Door Of Return Book 2: Crop Over

03: Door of No Return

Written by Akilah Walcott

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I had slipped out into the night unnoticed. The streets had been silent--like the town had been hollowed out to an empty stump. Every window was dark, blinds drawn, no neighbors on their front porches, no friendly chatter in the streets. Only the wheels of my bike against the pavement.

Mother had been right about the curfew. People were afraid. The town was hiding. What they were all hiding from was the question that woke me out of my sleep that night. A part of me wished I could have stayed tucked away beneath the sheets of my bed. At least we would all be safe.

But was anywhere safe anymore? Was Papa alright?

The thought made my stomach drop, made my whole body swell with urgency. I willed my feet to pedal faster, but couldn't escape the thoughts that came. The vanishing faces, the sound of the bell, the creatures that visited me in my dreams. It couldn't all be a coincidence. It hadn't been in the past.

After I crossed the tightly knit buildings, houses fell away, replaced by fields of bare land with soil so dark it looked like the night sky inverted. That's when I knew I was close. I knew this route like the back of my hand. I caught a glimpse of the farmhouse in the distance. From afar, everything seemed ordinary. Papa's farm was a safe haven. His presence brought me peace. I would step on the ground and feel lighter.

Now, in the pale night sky, the farm felt strange. Fighting the urge to turn back, I slid off the bike and let my feet touch the ground. Listening, waiting. A calming breeze swayed the leaves on the trees above me. It danced along my skin, sending a shiver up my spine. Moist grass against my toes clung onto droplets of dew. I didn't feel lighter this time. This time felt different.

As I approach the house, I inhale like I always do, welcoming the familiar scent of tulips in the flower bed. Instead, I smell nothing but empty soil.

In the dim light, the tulips had wilted into a brown-infused pastel of what they once were. Petals replaced by weeds, soil turned to hard earth. There are holes where his life's work used to be, like someone mistook gardening for digging a grave. Fresh fruits, squash, tomates turned sour. Papa's garden was still, stems drooping like puppets, no longer full of life.

My breath came out slow and shallow, trying to calm the boiling urgency inside of me. To my left was an overturned flower pot, an open bag of fertilizer and a soiled pair of rubber gloves. All his garden tools lay on the ground, forgotten.

He wouldn't let this happen, I thought. Papa never left things unfinished. Work in the day and lay your tools to rest at night. That's what he taught me. But the state of this garden told a different story.

I stepped out of the shadows and onto the porch. Crossing the threshold, I was greeted with a suffocating wall of heat. The air smelled of browned meat and spices. There was a sound that carried itself through the hallway, a high pitched bellow, like a kettle. Instinctively, my feet led themselves to the kitchen.

The stove's fire was still lit, steam rising out of the pressure cooker. I reached over to turn the dial off. The kettle that sang came to a quiet whisper. It was silent again.

I glanced around curiously. There were vegetables in the sink; tomatoes, carrots, heads of corn–all freshly harvested and soaking in water and vinegar. Just the way Papa liked. Beside the door was grandma's porcelain container, keys to the red corvette, and Papa's knapsack.

I squinted at the scene in front of me. It was clear, he had been here not too long ago, cooking for our family dinner. Probably about to make his way to town. Had I missed him? No. He wouldn't have left his things behind.