"Nothing much is wrong at first. That's how they get you."
Fandom: Stardew Valley
Crossover: Cthulhu Mythos
Rating: Teen and Up
Character: Original Farmer (unnamed, ambiguous gender)
Word Count: 5,716
⚠ CW: Ambient dread, grief/mourning, isolation, slow-build horror
Summary:
The return to Pelican Town was meant to be a reset: a reclamation of the family farm, a shift toward simplicity. Instead, the farmer finds advanced decay, trees that crowd and suffocate, and neighbors out of alignment with recollection.
Through daily entries, they attempt to rebuild, to impose order on grief and a growing sense of unease. Track the costs, make repairs, catalog progress. But the soil is wrong. The air hums. Time stretches uneven. A contamination is seeping into the fabric of the valley.
Beneath the ground, below the waves, beyond the sky… something is stirring.
A/N: This fic has been on hiatus while I restructure some plot things, but I realized I never posted it to tumblr in the first place. Trying to manifest the mindset back—please put some spooky ooky candles in a circle for me.
Excerpt:
Spring, Day 1
I don't know what possessed me to bring this old thing. Actually, I do, but the reasons feel thin now that I'm holding it. The leather's cracked from neglect and it smells like the back of a filing cabinet. Stale paper and institutional glue. But it felt necessary. As though by writing, I could impose structure. Translate grief into something indexable. That was the theory, anyway.
Grandpa died last spring. I wasn't there.
That still doesn't feel real. Or it does, but from a distance. Like a calendar notification I dismissed without truly reading. Maybe I only felt the weight when I sliced open the envelope. His handwriting had a tremor, but it was undeniably his. Blue ink, of course. (Always insisted on blue. Said black was impersonal.)
We hadn't seen each other in years. Over a decade. I always told myself I'd visit after the quarter ended, or once the next launch wrapped, or when I had time to breathe again. Postponements that felt reasonable in the moment, when my career grew by leaps and bounds. But time doesn't keep deferrals on record. It simply moves forward.
He left me the farm.
The whole thing. The actual acreage. The decaying infrastructure. The silence. A patch of land on the outskirts of a town I haven't visited since I was fifteen. Back when summers still meant dirt under my nails and rocks in my shoes. Before Dad decided the rustic wouldn't prepare us. Before we rebranded that sunny season into college credits and corporate internships.
There must have been a falling out. I remember the silence more than the words. Grandpa stopped visiting. We stopped answering his letters. And eventually, the distance became a routine. Something maintained out of habit.
Mayor Lewis met me at the gate. He's older, obviously. Shorter now, though in reality I'm simply taller. His handshake was warm, but for a second, it had no bones. Just pressure. Like squeezing a bag of flour left in the sun. He kept saying the word "potential" like it was meant to soothe me. Slower each time, syllables unraveling in his mouth.
I don't recall telling him when I'd be arriving. I hope he wasn't waiting all day needlessly.
Transit involved three trains, a brief dissociative episode in a station bathroom, and a final bus that smelled like mildew and reheated vinyl. Somewhere past hour six, the land opened up, green and unruly. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I saw any greenery that wasn't built to spec. Then the valley came into view like an old, forgotten polaroid. Grainy, a little warped, but familiar.
Robin showed up not long after Lewis. Practical. Efficient. Kind in a way that doesn't collect interest. She offered to help. Broke the repairs down by category, cost, and timeline. Hearing the details in project terms put me back on solid ground for a moment. She kept turning to the trees when Lewis was speaking, pencil tapping absently on her clipboard. And I heard something too—a rustle with no wind behind it. (Probably pests. More good news.)
Both of them agreed it was a shame I'd been unable to make it out in time for the Feast of the Winter Star. I didn't tell them I prefer not to travel in the snow; I offered vagueries about the logistics of the move instead. Which had been difficult, in truth. But I don't owe them those details.
The estate isn't fully settled, even at this late stage. I have presumed possession, not full transfer. My parents attempted to contest the will—claimed I lacked the aptitude, the temperament, the foresight to manage the property. (How quickly their high opinion of my accomplishments turns when it suits them.) They argued it ought to be liquidated. Repurposed into something more efficient.
But he left it to me.
Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67414572
