Kit Carlyle is a Florida high school senior. She's been writing for three years and intends to publish her novel when it's complete. Her interests include reading, cooking, ballroom dancing, and spending time with close friends.
You cannot see them, but you know the harvestmen wait in the tall grass. Hush, and be still. If even one of them sees you move, the blood of everybody from your camp will be on your hands. Minutes crawl past like hours, and nobody dares to breathe, until a breeze starts whisking the grass in vortexes around the massive, spidery beasts— the harvestmen are rising, and they can certainly see you now.
Their legs are slender and far longer than their bodies. They can pierce through your flesh like a fork through scrambled eggs. Your older brother made the mistake of getting too close, once. You shielded your little sister with your body that night, but you couldn’t protect her from his screams. You swear the scars they gave you still ache.
Tonight, the harvestmen come for you all. Your little sister falls behind as you flee— you try to go back for her, you cannot see her. The other survivors knock into you. They leave you behind.
The beasts approach, and the ground spits on your ankles with your every step. Every breath lashes at your lungs. You promised your mother you’d look out for your sister.
The harvestmen are coming, and your little sister cries out. All of the other survivors are well ahead of you now.
Your little sister is on the ground, and the harvestmen creep nearer still. They loom above her.
You can see her clearly now, you cannot go back. Her screams pierce the night.
Your legs are numb. You’re unsure if you’re still running.
The harvestmen are coming. They do not stop.
The harvestmen will take you, too.