Fictional Stories for Fictional Audiences

Haywire Hearts

Four Boys. One Fence. Something Watching.

Jul 06, 2025

Four teens. A remote farm. A Canadian winter biting harder than it should. When a section of fence collapses without explanation—and a herd of sheep vanishes without a trace—the boys begin hearing strange sounds in the snow. Something ancient stirs just beyond sight, drawn to one boy in particular. As trust fractures and fear deepens, they must decide: run, or reach out to whatever lives in the dark.

The tractor groaned like it had indigestion again as Eli hauled himself up the icy metal steps of the hayloft, boots slipping on frozen cowshit. The air inside smelled like dust, sweat, and last summer’s alfalfa—warm in that stubborn way only old barns could manage when the wind outside wanted to rip your ears off.

“Jesus, Eli,” came a voice from below. “You’re gonna break your neck before the snow even officially sticks.”

Eli rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw his own frontal lobe. “Shut up, Owen,” he called down, brushing hay off his jeans. “If you’re gonna critique my climbing technique, at least bring coffee.”

Owen snorted. “Only if you stop climbing like a damn goat on Red Bull.”

Eli ducked through the loft hatch just in time to see Owen stomp across the yard in his usual dramatic fashion—boots thudding like he weighed three times more than his scrawny frame actually did. At sixteen, Owen was all elbows and opinions, an ESTP through and through: restless, loud, and allergic to anything that required sustained focus. Right now, he was stomping toward the barn wearing Eli’s old Carhartt jacket like it was armour, cheeks flushed from the cold and probably adrenaline, too.

“You’re late,” Eli said, grabbing the thermos from where it sat wedged between two bales. He unscrewed it and took a swig of burnt instant coffee. Perfect.

“You’re early,” Owen shot back. “Technically, I’m on time. Which makes you the asshole.”

From the far corner of the barn came the soft clop of hooves. Noah emerged from behind a stall door like he’d been summoned by the drama of their banter. Tall, quiet, with eyelashes long enough to make girls—and maybe some boys—whisper stupid things across lunch tables, Noah was an INFJ. Mysterious in that infuriatingly calm way. Always smelled like leather and chamomile shampoo.

“You two done yelling?” Noah asked, brushing a streak of dried mud off his palm onto his thigh. “Because I made a schedule.”

“Oh god,” Owen said, clutching his chest like Noah had brandished a crucifix. “Not the schedule.”

“Yes,” Noah said flatly. “The schedule. We have thirty-five minutes before Mom gets back from town. That gives us exactly twenty-two minutes to muck out the east paddock before the ground freezes solid again.”

“She’s not back till four,” Eli muttered, but reached for the pitchfork anyway.

Noah didn’t blink. “She texted me fifteen minutes ago.”

Eli paused. “How’d she even find you? You disappeared into the woods with Jasper like it was 1843.”

“I have notifications on,” Noah said simply.

Owen threw his arms up. “Can we please focus on the fact that Jasper peed in my boot again this morning?”

“That wasn’t pee,” said a fourth voice.

All three turned.

Jasper stood framed in the barn doorway, red plaid hoodie half-zipped over a flannel shirt, cheeks pink from either cold or laughter—or both. INFP, probably. Dreamy, infuriating, soft-spoken. He held a halter in one hand and a feed bucket in the other.

“What do you mean, wasn’t pee?” Owen narrowed his eyes.

“It was admiration,” Jasper said solemnly. “He respects you.”

“No animal respects me,” Owen declared. “Least of all that traitorous goat.”

Jasper stepped into the barn, bucket sloshing. “He only pees on people he likes. It’s a Shetland thing.”

Eli bit back a laugh and failed. Owen glared daggers at all of them, but there was no real heat behind it. He shoved past Jasper, muttering something about needing new boots and possibly moving to Nunavut.

Outside, the wind howled down the hills like it was trying to knock the barn down, but inside, the space felt safe. Familiar. Outside, news anchors were still arguing about pipeline protests and winter storms rolling in early. Inside, the biggest drama was whether Jasper had smuggled molasses into the grain again.

“Alright,” Eli said, clapping his hands once. “Let’s move hay before Owen has an emotional breakdown about his boot situation.”

“Too late!” Owen yelled, already stomping off.

Noah smiled faintly and checked his clipboard.

And Jasper just laughed—soft, warm, like the first breath of spring.

The next morning, the world had gone full winter overnight.

Snow crusted the fences like frosting gone mad. The barn roof sagged under the weight of it, and somewhere near the goat pen, a loose shingle thunked against the wood like a warning shot. Eli squinted through the frost-fogged window of the tack room, rubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes.

Six-thirty a.m.

Too early for coherent thought.

Definitely too early for Owen’s taste.

“You’re kidding.” Owen’s voice cracked like ice under a shovel as he yanked on his gloves. “It’s minus seventeen and you’re making us ride?”

