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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/LCDatkin on 2024-10-17 23:01:37+00:00.

The land had been a steal. Fifty acres nestled in the quiet of West Virginia Appalachia for what felt like pocket change. I’d spent years dreaming of a place like this, somewhere I could finally start my apiary and embrace a life far from the noise of the city. And now, I had it—rolling hills, thick woods, a quiet valley with only the hum of bees to keep me company.

When I first spotted the listing online, I figured it had to be a mistake. It was a 50-acre parcel, yet the price kept dropping with each year the listing stayed up. When I finally decided to reach out, I was surprised to hear back from a gruff-voiced realtor who sounded both eager and hesitant to get rid of it. He met me at the edge of the property on a misty, cool morning, his eyes darting around like we were being watched.

As we walked the property, I asked the question that had been bugging me since I first saw the listing: “Why hasn’t anyone taken it yet?”

“Most people around here think it’s cursed,” he replied, not meeting my eyes. “Coal mine on the far end of the property collapsed some sixty years back. Owner who inherited it lost his family to it. Moved off the land after that and never wanted to come back.”

He shifted his weight, kicking at the dirt. “He just needs the money now. But most folks won’t touch it.” He looked back at me, and I could tell he thought I’d run from the sale right then and there. But I wasn’t one for superstition. For me, it was just cheap land with a history I wasn’t part of. So I signed.

The house was solid enough for something built in the ’40s, though it carried the wear and tear of every Appalachian winter it had endured since. The front door had a stubborn gap, the walls wore rough patches where sealant had tried to cover long-standing cracks, and the appliances seemed as mismatched as they could be, thrown together as an “update” by the previous owner. Still, it felt like home.

After settling in, I spent my savings on a few dozen hive boxes and queens. I’d sourced bees from apiaries all over the state, setting them up across my property in carefully spaced groups, just far enough from the old mine. The countryside was idyllic, and I fell in love with the untamed beauty of the mountains. Each person I met, though, seemed to carry that same look of unease when they found out where I lived. The warnings all sounded the same: “Don’t go into the woods after dark,” or, “Keep your doors locked at night.”

When I asked if it was because of bears, they’d glance away and mutter about fae spirits or even the Mothman. I’d smile, nod, and let them tell their tales, chalking it up to local superstition.

The first year went by smoothly. My bees thrived, drawn to the untouched wildflowers and the perfect isolation. When the time came to harvest the honey, I set out to the hive site early in the morning, prepared for the sticky, sweet work ahead. As I checked each box, though, I noticed something strange. About a third of my hives were empty, yet they seemed full of capped honey. Or so I thought.

I cracked open one of the frames, expecting the usual golden bounty, but a foul odor met my nose—a sickly, rancid smell that made me gag. The honey within was a dark, reddish brown, thick and congealed like something dead.

As I inspected the abandoned hives, I kept running through the possibilities in my mind. No signs of parasites, no signs of moths or mites, and certainly no sign of the queen absconding. Earlier that spring, I’d done a few splits for the stronger hives, though being a new setup, I hadn’t needed to do many. All signs had pointed to healthy colonies, yet here I was, staring into boxes that should have been full of life, met only with the sticky weight of something foul.

I pried open another frame. Usually, the hum of the bees around me was like a kind of white noise, a calming background that made the solitude out here bearable. This time, though, there was nothing. Just silence, broken only by the scrape of my hive tool as I opened the frame. I held my breath, not knowing exactly what I was expecting, but as soon as the frame came free, a wave of stench hit me—like the pungent reek of something dead, rotting in the summer heat. I gagged, stumbling back, fighting the urge to empty my stomach right there in the field.

I forced myself to examine the honey. It wasn’t the golden nectar I’d been expecting; instead, it was thick, dark, and tinged a sickly reddish-brown. The sight alone was wrong, but the smell—like decaying roadkill mixed with something chemical and burnt—was almost unbearable. I took a marker from my pocket, labeling the infected hives in quick, shaky strokes, then turned to my healthy hives, hoping for something better.

