Fall Harvest

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

 “Those hay bales sure were cool, weren’t they, Gramma?”

“They were indeed,” she said pulling the covers tight and giving her grandson a kiss.

“What if at night they come alive?”

The old woman chuckled. “Now, now.  Don’t imagine such things at bedtime. It will give you nightmares.”

“But really. At night they unroll. Then the hay swirls around, picking up stones and stuff they can use. What if they form evil monsters and they come into town terrorizing anyone they can’t eat with their horrible stone teeth. Then just before dawn, they go back out to the field to turn back into regular looking bales where they spend the day digesting their victims until they rise again the next night to feed. Wouldn’t that be cool Gramma?”

Gramma stepped to the door and turned out the light. “Very cool. Now get some sleep. You and your dad are going apple picking in the morning. You pick me some ripe ones, and I’ll bake you a nice pie. All right?”

“All right. I love you Gramma.”

“I love you too. Now close your eyes and sleep.” She closed the door and walked to the stairs where her son stood, looking horrified.

He whispered to her his greatest fear. “How does he know?”