Julian Drury

Granny Gilman's Hog

 

 

Donald Richman, the new property owner, already had great plans for what to do with Gilman’s land. Despite his personal loathing of having to pay the farmland a visit, he could already map out in his mind where the new pit-mines would be set up. God the stench was awful, Richman thought. Didn’t this woman ever clean her damn farm?

 

The death of Ms. Gilman, whom the locals affectionately used to refer as “Granny” Gilman, opened up the reclusive mess that she hid herself within for the last thirty years of her life. Her death was noted as a suicide, though, it was the perhaps the strangest form of suicide for one to drown themselves in pig-slop. Either way, Gilman died alone and was buried alone. Her property was sold off quickly.

 

“How long till you think we can get this all torn down?” Richman asked his appraiser, who felt the need to dress in construction gear while on the scene, writing mysterious details down on his pad and paper.

 

“Don’t know,” the appraiser responded. “I can only tell you how much it’s gonna cost, not how long the work’s gonna take.”

 

“Okay, well, how much is it all going to cost then?”

 

“To tear the house and farm property down, I’d say around three-hundred K. That’s pretty cheap, because I figure most of this property is flimsy. I bet the big bad wolf could come and blow this away if he wanted to.”

 

“That bad, huh?”

 

“Yes sir. Now, to set the mines up, it’s more tricky. I might need a couple looks around to give you a final price.”

 

“At this point, it’s all for curiosity’s sake anyway.”

 

Rain from the previous night muddied the landscape of Ms. Gilman’s farm. It was already wreaked with disrepair, neglect spewing from the broken water drains that flooded into the barns, washing out all forms of mucked hay and livestock feces. The stockades were of withered wood, and even the cobwebs seemed to be in disarray. The farm was sunken and sterile, while the wind always stood still in the presence of living flesh. This stood still at the farm, for many years it seemed. There was a certain care in the disregard waffling about the farm, as if disrepair and maltreatment were qualities to be cherished, rather than scorned.

 

A quick survey of Granny Gilman’s property merely affirmed the suspicions held by Richman and his appraiser. The property had clearly been neglected for years. The cottage-like house where Gilman lived on the farm. Richman refused to inspect the house or barns, all of which reeked of the hideous stenches that he hated so much. The appraiser delivered news that had little interest to what Richman wanted to hear. The house was sacked and dirty, the barns all empty and filled of mud and soggy hay. The winds began to blow roughly, and tiny droplets could be felt in sporadic instants. Richman began to light a cigarette.

 

“Well, it’s pretty clear this farm’s empty. Poor ol’ Granny Gilman. Grew so old and senile that she drowned herself in her hog’s own slop,” the appraiser said to Richman.

 

“Yeah. Only a real crazy bitch would go and do something like that,” Richman replied.

 

“Maybe. I mean, must have been tough. Being all alone out here, caring for the livestock and making a living. Hell, just having to feed those damn shit-machines every day is a pain in the ass. I know, I had to help my daddy on his farm when I was a boy. I hated it. Nobody else supposedly lived out here with Granny Gilman, and by the looks of things, I’d say that’s right.”

 

“Well, all it matters now is that old Ms. Gilman’s land sits right on type a potential pit-mine, with black-gold just waiting to be shoveled out.”

 

“Seems weird though. You know they’ve had lots of cases of people disappearing around here for the past few years. Always a couple people every year. Some people in these parts blamed poor ol’ Gilman for those disappearances. I even heard one wild drunk tell me he saw Granny Gilman feeding some guy to her farm animals. Crazy to think. That harmless old woman?”

 

“You know her personally?”

 

“A little bit.”

 

“Did you know her well?”

 

“Maybe not.”

 

“Then how do you know she never fed anyone to her animals?”

 

“Well, I guess I don’t. How do you know she did?”

 

“I don’t. I never knew the woman, so I can’t say. But, behind the innocent look and smile of every cuddly creature lurks something abominable.”

 

Gray clouds gathered more concentrated in the sky, the droplets turning to slight drizzle. Richman noticed this, and decided it best to wrap up the day’s assessment before the rain set in too heavy. The appraiser decided he needed to go to his truck to check some paperwork while Richman finished his cigarette.

