The farm looked like I imagined it: a small barn, a dilapidated corn crib, a couple of matching sheds, and a dying four-square farmhouse. The timbers of all the buildings sagged; gray covered the wood. The overcast November afternoon didn’t help.
I drove up the long, muddy driveway almost to the house. The power pole with its yard light loomed overhead. The remains of gravel protruded through the mud in places, between the puddles. A patch of brown grass grew in front of the bowed front porch.
Must be the place.
I clipped my little camera to the breast pocket of my jacket and started recording. I recorded all these meetings for review later if needed. I tell the clients to expect it and they rarely protest. Grabbing my notebook and my cell phone, I stepped out of the van. The scent of mud, manure, and autumn decay filled my nostrils. It was good to be back in the country.
The old farmer ambled from behind one of the out-buildings. Like all the old guys in these parts, he wore the same uniform. Old mud clung to his work boots; faded areas covered his jeans; his plaid shirt under a heavy brown jacket, and topped off with a cap proclaiming his favorite seedcorn. On the phone, he sounded eighty-some years-old and in person he looked it.
A white-haired and tired dog followed slightly behind and to the farmer’s left. It looked like an Anatolian Shepherd or similar, probably some mix. Whatever it was, it had as much life left as the old farmer. Gray fur would soon outnumber the white if the poor creature lived that long.
I didn’t want to make the old man walk all the way to me, or wait for him to cover that distance, so I went to him. It didn’t take long to cross the barnyard and offer my hand for shaking. “Mr. Loffland? I’m Timmy Hunt of Timmy’s Zombie Abatement Service. Nice to meet you.”
Loffland shook my hand. “Call me Stan. I’m glad to see you. We got some serious worries, Sammy and me.” He indicated the dog when mentioning Sammy.
Sammy lifted his head and perked his ears at his name, but just a little.
I opened my notebook and took hold of my pen. “You said in your call that you’ve had disturbances at night, somewhere near a cemetery.”
“That’s right,” Stan confirmed. “There’s been a couple of nights now where Sammy woke me up with his barking. We went out a couple of times to see what it was. I didn’t see anything, but I heard some things crashing. Some were near the pump house, but most were from the old pioneer cemetery.” He pointed out behind the barn.
I wrote what he said. It was the same thing he said on the phone, but it makes the customers feel better to see you writing things down. It makes them feel that you were paying attention, and that’s important.
Of course, I was paying attention. I take zombies very seriously. That junior high school trip to New Orleans showed me things we don’t usually see in Iowa. Just because we didn’t see them doesn’t mean they couldn’t be here. We used to never see armadillos this far north, but they show up sometimes anyway.
I closed my notebook, put the pen in the loop on the side, and tucked the whole thing into the right hip pocket of my jacket. “Can we go take a look?”
“We sure can.” Stan turned and headed toward the back of the barn.
Sammy waited for me to follow then he moved close enough to sniff me. I had the impression he would have sniffed me earlier but old age had taught him to just wait until it took less effort. He seemed to assume that I wasn’t worth worrying about, so he sped up just enough to get into correct alignment with his master.
The Pump House
I caught a faint scent of sheep, but I hadn’t seen any sheep around. My guess was that the sheep were long gone and Stan wasn’t in any condition to be tending them. It was always sad when the old farmers could no longer farm, but it was worse when they had no family to keep things going.
Stan mentioned on the phone that he and Sammy lived alone. Stan’s wife, Edna, passed away fifteen years earlier. His two kids David and Lori lived in different states and had families of their own. It’s a common tale, but sad. The old guys only know the one way of life and their remaining family knows another. The divide keeps them apart.
We walked through a gate in an old fence to a small building in need of paint. Stan said it was the pump house. It was about twice the width of an outhouse, but about as tall. A power line ran from the barn to the slanted, corrugated-tin roof of the pump house, presumably to power the pump. The rusted remains of a windmill tower stood beside the building, left from the days when wind powered the pump.
I fished a small flashlight from my pants pocket and moved toward the door. The insides of pump houses and similar sheds tended to be dark. I listened carefully for signs of movement.
