THE OLD BARN
The Old Barn was not supposed to be the sort of place that gave up secrets easily. In 1862, when Old Man Fyres first constructed it, the red paint was meant to be an omen, a warning to all who approached:
Here be Old Man Fyres’ grain and hay, don’t ye dare fuckin’ steal it.
The color, of course, had the opposite effect. It drew attention, making any who wandered by curious about its contents. Eventually, Old Man Fyres realized that the only proper deterrent was him standing just inside the doors holding an axe that was dripping with the plasma of the last sim who tried to sneak in.
This was how the Old Barn got its reputation: look, but don’t touch.
No one in the barn tonight had heard that story, though. Or if they heard it, they didn’t believe it.
Laughing, they gathered more pieces of metal, plants, and anything that shimmered.
So enamored of their bounty were they, that they didn’t hear the click of the light-switch until it was too late.
As per usual with the Old Barn, the threat was coming from the inside.
Everyone who could—who was left—scattered after getting that first flash of green skin.
Though a few gave chase as it bounded up the hillside, towards the In Between Inn.
At that point, they stopped and whispered to each other. There was no use following if this was where the creature was headed. Everyone knew that just because you could see something, didn’t mean it was there.