 

He flicked the cigarette butt into the mud, and waited for the return of the appraiser. Richman soon grew impatient, and began to pace forward, poking his head around in a vain effort to see if he was not alone. Flickers of noise could be heard, faint grunting that sounded almost human. Yet, after moments of the sound’s escalation, it was clear these were not the sounds of a man. Then, in short view, the sounds took a visual form.

 

It was an ugly brute, Richman thought; the ugliest fucking animal in the world. It was a pig, or at least a pig of some form. It was unlike any type of pig or hog that Richman had ever seen, or would want to see. An animal pure white, with wrinkles and scars laced about its back. Its snout was short and deformed sideways, and its eyes and facial features were scrunched together in a way that gave the impressions of a human face. The eyes were red, not pinkish like an albino. The eyes were pure red, like blood. Some points of deformed and rugged edged teeth stuck out from the sides of its mouth, and combined with the immense size of the beast, gave a shivering emotion of unease the closer it grunted and crept toward Richman.

 

Responding to the presence of the animal was not easy. Richman was amused somewhat by it, yet could not help but be silently terrified. Aside from the fact that no farm animals were supposed to be left on the property, it seemed disturbing that the one animal that survived the muddy and neglected apocalypse of the farm was that horrendous hog. The human like face of the beast crept madness into Richman, an itching, twitching madness that drills its way into your blood and veins from your eyes. The hog plopped itself into the mud, and grunted loudly.

 

Richman felt his fear was perhaps overblown. The appraiser would return any moment, so, perhaps the best thing to do would be to have another cigarette. Perhaps that would finally kill the horrid stench in the air. This would not be a solution, though. The drizzle slowly turned to hard rain, and the ominous hog continued to grunt and stare at the stagnant Richman. His hands began to tremble with every drag he took. Richman wanted to cover his eyes, but could not bring himself to do so.

 

“Ugly bacon,” Richman whispered in condescension. Perhaps the hog heard him.

 

As the neurosis of Richman’s fears began to bubble into laughter, from every corner of the dilapidated farmland, forms began to shift and move about. They were farm animals, though, were only shadows of what they perhaps once were. Horses with exposed ribcages, and sunken eyes walked forward. Sheep with wild, matted fleeces, crooked jaws, and thinned out to unnatural degrees. There were half-waddling ducks, with muddied feathers. Cows moved forward, their utters shrunken in, and like the sheep and horses, thin and desperate in physical shape. These animals all appeared from separate dark and hidden corners of the farm, trekking slowly through the mud. They all seemed to focus and converge on the location of the hog.

 

Richman backed away slowly, perhaps too slow. The hog grunted at him further, and slowly stood back up, never removing its eyesight for a moment from his focus. It seemed, almost, as if the hog was making signals as it grunted, sounds to act as orders or commands to the legion gathering behind him.

 

Surely the appraiser would have returned by now, Richman thought. Surely there has to be a way out?

 

He backed up further, until he struck a solid object, halting him. He turned to see the structure of a stone well resting behind him. Richman did not have long to look into the well. The hog grunted and crept closer, his legions of hungry allies following his advance. Yes, Richman only had a moment to look down into the well and gaze upon the dozen or more skulls and broken bones that sat at the bottom of the muddy and waterless pit. The skulls all seemed to smile, staring up at Richman with their empty sockets and broken jaws. The mud churned, and so too did the legion along with it.

 

It wasn’t fair, Richman thought. Why today of all the days? Maybe another cigarette would help. He tried not to show fear.

 

The stench returned, and the winds blew in different directions. The rain began to pelt down. The legion crept closer, and closer. Richman sat on the edge of the well, his hand trembling with another cigarette ready. He sat and wondered briefly, then reached a final conclusion that anything was possible when one suspends disbelief.  

 

 

 

Julian Drury is a student and writer native to New Orleans. His work has appeared online and in print, including Bewildering Stories web-zine, Rain Fall Records and Books, as well as Quail Bell Magazine. He also writes a weekly political column for quietmike.org. His interests are anything that makes life weird.