The cold, hard truth about ChaffHog Day - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson

A shadow fell upon us all that day. A long, writhing shadow, thick with implication. We awoke with the same familiar dread, the kind that gnaws at the corners of memory, but this time, it had form. And movement. And, though we hesitate to say it, a knowing smile. ChaffHog Day had come again.

 

We don’t need to remind you what that means. No one wants to be reminded. The council has asked us not to dwell on it, the emergency services have made their stance clear and the remaining witnesses - the ones who still speak - have nothing more to add. But let’s be honest. The scars run deep, the asphalt still bears its wounds and there are places we do not walk anymore.
Could it have been prevented? That’s a complicated question. The task force, hastily assembled in the aftermath (and even more hastily disbanded), would tell you that mistakes were made but also, crucially, that mistakes were not made. The official report contains both statements in equal measure, bound together in what can only be described as a kind of legal Möbius strip. The point is, we move forward. We must move forward.

 

The festival board maintains that next year’s celebrations will go ahead as planned, but noticeably, no one is committing to a venue. The mayor remains at large.

 

The sun rose in the east that morning. That was the last normal thing that happened. By noon, there were already signs. At first, just the kind of oddities that make you tilt your head and squint, wondering if you’re seeing what you think you’re seeing. The air felt too thick, like it was carrying something weightier than moisture. The birds weren’t where they should have been, or perhaps they were, but not in the numbers they should have been. And then, the hoofprints.

 

No one wanted to be the first to point them out, but they were there, deep in the mud, deeper than hooves should sink. At first, just in the fairground. Then at the intersection. Then outside homes. Outside our homes. By the time the sun hit its highest point, they had begun to change; widening, stretching, becoming something else entirely.

 

The first whisper came from the river. A sound like water should not make; a low, guttural churn, thick with weight, thick with something else. Those who heard it first said it pulled at them, not with force, but with suggestion, as though the current had learned speech and was testing its voice. By the time we gathered at the banks, the water had stilled, unnaturally so, the surface smooth as glass, reflecting nothing.

 

Then the trees bent. Not with the wind, for there was none. They leaned in concert, as if listening, as if waiting. A man we do not name anymore stepped forward to touch one, to test it, and the bark gave way beneath his fingers like wet paper. The smell that rose from within - acrid, metallic - sent us stumbling back. He did not.

 

We do not talk about what happened next.

 

What we can say is that when we left, the river had gone. Not dried up, not receded: gone. The trees had straightened, but their shadows pointed in no direction we could understand. The man was still with us. And yet, in every way that mattered, he was not.

 

That was when the phones stopped working.

 

By then, people had started running, but where do you run when there is no confirmed threat, only the certainty that something has begun? The task force later dismissed the reports as hysteria, but the footage exists. The council won’t release it, the authorities deny its authenticity, but the eyes of those who have seen it tell a different story. You can tell when someone has watched the tape. Their breathing changes. They develop little tics, micro-movements in response to things that aren’t there. We don’t ask what they saw. We don’t want to know.

 

The barn is gone. That much is undeniable. What remains of it isn’t burned, isn’t shattered, isn’t even damaged in the conventional sense. It simply isn’t there. The ground where it stood is cold to the touch, even now. Scientists came to test it. Their results were inconclusive. They left quickly.

 

There are theories, of course. There are always theories. That it was a gas leak. That it was mass hysteria. That it was a hoax. People love to call things a hoax when the alternative is too large to hold in their minds.  

 

The festival board has announced next year’s ChaffHog Day will be a more “modest” affair, focusing on “community” and “heritage.” It will not be held at the fairgrounds. There will be no re-enactments this time. No livestock. No drums.

 

No one has seen the mayor.

 

There is no official curfew, but no one lingers outside after dark anymore. If you must go out, don’t go alone. If you hear hoofbeats, check your clock. If it’s midday, find shelter. If it’s midnight, it’s too late.

 

Above all, whatever happens next, don’t look directly at it.

 

Happy ChaffHog Day!