“It’s not minus seventeen,” Noah said calmly, lacing his boots with precision that bordered on obsessive. “It’s minus twelve. Environment Canada says so.”

“They also said the Leafs would make the playoffs.” Owen gestured wildly toward the window. “Look outside! That’s not a minus-twelve sky. That’s a damn apocalypse!”

Jasper appeared in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair sticking up in tufts like he’d tried to sleep standing up. “I think it’s kind of beautiful,” he murmured, stepping into the chill of the barn. “Like the world slowed down.”

Eli snorted. “It’s frozen solid, Jasper. Nothing’s slowing down. Especially Owen.”

Owen threw his hat at him.

They met at the mounting block like they always did—four boys, four horses, a hundred unspoken rules. The horses shifted beneath them, breath misting in the air, hooves clicking softly on compacted snow.

Noah led his chestnut, Caelan, with quiet authority. The gelding obeyed without question, muscles rolling beneath dark hide like tides under moonlight.

“He’s in a good mood today,” Noah observed, adjusting the saddle with methodical care.

“Probably because he knows Owen’s gonna fall off again in five minutes,” Eli said, grinning as he swung into his own saddle. Blaze, his paint mare, danced sideways for a second before settling.

“She’s just warming up,” Eli added.

Owen glared. “My horse is literally named after a biblical plague. What did you name yours? Sunshine Puffypants?”

“No,” Jasper said softly, walking up beside them. “I named mine after a constellation. Cygnus.”

Owen blinked. “Seriously?”

“It means swan,” Jasper explained. “Because when he trots, it feels like flying.”

Behind them, the barn door banged open. Their mom stuck her head in, face half-frozen, coffee mug clutched in both hands like a lifeline.

“You boys ready?” she asked, voice muffled by the cold.

“In our own tragic ways,” Eli muttered.

She snorted. “Just don’t ride through the fence this time. Last time, Farmer McDermott emailed me.”

As they trotted out into the white hush of morning, the wind stung less than usual. The snow crunched beneath hooves in a rhythm that felt ancient, familiar—like breathing.

Owen was already grumbling about frostbite.

Jasper hummed under his breath, matching pace with Cygnus’s easy lope.

Noah rode slightly ahead, eyes scanning the tree line.

And Eli?

Eli let Blaze pick her own path, letting the cold air carve clarity into the edges of his thoughts.

Something had been off with the horses lately.

Restless.

Jumpy.

Like they could hear something the boys couldn’t.

But he didn’t say anything—not yet.

Not until he figured out what it meant.

They found the fence at dusk.

Or what was left of it.

Three panels flattened like cardboard in a snowdrift. The gate hung askew from a single hinge, creaking mournfully in the wind. Blaze stopped short, ears flicking back. Eli reined in tight, jaw tightening with her.

“Well,” Owen said behind him. “That explains why Daisy was acting like a spooked cat all afternoon.”

Noah dismounted quietly, brushing snow from his sleeves as he walked toward the wreckage. His boots crunched softly, each step measured. Methodical.

“There’s no sign of the sheep,” he said.

Eli frowned. “What do you mean, ‘no sign’?”

“I mean,” Noah replied, turning slowly, “they’re just… gone.”

The pasture stretched out in every direction—blanketed in snow, undisturbed except for the broken fence. No tracks. No wool. No panicked bleats carried on the wind. Just silence.

Jasper shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. “Do you think a coyote got them?”

“No coyote takes an entire flock without leaving a mess,” Eli said. “And not in this cold. Whatever happened…” He trailed off, eyes narrowing. “It wasn’t natural.”

Owen scoffed. “Come on. It’s probably just some drunk teenagers screwing around. Or Dad’s ‘totally legal’ ATV finally gave up the ghost and took a nosedive into Narnia.”

“It wasn’t Dad,” Noah said flatly. “He’s still in town. And his ATV’s in the shop.”

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Then—movement.

A flicker at the treeline. Something pale, too big to be a deer. It vanished behind a snow-laden spruce before any of them could react.

Blaze snorted and sidestepped.

“Okay,” Owen said, voice suddenly thin. “Maybe this isn’t hilarious anymore.”

Eli stepped between him and the woods. “Stay close.”

They searched until the sun dipped behind the hills, casting everything in that eerie half-light that made shadows feel alive. No sheep. No predators. No answers.

When they finally turned back, frost coated every branch like sugar on a pastry. The barn loomed in the distance, warm and silent.

Inside, the smell of hay and oil was comforting—for about three seconds.

Then Noah spoke.

“There’s something in the east paddock.”

“What?” Eli asked, already reaching for a lantern.

Noah’s eyes were dark. Serious. “Not animals. Not people. Something else.”

