There is no point on the property’s edge that one could stand and see the other end. The fog swallows any sense of clarity, like watching a ship fade from the comforting grasp of a lighthouse. 

The only clue that such a boundary exists is the crows–or lack thereof. If one were to follow these creatures, they would find a distinct line these birds never cross. They know better. They know better because of him. The Groundskeeper, patrolling the farm. Currently, he is on his way to feed the pigs, picking up the trail of straw that follows him. He stops to turn the dried husk of a sunflower to face the rising sun. 

He hums the same tune he always does, the only tune that remains with his memory. The sound is similar to the out of tune screeching of rusty hinges as he steps through the pen’s gate. He lifts the empty bucket with ease, placing it in the empty sty. No rats. No bugs. Nothing. 

Until he spots a naive crow picking at the bones that he calls his pigs. A pest, taunting him - laughing at him. It is tainting his farm, his purpose. With a practiced movement, he grabs the pest, ignoring the feathers jutting out between his fingers. As he opens his mouth, the sound of stitches being pulled apart is nearly indistinguishable from the crunch of bones. Let it try to laugh now. 

Finally, the land is back to its peaceful silence, aside from his humming, of course. That is until something strange happens. There is a man. He seems frightened and confused, stumbling as he walks along the fields. 

What an inconvenient thing it must be; to have muscles that wear so easily. The two look at each other. They can only see the silhouette of the other. The man calls out, asking for assistance, as his car has run out of gas, and how he is terribly sorry for the disruption and how he cannot find any cell service 

He stops calling out when the silhouette of the Groundskeeper comes closer, and the man realizes he has not been talking to a person at all. What he has been talking to is hulking and lumpy and had far too many joints–or maybe those weren’t joints at all. Burlap skin is patched here and there with scraps of fabric and thread. His eyes are nothing but two black buttons that somehow don’t reflect any light. This is the main thing the man notices.

The main thing the Groundskeeper notices is the state of his field. How the brown brush remains undisturbed, how the man had been careful not to disrupt the area. How this man is no pest. 

They simply stare at each other until the Groundskeeper gestures to be followed. He is happy to have a guest, he says, as it has been far too long. The man wants to leave. He wants nothing more than to turn on his heel and escape this abomination standing in front of him. And yet, he finds himself following the Groundskeeper. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps he is afraid of upsetting this monster. Or perhaps curiosity wins out over self-preservation. He takes a breath and steps over the threshold to the small cottage. 

There is no fire in the fireplace, and yet it is warm. There are no lights, and yet it is well-lit. It is pristine, in a way, despite how worn it is. It is damageless, but the colors of the place had long since faded. It feels less like standing in a space, and more like intruding on a memory that is not his. 

The man has a banjo. He always carries it with him. He fidgets with the strap, unsure of what to do with himself. The Groundskeeper notices, intrigued. He asks the man to play something, if he’d be so kind. 

The man is grateful for an opportunity to look at anything other than this thing before him. He strums the banjo as the other watches in transfixed silence. 

The groundskeeper is still. So unnaturally unmoving. He is focused only on the music. It is so beautiful, so wonderful– so utterly human. 

“May I?” The Groundskeeper asks after a moment, gesturing for the banjo. The man hesitates, before deciding against upsetting his host. He hands it over. The Groundskeeper reverently holds the instrument, pressing his fingers into the strings. 

He quickly discovers that his fingers are too misshapen and malleable to play any chords, or even strum for that matter. He looks back at the man. 

What a wonderful thing it must be; to have muscles to create such symphonies. Somehow, the man finds himself relaxing. The lightless button eyes he stares into exude a deep sense of sorrow that is far too real. 

And then the Groundskeeper finds a crow. A pest. It is in the corner, having snuck into the room through the window while he was distracted.

The man watches in utter horror as the Groundskeeper casually crunches it without hesitation. The man’s trance is broken. This thing is no longer the sorrowful soul desperate to create a tune. It is back to what it once was: a monster that should not exist. He turns, and he runs. He doesn’t bother asking for the banjo back. 

The Groundskeeper doesn’t chase after him. He simply follows the man with his eyes. He is confused. Why is the man running away? Has he not been polite enough? He clutches the banjo in one hand, his body hunched unnaturally to fit in the doorway. 

Then, he hears a small tweet to his left. It is a baby bird. 

He had eaten its mother. 

The bird has the same helpless look of the man. The same terror just before he fled. The Groundskeeper’s grip on the banjo falters. 

He pulls a handful of seeds from his pocket. Tosses them onto the ground. He turns around and walks back inside.