Chapter 3: The Guardian at the Glass

Chapter 3: The Guardian at the Glass

The earthy, intoxicating aroma of the truffles filled the decaying kitchen, a scent of impossible wealth in a house defined by rot. Elias cradled them in his hands, his knuckles white. This was a lifeline. He could already see it: the drive to the city, the shock on the face of a high-end chef, the crisp stack of bills that would be his salvation. For a few frantic, blissful moments, the oppressive weight of Blackwood Farm lifted. He was no longer just a failure running to his last resort; he was a man who had stumbled upon a miracle.

He glanced at his other hand. The faint, blue-green glow from the mouse bite had deepened, the skin around the two tiny punctures bruised a sickly, unnatural color. Beneath the surface, a network of fine, dark veins was beginning to spread from the wound, like the mycelium of some parasitic fungus. The coldness had seeped into his bones. The truffles were a promise, but the mark on his hand was the price tag. A silent, terrifying transaction he hadn't agreed to.

A heavy scrape dragged across the porch outside, the sound of stone on rotted wood.

Elias froze, the truffles feeling suddenly heavy, like rocks in his hands. He held his breath, listening. The farm's watchful silence returned, but it was different now. It was the tense quiet of a stage after an actor misses their cue. He told himself it was just the house settling, a branch falling. But then it came again, closer to the door. A wet, guttural snuffling, followed by a weighty thud that vibrated through the floorboards.

He crept to the kitchen window, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. The glass was so clouded with grime he could barely see out. Wiping a small circle clean with the sleeve of his shirt, he peered into the inky blackness.

For a moment, all he saw was the moonlit yard. Then, a hulking shape moved out of the shadows. It was one of the pigs. But it was immense, far larger than any of the others he’d seen in the paddock. Its shoulders were broad and knotted with muscle, its bristly hide caked with mud and something darker. It walked with a slow, deliberate confidence that was utterly unlike a farm animal. It was a predator patrolling its territory.

It stopped directly in his line of sight, lifting its massive head. And its eyes, small and dark, found his through the grimy glass. There was no dumb animal curiosity in that gaze. It was the same cold, appraising intelligence he’d felt in his nightmare. A shiver traced its way down his spine. The pig knew he was there. It knew he had the truffles.

As if to confirm his thought, it opened its maw. A thick, viscous drool, glowing with the same sickly blue-green as The Marrow, dripped from its jowls, sizzling faintly as it hit the porch steps. Stained across its snout and tusks was the unmistakable dark red of fresh blood. This was not just some farm animal. This was an enforcer. A collector.

Panic seized him. He backed away from the window, placing the truffles on the dusty table as if they were burning him. His hope of salvation had curdled into abject terror. The truffles weren't a gift for him. He was merely the courier, the go-between in a transaction he couldn't comprehend. He had taken something that belonged to the farm, and now its guardian had come to claim it.

A loud, demanding grunt echoed from the porch. It was followed by a sound that made Elias’s blood run cold—the sharp, splintering crack of wood. It was testing the door.

He looked around wildly, his mind racing. He could hide. He could wait until morning. But the intelligent, relentless gaze of that thing told him it would not leave. It would wait. Or worse, it would not.

He crept back to the window, his body trembling. The pig was still there, its shadowy form a monolith of menace. And then it did something that shattered the last remnants of Elias’s rational world.

With a motion that was unnervingly smooth, the creature pushed itself up, its front legs straightening, its massive weight shifting until it stood on its hind legs. It loomed there in the moonlight, a bipedal monstrosity from a fever dream, its head nearly level with the windowsill. It stared at him, its intelligent eyes burning with an undeniable demand. It grunted again, a low, guttural command, and pointed its bloody snout from the window, directly at the truffles sitting on the kitchen table.

The message was brutally, terrifyingly clear. Give them back.

The fight drained out of him, replaced by a hollow, sickening understanding. He wasn't the new owner of this farm. He wasn't a guest. He was an intruder, a lesser creature caught in a food chain he was only just beginning to perceive. The Marrow was the god, this thing was its high priest, and he was the lowly supplicant who had dared to touch the offering plate.

His hands shaking uncontrollably, Elias gathered the truffles from the table. Their rich scent now smelled like death. He fumbled with the rusted bolt on the front door, his fingers clumsy with fear. He slid it back, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent house. He didn't dare open the door wide. Just a crack.

He pushed the truffles through the opening one by one, watching them roll across the splintered porch planks. He didn't wait for a reaction. He slammed the door shut, slid the bolt home, and then, in a frenzy of terror, dragged the heavy, sheet-draped hall table in front of it, wedging it under the knob.

He pressed his ear to the door. He heard the wet, satisfied snuffling as the guardian consumed its prize. The offering had been accepted. After a few agonizing minutes, he heard the heavy tread recede from the porch and fade back into the oppressive silence of the night.

Elias stumbled back into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair, his body wracked with tremors. The hope of escape was gone, replaced by the grim reality of his imprisonment. He couldn't sell anything from this place. He couldn't profit. He couldn't leave. He was just another organism in this monstrous ecosystem, and he was at the very bottom.

His gaze swept the dark, foreboding interior of the farmhouse. If he couldn't get out, then the answers had to be in. The farm had rules. The nightmare, the mice, the guardian—they were all part of a system. A system he had to understand if he wanted to survive. His eyes settled on a heavy, oak door at the end of the main hall, a door that looked more secure than the others, with a large, antique keyhole. It was locked. He’d tried it earlier.

A desperate, new resolve began to smolder in the ashes of his fear. He was trapped, yes. But he would not be a willing sacrifice. He would uncover the secrets locked away in this house. He would learn the name of his jailer and the rules of his cage. He had to. It was the only way he was going to get out of Blackwood Farm alive.