The Harvest of Eden
Disclaimer:
This is a fictional story concept, purely for creative exploration. Any resemblance to real events, people, or places is purely coincidental.
The farm was perfect. A postcard of golden fields, crisp white fences, and a towering red barn standing against a backdrop of rolling green hills. Cows lazily chewed their cud, chickens clucked and scratched at the dirt, and the sun hung warm in the sky. It was the kind of place that felt like a memory—like something from an old movie about a simpler time.
Elijah hadn’t planned to stop. His road trip was supposed to be about solitude, about driving until the noise in his head faded. But a wrong turn, a sputtering engine, and a gas tank running on fumes had landed him here, on the porch of a quaint farmhouse, greeted by a smiling man named Samuel.
Samuel and his family took him in without hesitation. They fed him a meal of fresh vegetables and warm bread, let him sleep in their guest room, and promised to help with his car. There was something about them—something familiar yet unplaceable. They spoke with an old-fashioned politeness, moved with a quiet grace, and seemed… flawless.
Too flawless.
It wasn’t until he met little Abigail that the cracks in the illusion began to show. She was a quiet child, wide-eyed and watchful, clutching a wooden toy rabbit that looked hand-carved and worn with years of love.
"Did you build this farm yourself?" Elijah asked Samuel over breakfast.
"Oh, we built everything with our own hands," Samuel said with a smile.
A pause.
"Our own hands."
Later that afternoon, while exploring the property, Elijah found an old shed at the edge of the fields. It was locked, but the door wasn’t latched properly. Inside, the air smelled of oil and something metallic. There were tools—complex, intricate instruments he didn’t recognize. And in the center, laid out on a workbench like a half-finished doll, was a human-like hand.
A perfect replica of flesh, except… not. The layers beneath peeled back in sections, revealing impossibly fine mechanics, fibers imitating tendons, and a power source pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
“Elijah?”
He turned sharply. Abigail stood in the doorway, clutching her wooden rabbit, her eyes filled with something between fear and regret.
“They’re going to know you saw,” she whispered.
A chill ran down his spine.
"Who?"
She didn’t answer.
From the house, he heard Samuel’s voice, still warm, still welcoming—yet now carrying a weight of finality.
“Elijah, it’s time for supper.”
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the perfect fields.
And suddenly, the farm no longer felt like paradise. It felt like a trap.
Disclaimer:
This is a fictional story concept, purely for creative exploration. Any resemblance to real events, people, or places is purely coincidental.
