her rain boots next to. Quietly, she grabbed them and slipped her feet in. Then she made her way to the closest to the left side of the front door. She gently opened it, trying to do so as quietly as possible despite all the creaks that can come out of opening any old door. 

 When she opened it fully, she stopped for a moment to listen; no footsteps, no stirring upstairs. Both her parents were sound asleep. Hearing nothing from the bedroom, Emma lowered her guard and peered into the closet. She reached in and switched on the light inside. The closet lit up to show a mixed collection of her’s, her father, and her mothers coats and jackets on hangers. The shelves above them were a mess of different items such as old scarfs, her dad’s box where he keeps the tax papers, some working gloves, and some other knick knacks. But her eyes landed on the orange-colored handheld flashlight on the edge. 

 She grabs the light and turns off the one shining in the closet. She doesn’t bother closing it yet, not finding the patient to do so quietly enough to avoid her parents hearing. She steps to the front door and, doing the same maneuver as before, slowly unlocks and opens it. 

 The porchlight illuminates half the front of the house and parts of the gravel driveway, beyond that was the mostly shrouded barn and the even more shrouded mass of woods behind it. While the night was cool, it was still warm enough that Emma didn’t need to put a coat on. She stepped out onto the porch and gently closed the door behind her. Before she left, she looked through one of the rectangular glass windows on either side of the door to check for any movements, any indications her parents were awoken by her shuffling downstairs. There was none. Good. 

 She turns away from the door, takes a deep breath, and walks across the porch and down the steps. It was a usual quiet night, mind the chirping of insects and the distant hooting of a barn owl somewhere in the woods. Overall, though, a typical peaceful night. Emma could see why Mitchell picked tonight to come out to the barn. 

 Her boots touched the gravel after the last step, and she started making her way across it to the barn. The gravel crunching beneath with every step she took. When it came to barn houses, Emma thought her family's one didn't look anything special. It was simply a large, triangular-like structure facing forwards towards the house, separated by the driveway and a thin body of grass, with a small dirt trail that cut across it to the barn. Rather than a common red, it had the color of a moldy brown. Actually some of that might’ve been mold, now that Emma thinks about it. Strips of brown, black, green, and a sickly gray covered all the wooden exteriors of the barn in long vertical patterns. To both sides of it the barn was enclosed by the deepening darkness of the night, giving it the look like it was halfway being swallowed by a portal into a dimension of blackness with the front side being able to push out of it. Though through the crack between the doors and into the barn, there was also a body of darkness. 

 When she got to the little gap in the grass patch, Emma pressed a button on her flashlight. The bulb flickered on, creating a beam of light that broke the shadows. Even though the lamp was on, Emma still needed it when entering the barn. There were overhead lamps inside, with a switch to turn them on, but whenever Mitchell came to the barn she or her father, or even her mother sometimes, avoided turning them on because Mitchell always gets frightened whenever the lights get turned on. It was probably because his eyesight hadn’t worked for quite a while, and the lights inside the barn did get pretty bright. Especially when it's dark. 

 Emma gets to the door, shining her flashlight towards the opening. Through it, the outline of her fathers tractor, caked with dry mud, stood in the center. No signs of Mitchell yet. 

  He probably went to his corner, Emma thought, looking toward the far left corner of the room. 

 Emma pulled the door more open a bit, and snaked her way into the wider gap. Once inside, Emma was surrounded by the shadows with the only source of light being the outside lamp and her flashlight. The interior of the barn was somewhat typical for what someone would expect; A big tractor making up a large portion of space, haystacks and farming tools scattered in various places, and wooden beams criss-crossing horizontally and vertically over each other. 

 Straws snapped as Emma moved into the barn, making her way to Mitchell's corner, she cast her beam around the darkened spaces. 

 “Mitchell?...” Emma whispered loudly. “Grandpa mitchell?...”. There was no response, as usual. Whenever he was in these kinds of moods, Mitchell wouldn’t answer much. 

 She made her way around the tractor, trying to keep the light pointed in the direction of the corner. She stops when she hears a quick shuffle. Listening, letting the silence settle some more, she could make out the sound of deep yet gentle breaths coming from that same corner. 

 Yep. Mitchell was in the barn again. 

  Good. Emma thought. Worst case scenario, it was some random drunkard that stumbled their way from town in a stupor or someone planning a robbery or murder on their home. 

  Or a raccoon again, Emma recalled with a shiver. 

 Emma steps around the tractor and--lord-and-behold!--Grandpa Mitchell was standing in the corner. He was facing the wall, back towards her. He was wearing his familiar clothing; a red-orange-white checkered collar shirt, dirt-covered blue working jeans, and a pair of brown, withered-looking work boots with laces. The back of his head was covered with brittle-looking gray strands of hair that covered half the back of his neck. 

 Emma sighs, then calls out in a quiet voice, “Grandpa mitchell!”. 

 Mitchell didn’t respond. He doesn’t move so much a finger even. His attention focused directly on a section of the aging wooden wall. 

 Emma took some steps closer to him. “Grandpa mitchell?” she asks again. 