Stan stared at the door, his furrowed eyebrows adding to his wrinkles.
Sammy’s forelimbs straightened, bracing him. His back arched upward slightly.
We heard nothing.
I reached, lightly knocked on the door and listened again.
Still nothing.
I looked back to Stan and Sammy and nodded. I was going to open the door.
The door pull consisted of two blocks of wood. The smaller block acted as a riser and the larger block being something to grab hold of. It was like a very pixelated door knob. I grabbed the pull and felt peeling paint push into my skin.
I tugged the door.
The top of the door pulled slightly open until it was dragged back by the bottom which was firmly entrenched in the clump of grass growing at the threshold.
“You have to sort of lift when you pull,” Stan said.
I followed his advice and opened the door. The odor of damp wood wafted out.
The pumphouse mostly contained a pump. There was the necessary plumbing to move water to the house and barn. A few old tools of questionable origin leaned in the far corner. Dust and webs covered almost everything; rust covered everything else.
I hit each part with my flashlight, inspecting every shadow just to be thorough. In one corner, at the base of the wall, light seeped in through some rotted wood. Nasty things liked rot, so that was important. A small puddle covered part of the floor, the result of a drip from the pipes.
Lifting the door carefully, I closed it again and began my inspection of the outside. The paint peeled on all the old boards, showing faded wood beneath. The ends of the boards showed rough edges that had weathered away over the years.
Making my way around, I looked for the hole I had seen inside. A tuft of grass hid the opening from view, but it was there. Vermin probably got into the pump house that way in order to drink from the leak and hide from the weather. That may have been part of what Sammy heard, but small creatures that far from the house wouldn’t be enough to wake the old dog at night.
“This looks pretty safe so far. You may be getting some smaller animals in through these holes, though.” I pointed to the hole.
Stan bent down a little and looked at the hole and nodded. “Yep, I need to get out here and fix that before it gets worse.”
He kept staring at the hole, so I decided to change the subject. “You said something about a cemetery?
“What? Oh, yeah,” Stan said while standing straight. “It’s over by the old corn crib.”
I pointed to the dilapidated corn crib I saw when driving up. “You mean over there?”
“No,” he said, “I mean the old one, over there.” He pointed further along the path we had followed from the barn to the pumphouse.
The remains of a line of trees and fence line showed the border of the cemetery. It was about four times the distance we had covered so far. Stan started off with Sammy following.
The Cemetery
The space in between had probably been a feedlot or small pasture at one time. The surface was rough and clumps of weeds grew beside small but deep puddles. Old fence posts and weeds laid out the former boundaries. It was tough walking for me, but Stan and Sammy walked it like it was their natural habitat.
We got to the fence surrounding the cemetery. Like many of these cemeteries from the mid-eighteen-hundreds, it was small. Though the grass was overgrown, you could still see the headstones. I quickly counted about fourteen.
“There’s the old corn crib,” Stan said, pointing at a dark space on the ground.
I turned to see a roughly rectangular area of flat ground. Two rows of square wooden posts, about four feet apart, ran parallel to the cemetery fence, each row with six posts. Moss covered the wood, and a couple had rusted metal caps attached. Lumps on the ground looked like rotted wood. This corn crib was definitely older than the one I saw earlier.
“Okay,” I said. “We will want to check that next, after the cemetery. Is there a gate in the cemetery fence?”
Stan shook his head. “There used to be, but it got damaged. Nobody ever visited the graves, so we just closed the gap with more fence. That was back in, oh, I think seventy-two.”
I nodded my understanding and turned to the task at hand.
Looking for a sagging part of the fence, I carefully stepped over and into the bounds of the cemetery. I did a quick scan to make sure nothing had reacted. It was fine.
Stan and Sammy seemed perfectly happy to let the professional take care of this part.
My plan was to do a methodical grid search of the ground. I would start by following the fence along one side, checking the ground for signs of recent disturbance. In a cemetery this old, the only acceptable holes should be those made by burrowing animals. Anything else would suggest the undead. I would also look for signs of cult activity, such as candles or strange symbols painted on the graves.
