The Man on the Road

A man walked home by a moonless mile,
Where the road lay thin and old.
No wind spoke there, no owl cried out,
And the dark was deep and cold.

He heard a step beside his own,
Soft boots upon the stone,
And found a man of common face
Walking there alone.

“Good evening,” said the stranger mild,
“Do you know how far it goes?”
The traveler nodded, answered plain,
And spoke of familiar roads.

They walked a while in borrowed peace,
Two shadows side by side,
Till the stranger smiled and gently said,
“Home’s a door few reach alive.”

The man then saw the eyes were wrong,
Too patient, dark, and wide,
And the road behind them bent and curled
Where no road ought to lie.

The smile grew sharp, the face grew thin,
The voice like earth below,
“I walk with those who walk too long
And welcome who say hello.”

The man ran hard, the night tore past,
His breath a burning flame,
And dawn found him at his own door
Still whispering God’s name.

And travelers say, when roads grow quiet
And strangers walk too near,
The devil wears an ordinary face
And waits for friendly ears.

Faces in the Field - Part IX

(Epilogue) What the Land Remembers

No one noticed at first.

Eric Davidson had always kept to himself. A man who waved politely when necessary, who mowed his field in careful, patient lines, who lived without noise or visitors. When his lights failed to come on one evening, it meant nothing. When his mailbox filled slowly, it was assumed he’d simply lost track of the days.

It was the field that drew attention.

By late autumn, the grass behind the garage no longer grew. Not dead, not burned, but arrested, as if the season had passed it by without leaving instructions. Frost touched everything else in the area, silvering lawns and fields alike, but the rectangle of land behind Eric’s house remained dark and bare, absorbing the cold without changing.

The shed still stood, gray and leaning. The garage remained closed. The house looked intact, though empty, its windows reflecting the sky without comment.

A neighbor eventually crossed the property line, intending to check on things. He walked the familiar path Eric had always used, boots crunching softly on gravel, then stopped short when he reached the field.

At its center lay a stone.

It was broad and flat, embedded flush with the earth as though it had always been there. Its surface was smooth, weather-resistant, untouched by frost. In the fading light, the neighbor thought he saw a carving, something faint, almost worn away, but the angle was wrong, and he could not be sure.

He did not step closer.

There was something about the air above the stone that discouraged it. Not fear exactly. More a sense of finality, like a door already closed.

Word spread quietly.

Some said Eric had moved on. Others suggested illness, or a sudden decision to leave the state. A few mentioned the stone, though they could not agree on its shape or size. No one stayed long enough to examine it closely.

By winter, snow fell everywhere except the field. It gathered at the edges, outlining the space where the grass no longer grew, where the land refused covering.

In spring, wildflowers bloomed around it, but not within it.

By summer, birds avoided it.

And through all of it, the stone remained unchanged.

Sometimes, at dusk, when the light struck just right, the surface seemed to reflect more than it should. Some claimed they saw a face there, calm and still, watching neither sky nor ground but the space between.

Others felt only a strange sense of balance when they stood at the edge of the field, a fleeting moment where warmth and weight seemed perfectly aligned, where the world felt briefly complete.

The house was eventually sold. The new owners fenced off the field and left it alone.

The stone was never removed.

The land, it seemed, had found what it needed.

And it did not ask again.

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End of “Faces in the Field”