 He heard that; Emma sees his head lurch, twitching to tilt up and have his left ear pointed up. There was a sound of cracking from it. Emma was taken aback by that sound. 

 Mitchell moves his left foot, then his right. He begins to turn his body, and his front half comes into full view of Emma and his flashlight. 

 What beheld her was not a pleasant sight. 

 Because what she saw was not a pleasant face. 

 Mitchells face was the color of crumbing gray-green, the skin shrunken tight on his skull that it was becoming visible on the outside, and what’s left of his nose was turned upwards with pieces having been fallen off to the point it didn’t look like a human nose anymore and more like a smashed molding plum stuck onto a person's face. His right eyelid was shut, while his other eyelid wasn’t there anymore. Not even an eye too. What was there was an empty, hollowed socket where the retina and cornea would be on anybody. But now, it was just an emptied hole in collapsing flesh and bone. 

 On his right cheek, well what used to be a cheek, there was movement, A line or two of white color on it, they looked like animated canker sores but on the outside of the mouth. Though these sores were wiggling, trying to slither across Mitchell's face and creating tiny trails of god-awful mucus on him. And he had no lips anymore; they had rotten off, leaving an exposed row of brown-and-yellow teeths. 

 Emma gasps. 

 The smell on Mitchell had gotten worse. 

 Emma almost gagged, but she swallowed it down. She didn’t want Mitchell to notice, she’s sure he would get embarrassed if anybody noticed that putrid scent. 

 “Mitchell…” Emma said, trying not to cough. “You can’t be coming out without one of us knowing”. Mitchell didn’t say anything. He doesn’t talk much anymore, not for a while anyways.

 Emma smirks. “Come on”. Emma beckons with her hand for Mitchell to walk up. Mitchell still wouldn’t budge, only making a long shallow breath that sounds like it was coming from someone with a huge buildup of dried-up phlegm in their throats. 

 Emma lowers her hand back down and sighs. ‘Guess I’m gonna have to walk him again. She thought. She walks over to Mitchell, coming next to his side. Mitchell turns his head following her movement, the joints in his neck cramping and creaking as he does. 

 Emma looks down at his arm. They still had skin clinging on to them, though patches of it looked ready to slide off and fall to the ground, and there were much more maggots crawling on them than on Mitchell’s face. Half of what was his pinky finger had fallen off. In its place was a small stump of green tissue and what’s left of exposed bone and the marrow. 

 Emma cringed at the sight of it. There was a lot to cringe when looking at mitchell. But it wasn’t Mitchell's fault. A body can’t hold on to itself forever. 

 So trying not to touch his hand, Emma pinched a piece of Mitchell's sleeves between her index finger and thumb. She slowly starts pulling Mitchell's arm towards her. 

 “Come on” Emma repeats, “Let’s get you back outside”. 

 Mitchell stared down at her with his single, sunken hole of an eye. Emma began to wonder if he heard what she said at all; Her family figured that Mitchell's hearing didn’t work any more now. 

  Make sense. Emma thought. One of his ears fell off ages ago… 

 Emma started to take small steps forward, still holding on to Mitchell's sleeve. Luckily, Mitchell followed her movement with a rather puzzled expression. Emma tried guiding him until Mitchell stopped. 

 “Come on Mitchell”. Emma said, “You got to go back to bed”. 

 At first, Mitchell still didn’t move. He stared blankly at Emma, before his feet started to shuffle in the direction she was pulling and he started to take some steps away from his corner. 

 Emma smiled. Guess his brain is still intact. 

 Emma and Mitchell slowly walked around the tractor, towards the double doors, and, with Emma having to push one of the doors more open, the two of them made their way out of the barn. They both stopped under the glare of the overhead lamp. When Emma lets go of Mitchell's sleeve, Mitchell turns his head back to her. 

 “Sorry…”, Mitchell groaned in a sullen-like voice. But the graveling of his throat, though, and the fact that he lacked some of the common materials necessary for a mouth, made it come out sounding like “Ssssorrr-ack-rry”. 

 Again, Emma smiled. “It’s okay. We know you like coming to the barn once awhile…”. 

 She looks back towards the barn, and when she turns back around she sees Mitchell is now looking to their left. He stares off into the distance there. It was the direction he would always come from. Overhead, there is a small blue tint in the sky hinting at the coming dawn. Out in the distance, the outlines of the treetops are partially visible. 

 “Are you gonna be okay getting back?” Emma asked. 

 Mitchell turns to Emma, then back at the night, and back again to Emma. He takes another long, shallow breath, and nods his head. Emma could hear the faint sound of his neck straining with the motion. 

 “Do you want me to walk back with you?”. Emma and her parents always worried that Mitchell might not find his way back. He usually does, but nevertheless they still get nervous of finding him wandering about during the day or of someone finding him. 

 Mitchell lowers his head, it looks like he’s thinking, and when he raises it back up, he shakes his head. No thanks. 

 “Okay…”, Emma nods. 

 Mitchell then turned left and started walking away. Emma watched as Mitchell moved and then became engulfed by the dark surroundings as he made his way back to the cemetery. 

 “Goodnight, Grandpa mitchell!” Emma calls out.