The Meat Shower

Three years to the day since Thomas died, Sarah knelt in dirt that wouldn't grow anything. Her hands worked the soil anyway. The motions helped her forget how empty the farmhouse felt.

The first piece of meat hit the boundary stone at ten past noon.

She looked up. Clear Kentucky sky, March blue and cloudless. Another piece fell. Then another. Chunks of red flesh dropping like obscene snow.

Sarah's fingers found the compass at her throat. The brass vibrated against her skin, needle spinning wild. She watched a piece land on the eastern marker—the one carved with symbols Thomas had never been able to translate.

Perfect alignment. Exactly where it should land if someone was following the pattern.

She stood, legs shaking. The meat whispered as it fell. Not words. Not exactly. More like the memory of words, languages she'd never heard but somehow recognized. Old. Older than English. Older than the county records Thomas had studied.

The wet slap of flesh on stone echoed across the failed garden. Each piece landing with unnatural precision.

Sarah grabbed her work satchel and started collecting samples. Her compass swung wildly whenever she approached the stones. The meat was still warm, still bleeding. She wrapped pieces in her kerchief, trying not to think about what it might be.

"The maps," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange in the falling silence. "Thomas always said the maps don't lie."

She ran for the house. Found his survey notes in the trunk where she'd kept them like holy relics. Her fingers traced the words he'd written in his careful hand: *Forbidden ground. Native markers predate settlement. Do not disturb.*

The pattern on the paper matched the pattern in her yard. Perfect grid. Perfect spacing. The meat was falling on every single marker Thomas had charted.

Sarah stuffed the notes in her satchel with the samples. Her compass needle finally steadied, pointing south. Toward town. Toward the church where the men gathered on Tuesdays.

She hitched the wagon with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.

The ride to town took twenty minutes. The meat followed her. Not falling on the road, but landing in the fields she passed—always on stones, always on markers. She counted seven showers before she reached the church.

Reverend Pike stood on the steps talking to the Miller brothers. He turned when Sarah pulled up, his face arranging itself into patient concern.

"Mrs. Breckinridge," he said. "What brings you to town?"

Sarah climbed down from the wagon, satchel clutched to her chest. The compass swung heavy on its chain. "Reverend, something's happening. Out at the farm. You need to see this."

She opened the satchel. Pulled out the wrapped samples.

Pike's nose wrinkled. "Is that meat?"

"It fell from the sky," Sarah said. The words sounded insane even to her. "This morning. Landing on the old markers. The ones Thomas surveyed before he—"

"Mrs. Breckinridge." Pike's voice went soft, the way it did when he spoke to children. "I understand grief can make us see things that aren't there."

"I'm not imagining this." Sarah unwrapped the kerchief. The meat sat there, undeniable. "Look. It's real. It's falling in a pattern. Thomas's maps show—"

"Vulture vomit," Samuel Miller said. He crossed his arms, satisfied. "Seen it myself when I was working up north. Birds get spooked, they regurgitate. Perfectly natural."

The other men nodded. Relief washed across their faces.

Sarah pulled out Thomas's notes. Spread them on the church steps. "The pattern matches. Every marker he charted. This isn't random. Something is—"

"Sarah." Pike touched her shoulder. She flinched. "Sometimes the Lord tests us with loss. Your husband's death was a tragedy. But making connections that aren't there won't bring him back."

Her hands shook harder. The compass spun against her breastbone.

"This is nature, not supernatural punishment," Pike continued. His voice stayed gentle. Patronizing. "You should go home. Rest. Perhaps pray on it."

"Thomas always said—"

"Thomas is gone, child." Pike's

eyes held pity. "The maps are just paper. The markers are just stones. Let the dead rest."

Sarah gathered the notes with numb fingers. Wrapped the meat back in the kerchief. The men watched her with uncomfortable faces, eager for her to leave.

She climbed back into the wagon. The compass still vibrated. The sky was still clear. And somewhere, meat was still falling on forbidden ground.

Nobody followed her out of town.

Sarah drove home alone, clutching the compass. In her satchel, Thomas's notes whispered against the samples. The maps don't lie. The maps don't lie.

But nobody believed her.

The farmhouse listed slightly southward when she returned, like it was being pulled toward something underground. Sarah stood in the yard and watched meat fall on every boundary stone Thomas had marked.

Perfect grid. Perfect pattern. Perfectly ignored.

She touched the compass. It pointed south still, toward the church. Toward men who'd decided what truth could be.

The meat kept falling.