After following the fence, I would move inward by a few feet and walk parallel to the fence again. Check each grave for trouble or clues that might explain later trouble.
It occurred to me that I didn’t have a plan for dealing with problems. There were a couple of machetes back in the van, but they wouldn’t do me any good out here. If anything came up, I would just have to outrun it. That wouldn’t turn out well for the farmer and his dog, and the video would have to be hidden or I would be Internet famous for cowardice. I needed to stop thinking about that part or I would spook myself. I needed to focus.
Most of the headstones, of the ones that were still readable, had the family name Hottinger, the earliest with a date of 1850. It wasn’t until the 1880s that the name ‘Loffland’ appeared. Stan’s family had been here a while.
Stan seemed to be getting a little antsy just standing there. His hands were in his pockets, but he was shuffling from foot to foot and looking around a lot.
I decided to make conversation to keep him distracted. “Do you know the difference between a cemetery and a graveyard?” I asked.
The question seemed to catch him off guard, but he seemed happy to hear my voice. “I didn’t know there was a difference,” he said.
“Well,” I started, “most people don’t care and it’s just an out of date technicality. A cemetery is a place that was specifically put aside just for burying people. A graveyard, though, is a church yard, connected to a church, where some people happened to have been buried. The idea is that the church yard wasn’t intended for burying but got used for it anyway. Like I said, it’s a petty, out of date difference.”
Stan nodded. “I guess that would make this a graveyard instead of a cemetery,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
He pointed to the side of the cemetery, or graveyard now. “The church sat right there. It wasn’t very big. I was told the settlers built that before they even built houses to live in. They had their big Bible they brought all the way from Germany and set it up on the altar. I think they may have brought that too. Shame it all burned down.”
Okay, so we have very religious people building a church with a special altar and Bible, and the whole thing burned down. Now the owner of that land suspects that he may have an undead infestation. This could be important. “How did it burn down?”
Stan scrunched his face and looked to the horizon while rummaging around his memories for a minute. He held up his right hand and waggled his index finger as though flipping through mental images. “My grandad said he thought it was hit by lightning back in the 1890s when he was just a boy. A summer storm came through early on a Sunday morning and nearly the whole thing burnt down. All that was left was a wall and the floor. He said that’s where they got the wood for the old corn crib.” He pointed to the rotting remains of the old corn crib.
This just kept getting worse. Lightning struck the church on a Sunday morning burning the place down. Then the locals used the remaining structure to build something completely mundane. There was only one way this could get any worse. I had to ask, “Did anybody get hurt in the fire?”
Stan shrugged. “I think the preacher died, but nobody else. It was before the Sunday services, you see. I think he was one of the Hottingers, but I don’t remember which one. I think they buried him right here. Last time anybody got buried here. Everybody started going to church in town and getting buried there.”
I went through the names I had seen on the markers so far. Yep, I’m sure I saw it. Rev. Johan Hottinger, Gest 16 Juli 1893. I knew enough German gravestone language to know “Gest” meant “died”.
It didn’t make sense that the fire and the church would just now cause trouble. Any undead issues should have happened a century ago or more. I suppose someone could use the tragedy of the fire to enhance some dark magic activity, but they would have left traces of that all over the cemetery, or graveyard. There should at least be a disturbed grave.
I started my last row in the search. My work had taken me to the fence along the far edge. The weeds were deeper here, so I had to be careful. Tangled weeds can wrap around your foot easily and trip you. It would be good to get done with this part of the search. The story of the church fire had unnerved me.
The cracking screech erupted from the ground before me. Dark shapes rose into the sky.
I fell backward, yelling in fright.
I heard the low but loud rowlf rowlf barking from Sammy.
As I fell, I focused on the silhouettes of the things now in the air.
The realization hit; I startled a nest of pheasants and they flew up to get away.
I hit the ground, my head barely missing a grave marker.
“Sammy!” I heard Stan yell, “Stop that barking. Those birds aren’t hurting nothing.”
