Prologue
386 Words
PrologueApproximately one hundred and twenty-eight miles north of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania a small town called Conclave lay next to Lake Erie, shadowed by its fresh, blue-green water. At the beginning of the twentieth century its main industry was considered lumber, then, needing new industry, land buyers scooped out most of the land’s coal. Later in the century, three New York City wine makers bought most of the land and planted grapes. They produced wine, which was still a major income for the people in the lakeside area. One remaining industry, as old as time, remained in Conclave: The production of wheat, which was grown and cared for throughout six months of the year, and sold during all twelve. The farmers and people of Conclave relied on their crops for money, especially the wheat. Who knew such misfortunes would come their way, and soon?
Conclave became wheat. It grew knee-high and green. Not a lime green with wispy buds and thin shanks, but a lush and healthy green. Fields were covered in wheat across Conclave, acres and acres, miles and miles. Flour, cereal, and cake mixes came from the crop, among other edible products at local grocery stores. The wheat was plentiful through hard work, it was money in its owners’ pockets, and long-lasting; a farmer’s first love besides his family, God, and friends, and something of wealth.
Seven hundred people lived in Conclave, which included two hundred-plus families. Three major wheat dealers in the northeastern part of the small town owned massive plots of acreage. Each grew and sold wheat from their land: Theodore Rockenmoff, Harry Hilly, and Calvin Medder’s relatives. Each had made a living from their crops for the last twenty years. And each farmer suffered throughout those years by droughts, flooding, infestations of stink bugs and other harmful insects, tornado destruction, field fires, and early frost. But recently Teddy Rockenmoff, Harry Hilly, and Calvin Medder had experienced something different and extraordinary and eye-opening. Something rotten. Something bad.
On May 25, 20—the sky over Conclave turned a deep purple. The deepest and most abundant purple any resident had ever seen. No one knew it was the beginning to trouble. No one saw it coming. No one. Not the children. Not the small families of town. And not the farmers.
Something different grew within the crops. Something…devouring.
Part 1: Night
- Writer