Owen rolled his eyes so hard he nearly fell off his stool. “Great. Ghost cows. Just what this town needed.”

But Jasper was already pale. “I heard it earlier,” he admitted quietly. “While I was mucking stalls. Like… breathing. Deep. Rhythmic. Not fast, but… purposeful.”

Eli stared at them. “You’re both serious.”

Noah nodded. “It’s been happening for days. I thought I was imagining it.”

“And now you’re not?” Owen asked.

“I listened outside the paddock fence last night,” Noah said. “Whatever’s in there…it’s big.”

Outside, the wind picked up again.

Something scraped against the side of the barn.

Not a branch.

Not the wind.

Something with claws.

Eli grabbed the lantern and headed for the door.

“If something’s in there,” he said, voice low, “we need to know what it is.”

Owen hesitated. Then stood. “Fine. But if I die, tell Mom I died doing something stupid.”

Jasper reached for the halter. “I’ll come with you.”

Noah was already halfway out the door.

The three of them moved quickly, boots pounding against the wooden floor, hearts hammering in their chests.

Outside, the night had fully settled.

And somewhere, beyond the east paddock fence…

Something watched.

The east paddock gate groaned open like it hadn’t moved in years.

Frost crusted the posts, glittering blue-white under the lantern light. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they stepped inside, the air here colder—stale, heavy, like the breath of something sleeping just beyond sight.

Noah raised a hand, motioning them to stop.

Thirty yards ahead, the snow rippled.

Not from wind.

Not from movement.

From something beneath it.

Eli’s stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“What?” Owen whispered, too quietly.

“It’s breathing,” Noah said. “Right under there.”

They stood in stunned silence as the snow began to pulse—slow, rhythmic, like lungs filling and emptying beneath the surface. A low, guttural sound thrummed through the earth, not quite a growl, not quite a moan.

Jasper pressed a hand to his chest like it might keep his heart inside. “That’s not a horse.”

“No shit,” Owen muttered.

Then the snow exploded upward.

A massive shape launched itself into the air—tall as the barn roof, limbs too long, too wrong. Eyes like burning coals reflected the lantern light as it landed with a thundercrack of displaced snow, snorting steam into the frigid night.

“What is that?!” Owen shrieked.

“A sable antelope,” Noah said, weirdly calm. “Or something close to it. Maybe a hybrid. But the horn structure—it’s not natural.”

The creature circled them once, ears flicking, nostrils flaring. Its coat shimmered black in the dark, mane wild and braided with frozen grass.

Then it stopped.

And stared directly at Jasper.

“He’s… calling to me,” Jasper whispered, voice trembling. “Like I can understand it.”

“What are you talking about?” Eli snapped, grabbing Jasper’s arm.

“It knows my name,” Jasper said, eyes wide. “It showed me… places. Hills made of salt. Rivers underground. It said they’re dying.”

“What’s dying?” Owen asked, but his voice cracked midway.

“The others like it,” Jasper said. “There used to be more. They’re being hunted. Or fenced in. Or…” He trailed off. “Something worse.”

The antelope lowered its head, staring at them with unsettling intelligence. Then it turned—and leapt.

Not toward them.

Toward the fence.

With a single, fluid motion, it cleared the rail and vanished into the trees, disappearing like smoke pulled backward by the wind.

Silence returned.

Heavy.

Final.

For a long moment, none of them moved.

Then Owen exhaled shakily. “Okay. Yeah. Definitely quitting horse camp.”

Eli let out a slow breath. “We need to call someone.”

Noah shook his head. “No one’s going to believe us.”

“They have to,” Eli insisted. “That thing almost breached the paddock. If it comes back—”

“It won’t,” Noah cut in. “Not unless Jasper calls it back.”

They all turned to look at him.

Jasper looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how.”

The lantern flickered.

Somewhere deep in the woods, a low, mournful call echoed through the trees.

And then—nothing.

The next morning, the paddock was undisturbed.

No melted snow. No strange tracks. No sign anything had been there at all.

Their mom watched them warily as they ate breakfast, brushing oatmeal from her sweater like she hadn’t noticed the dark circles under their eyes or the way they flinched every time a twig snapped outside.

“You boys okay?” she asked, spooning coffee into her mug.

“Fine,” Eli lied.

“Great,” Owen added.

“Wonderful,” Noah finished.

After breakfast, they mucked stalls in silence. Repaired fencing. Brushed down horses who refused to meet their eyes.

But that night, when the stars finally came out, Jasper slipped away from the farmhouse alone.

He walked toward the tree line without a flashlight. Without hesitation.

The others watched from the barn roof, hidden in shadow.

Waiting.

A moment later, a pair of glowing eyes appeared between the branches.

Then another.

And another.

Jasper raised his hand.

And stepped forward into the dark.

End.

Thank you!

Prompting Culture

Discussion about this post