Any hint of unease or terror evaporated in the blazing presence of embarrassment. That was the most humiliating thing I had ever done in front of a client.
As I pushed myself up, I saw Stan and Sammy move closer to my corner of the fence. “You alright?” Stan asked.
“Yeah, I’m alright, just caught off guard.” I finished standing.
Stan grinned. “Those pheasants will spook me every time. There’s been plenty of times I nearly jumped out of my skin when one of those things pops up. You’ld think it was the devil himself.”
I appreciated his efforts to make me feel better. He could probably see how ashamed I was. My cheeks felt hot, so they were probably bright red.
A few more steps and I was able to cross the fence to the feedlot again.
I made my report. “Other than the pheasants, there doesn’t seem to be any problems there. There aren’t signs of disturbed graves or things to suggest that these folks aren’t resting in peace. I also found no signs of cultists doing anything out here, so that’s good news. Let’s check the old corn crib.”
The Old Corn Crib
We walked back toward the remains of the crib. At this point, pheasants had me more worried than the undead, but I still needed to complete the investigation.
I carefully made my way toward the first row of foundation posts. In the old days, they built corn cribs raised off the ground. This reduced exposure to moisture. Sheets of metal on and around the tops of the posts made it harder for vermin to climb up to reach the tasty corn. Most of the rectangular ones were narrower at the bottom, but I don’t know why. This couple of rows of posts would have used thicker, more seasoned wood to keep it from rotting, as long as the farmers had access to such wood.
Toeing slowly through the grass, I made my way between the rows of posts. It occurred to me that the fallen boards may have nails that might now be rusty spikes awaiting the wayward foot. I consciously slowed the speed at which I set each step down.
My main concern was the larger pile of debris toward the far end of the crib. Old boards protruded skyward. Tall, brown grass covered the boards and the surrounding area. There could be animals nesting there, pheasants for example, or any kind of dangerous materials. At this point, I wasn’t feeling like supernatural threats would be an issue. Still, you got to keep an open mind. Disbelievers tend to get eaten.
Behind me, I heard Sammy growl. It was a low, earthy growl. If he had been younger, it would probably have shaken my bones just to hear it. Instead, I shook because of where he was staring.
He stood rigid, his legs braced on the ground and his tail curled over his back. His lips pulled back to bare his teeth. His eyes focused directly on the pile of debris I was walking toward.
Alright, Timmy, time to get this done.
I took a deep breath. That’s when I noticed it. The wind had picked up slightly and came from the direction of the pile. It blew past me and then past the farmer and his dog. It kind of smelled like ammonia.
That was a bad sign. No idea what it is a bad sign of, but it couldn’t possibly be a good sign.
There was a piece of old board on the ground near me. I bent to pick it up. The grass tugged against my lift, but I eventually freed my makeshift weapon. Holding something solid made me feel a little better, but just barely. It was time to move.
Instead of walking directly toward the pile, I moved out of the old footprint of the corn crib and closer to the nearby fence. With less debris to worry about, it should be safer, maybe.
Closer to the pile, I could tell there was a hollow space behind it. I couldn’t see what was inside the hollow, but it was definitely a place to hide.
One last long step and I brandished my board in front of me, challenging anything that may be lurking in the depression behind the debris pile.
The sight left me relieved but angered. I lowered my board and shook my head. The farmer might be happy or disappointed; it was impossible to tell in cases like this. I had to tell him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“You’re going to need to call the sheriff’s office for this one,” I replied. I started walking back to the old man.
Sammy still growled at the pile.
Stan shook his head sharply. “I tried calling them first. They’re the ones who told me to call a zombie expert.”
That happens a lot. People are scared and call for help, but as soon as the authorities hear any word about zombies, monsters, or the supernatural, they just tune out anything else the caller has to say. It’s like they never watched Saturday morning cartoons to learn that monsters are often just some crook in a mask harassing the locals.
