There was a farm. Past tense. A farm born from the diligence and effort of one proud old man. It was a beautiful farm, spanning a little over 220 acres of pure green fields, rows upon rows of glistening wheat and barley and anything else one could expect, all under the temperamental climate of twentieth century Northern England.

 But, all things must come to an end. When the old man grew too frail, too fragile, to continue his work, he passed on the duties to his son, the eldest of three. While this son may have had age and experience on his side, it seemed that the farm was not to prosper under him. The crops wilted and died, their pleas for survival falling on the deaf ears of the world around them. When the weather came down to batter the fields into submission, as it so often did, no attempt was made to protect them. And soon, that beautiful white picket fence that surrounded the majority of the farmland began to crack and decay, the paint giving way to reveal the ugly mottled wood beneath. 

 It was not long before, as they so often do, local children started to spread their rumours. “Don’t go near the farm,” they chorused to one another, “It’s haunted. The old man in the window is the ghost of the owner.”

 “The owner is a killer,” some would say, “I saw him carrying buckets filled with body parts to dump in the stream.”

 No one paid attention to these rumours, obviously. They were that of childish fantasies, urban legends, all just a bit of fun. And who the hell was I to take that away from them?

 No, I would do well to just sit in my chair, by that window, and look out at the land that once meant so much to me. The land that I had based my entire life off of, but had long since fallen to dilapidation. Why was this my  fate, to spend the final years of my life trapped in a rotting house, piled to the brim with rubbish of all types that practically sealed me in this tomb? To live out each and every day, looking out at what had once been so glorious while I sat, a hollow shell masquerading as a man, as everything I had once held dear crumbled.

 “You can trust me, Father; I won’t let you down.”

 Ten words. Ten words that had sealed the fate of both myself and what had once been my proud legacy.