But even the healthy hives weren’t right. I’d chosen Italian honey bees, known for their calm demeanor, yet today they buzzed in a low, angry hum, a noise that buzzed through my nerves. The bees seemed almost…disturbed. Each frame I pulled had bees frantically crawling over one another, and as I moved to collect honey, several stung me—more in one morning than I’d experienced in all my time keeping them. I chalked it up to bad luck but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more. I left extra honey in each hive, sure that they would need every drop of it in the cold months to come.

With what I’d managed to salvage, I made the first of several trips to a small barn on the edge of the property I’d converted into my extraction room. The barn was a little sanctuary, just far enough from the hives that I could work undisturbed. As I processed the honey over the next few days, though, a troubling pattern emerged—every time I went back to the hives, fewer and fewer bees buzzed around. 

My extractor spun the healthy honey just fine, and the thick liquid poured out in smooth ribbons, golden and sweet, exactly as it should have been. It tasted like honey should, clinging to my fingers and dripping in slow streams like molasses. Yet each time I saw the dwindling numbers of bees, that sickening image of the reddish-brown honey lingered in my mind, an unspoken warning in the silence of my emptying hives.

Days passed, and I kept asking myself the same question, a nagging worry that wouldn’t let go: where were all my bees going?

On my last day of extraction, I lost track of time, the sun slipping below the horizon as I finished bottling the final jar. Darkness had settled over the property, and as I locked up the barn, a thick chill settled in my gut. Out here, night came fast, drowning the hills in deep shadows and swallowing any trace of light. I wasn’t afraid of bogeymen or the local legends whispered by folks in town, but bears were another story. Still, the walk back to the house was short enough, so I tucked my head down and started off at a steady pace.

As I moved, though, the feeling crept up—the same uneasy sensation I remembered from childhood, when I’d turn off the basement light and dash up the stairs, convinced something was waiting in the dark behind me. I quickened my pace, the crunch of my boots filling the silence, but I could feel a prickle across the back of my neck, that ancient instinct whispering that I wasn’t alone.

Ahead, the house sat like a shadow against the dimming sky, but just as I reached the edge of the yard, a faint sound stopped me cold—a hum, rising from somewhere in the distance. I froze, listening. It was the sound of bees, unmistakable and growing louder with each second. Slowly, I turned to face the woods.

My eyes were still adjusting, but as I stared into the trees, a shape began to emerge. Something large, hulking, and black loomed in the shadows, shifting in sporadic jerks that reminded me of a bear, but something was… wrong. Its movements were jerky and uneven, not like any animal I’d ever seen. A strange buzz filled the air, not the smooth, calming hum I was used to, but a chaotic mix of pitches that clawed at my nerves.

I unslung the rifle from my shoulder, raising it to my chest as the figure moved closer. I squinted into the dark, my finger hovering over the trigger as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Its shape was bear-like, but the sound coming from it was… alive, as if the creature itself was buzzing. My stomach twisted, a sick dread creeping up as the figure stopped, just within the edge of the forest.

The creature’s eyes caught the faint light from my porch, reflecting back a sickly, unnatural glint. I couldn’t tear my gaze from it, feeling a pulse of raw, electric fear surge through me. Without thinking, I squeezed the trigger, the rifle’s sharp report ringing through the mountain air, loud and raw against the night.

The creature didn’t roar or stumble as a bear might; instead, it took off in a burst of movement, crashing through the underbrush with a speed and agility that made my skin crawl. The buzzing sound waned as it retreated, the forest swallowing its furious hum as it disappeared back into the blackness, leaving an eerie, consuming silence behind.

I stood there, breath clouding in the night air, staring into the trees long after it had gone, waiting for that horrid sound to return. But there was nothing—just the hollow quiet of the woods, an unnatural silence that somehow felt wrong. The only thing that moved was my hammering pulse. Slowly, I lowered the rifle, my heart pounding against the heavy weight of the weapon, and backed away toward the house, unwilling to turn my back on the forest. I ba…

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