“And you did well to call me in. I’ve done a thorough investigation for zombies and other undead things and I can assure you that you are free of those.” It’s always important to let the client know they did the right thing. “What Sammy here is picking up is a bunch of noxious chemicals. I could smell the ammonia when I got closer. His nose is a lot better than ours, so he is probably picking up all kinds of things.”
Stan’s face shrank into an expression of confusion as he tried to figure out what was going on. “What did you find over there then?”
He wasn’t going to like my answer. “I found old coffee filters, some cans for starter fluid, some broken batteries, and other stuff. That’s the sign that somebody has been making meth in the little hollow area behind that pile. That’s why you have to call the police. They will need to catch who did that and advise you on how to clean it up safely.”
His expression went from “how could somebody do that?” to “why didn’t I figure that out?” to “damn it, I got druggies on my land!”
“Do you think they will come back?” he asked.
I’m not an expert, but you learn a few things by reading the news and living in rural areas. “It’s possible,” I said. “You said Sammy’s barking woke you a couple of times; that might have been these punks each time. The guys who do this kind of thing aren’t known to be really smart, so if they get away with something once, they won’t try to figure out a new way to do it. Worse, they like to rob people, sometimes violently, and wouldn’t think twice about shooting an old farmer and his dog.”
Stan stared at the ground while he processed this new information. If he was like a lot of the old farmers I’ve known, he was probably thinking about sleeping with his shotgun beside his bed, and just let those bastards try to kill him and his dog. He probably played through a scenario where he and Sammy stood victorious on the front porch, he with his shotgun and Sammy with a dismembered bad guy arm in his mouth. He’s not picturing some twenty-something tweaker coming up behind him with a stolen pistol and popping him in the back of the head before he even knows what is going on.
When he finally spoke, he said, “Well, I guess you’re right, I better call the sheriff again. They probably won’t laugh when I say junkies are the problem.” He shook his head again and took a deep breath. “Well, what do I owe you for your time?”
This was the part where my business always ran into trouble. The trip charge for driving out to the farm was fifty bucks. I was out there for under an hour, but I charge a one-hour minimum for another hundred. The old man was into me for one-fifty. My conscience retallied and said I couldn’t take a dime from this guy and his dog.
I was probably the first human contact Stan in the past few weeks. Depending on how often he bought groceries, it could be months. He was also going to have to pay somebody to clean up the meth site, and that sucked.
I said to him, “Come on back to my van and we’ll get it figured out.”
We walked back to the van at a slow ramble. Stan and Sammy seemed to be running out of steam. Stan didn’t say anything; he was probably trying to figure out how much this was going to cost him.
Wrapping Up
At the van, we went to the back doors. I opened them and pulled a box closer so I could go through it. I pulled out a twelve by fifteen manilla envelope and handed it to him.
“Well,” I said, “I didn’t find any zombies, so I can’t charge you anything. I will give you this though.” I pointed to the envelope. “It has a sigil, a sort of magical sign, that is supposed to keep the undead from entering your dwelling. Hang that near your front door and it should help keep you safe, in case I missed anything.”
It was tough to watch his reaction. He could tell I was being nice to him because he was an old man. His pride said he needed to pay his own way and not take charity. His reality said he couldn’t afford to pay anything and he should just accept that somebody was being nice and treating him with respect.
He held his hand out for shaking.
I took it and shook.
“I appreciate your time, Timmy. You’ve been a mighty big help.” He smiled a big smile.
Sammy moved to stand between the two of us, but in a friendly way.
“It was nice to meet you, Stan,” I said. “You too, Sammy.” I reached down to scratch the dog behind the ear.
And with that, I closed up my van and drove away. The old man stood in his driveway and watched me go. Eventually, I was far enough away that I could no longer see him.
I suppose it was good that he didn’t have zombies. Too bad about the meth lab, though. I wondered if Stan would call the sheriff. To be on the safe side, I decided to stop by the sheriff’s office on my way home. Law enforcement had a bad relationship with people in my business, but I had a good relationship with Stan and wanted to be sure he got the help he needed. Didn’t want to hear about tweakers burning down his house in the news.
My hunt for zombies would continue.