"The Millfield Rotation" by Joseph Sackett
The Millfield Rotation
by Joseph Sackett
The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and cold coffee. Outside, corn stretched to every horizon.
"Look at this." Audrey thrust her phone at Ava's face. "Mary Hollis, murdered 1978. Buried under a dead oak tree right here in Millfield."
Ava pushed the phone away. "Another dead girl story?"
"No, this one's real. Cynthia Newman's brother went there last summer. Said if you visit the grave, something comes knocking at night for three nights. Three knocks at your door. You can't answer, can't look—"
"Cynthia Newman's brother also said he caught a ten-foot catfish."
Audrey bounced on her toes. "Mom and Dad won't be back from town for hours. The grave's just past the old water tower."
Ava hesitated, then grabbed the car keys. "Fine. Let's go."
The dirt road appeared between two corn rows, barely wider than a footpath. Stalks scraped paint off the doors as they pushed through. The corn pressed closer with each yard, leaves slapping the windshield.
"This can't be right." Ava white-knuckled the steering wheel.
The field opened without warning. A massive dead oak dominated the clearing, branches twisted against the cloudless sky. No wind touched its limbs.
They parked ten feet away. The silence hit first—no crickets, no birds, nothing. Even the corn had stopped rustling.
"There." Audrey pointed.
The cross tilted sideways in the dirt, wood soft with rot. "M.H. 1963-1978" carved crude and deep.
Audrey circled it with her phone out. "This is so messed up—"
Ava's hand reached out. Her fingers brushed the wood before she realized she'd moved. The cross felt damp despite the drought, cold despite the heat.
"Let's… go." Ava wiped her palm on her jeans.
They drove back in silence. Ava checked the rearview mirror every few seconds. Audrey kept glancing at the empty backseat.
By the time they reached the house, the sun had set. They stood in the kitchen, neither wanting to go upstairs alone, but both ended up in bed by 10 pm, lights on.
The grandfather clock chimed twice. Then stopped. The crickets outside cut off mid-chirp.
Knock…
knock…
knock…
Their father's feet hit the floor. "What kind of idiot—"
Ava shot up.
What? No—No no no. This is a joke. No way.
"Dad!" She scrambled into the hallway. Audrey crashed into her from behind.
Their father stomped past them toward the stairs, boxers and undershirt, hair sticking up. "Damn kids thinks their funny—"
"Don't answer it!" Audrey grabbed his arm.
He shook her off. "Go back to bed."
"The grave—Mary Hollis—three nights—" Ava's words tumbled out.
"Enough." He took the stairs two at a time.
Audrey clutched Ava's shirt. Their mother appeared at the landing, bathrobe half-tied. "What's all this noise?"
The deadbolt turned.
The door opened.
A wet, gasping scream tore through the house. Not their father's voice but something drowning on dry land. Then it stopped.
Their mother ran downstairs. Her footsteps hit the bottom.
Silence.
Both girls bolted to Ava's room and locked the door.
Next morning, they crept downstairs. The front door hung open. Car still in the driveway, but all four tires were flat. Both parents gone.
The second night both girls stayed in Ava's room again. The dresser scraped across the floor, gouging the wood. Ava shoved until it blocked the door.
"Tomorrow we pack what we can carry." She checked the window locks. "Walk to town—"
"We can't leave." Audrey sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop dying at twelve percent. "I looked it up before the internet cut out. Every story says the same thing. You run, you die. You stay put three nights, maybe you survive."
"Those are just forum posts—"
Knock…
knock…
knock…
Front door.
Audrey pulled her knees up. "It's starting."
Knock…
knock…
knock…
Back door now.
"How—" Ava backed toward the bed.
The kitchen window joined. Then the living room. Every ground-floor entry point, knocking in unison.
Audrey yanked the blanket over their heads. In the darkness, Ava felt her sister shaking. They pressed together, arms locked around each other.
"I need to pee," Audrey whispered.
"Hold it."
The knocking continued. Hours of it. Ava's legs cramped.
"Maybe it's gone." Audrey pulled the blanket down. "Let me just check—"
"Don't!"
Audrey crept to the window. Ava stayed under the covers.
"Get back here, Audrey. Now!"
Glass exploded inward. Audrey cried out. Something wet ripped. Skin catching on broken glass, tearing loose as she was yanked through the jagged frame. Her scream stretched thin across the yard, then nothing.
Third day, the shock of her family disappearing knocked her out cold. Her eyes fluttered open on the fourth day at sunset beside the dead oak. No memory of walking there.
"What the..."
Five crosses now. Four new ones.
Ava Brown 2008-2025
She stared at the dates. She'd died last night?
Voices through the corn. "...dare you to touch it." The Morrison brothers from three farms over, recording everything on their phones. The younger kicked dirt at the crosses.
"Stop!" Ava screamed at them. "Get away!"
They looked at each other like they'd heard a ghost and bolted through the corn. She followed, crashing through stalks, following their voices. The Morrison farmhouse appeared ahead, porch light flickering as dusk settled.
She pounded on their door. Three times.
No one answered, but she could hear whispering.
"Don't answer it, Chad. Don't"
The older brother yanked it open. "What the hell—"
His face drained white. Eyes fogged over.
Ava's eyes widened. She looked down and saw her hands—skin gray and loose, sliding away from her knuckles. Her clothes hung wrong on her frame.
The boy collapsed.
Mary Hollis stood beside her now. Eyes gone. Skin mottled and sunken. Her mother stood next to Mary, jaw unhinged, tongue swollen black. Her father's chest cavity gaped open. Audrey's face had no features left, just as rotted.
Mary pointed. The compulsion hit like hunger—primal, undeniable. Ava's gray fingers wrapped around the boy's ankles. She pulled.
Tomorrow his brother would find six crosses.