11 Jan “My Neighbor’s Farm Animals Stopped Moving” – Creepypasta
Farms all have their own peculiarities, but I believe that Jim Rothers’s has to be the strangest I’ve encountered by far.
I’ve lived across from Jim for the past five or so years, and he’s always been a very quiet and introverted fellow. From what I know, he doesn’t have a job and he dedicates all of his time to tending to the massive assortment of animals on his farm. He doesn’t even profit off of the farm, and God only knows how many animals there are. The man has to be insane.
Even though I don’t know the exact number, I know that the amount never changes. Even though he eats them, it’s almost as if as soon as one goes, he has a brand new one ready to replace it immediately. I have no idea how the man does it. I have no idea how he upholds the well-being of that amount of animals all alone. That being said, he’s also almost entirely off the grid, save for a few electronics. He sustains himself entirely off of the land and his animals. I kind of admire it.
But aside from the farm’s quirks, it’s never really bothered me.
Until the animals stopped moving.
I didn’t even care to point it out at first, and I didn’t even think that something might be strange the day the first pig stood still. It simply did not feel peculiar enough to comment on, and Jim had so many animals that he didn’t notice it either.
The pig stood at the edge of the fence, staring blankly. It didn’t move, even when I went out to collect my mail, and it didn’t move when the noisy garbage truck went by. I even waved my arms around in front of it in an attempt to rouse a reaction, but alas, I got none. The pig stood like a statue, unmoving, unblinking, unreactive.
I started to get a pit in my stomach, telling me that something was wrong, but I ignored it and hopped into my car to drive to work.
That night I could barely sleep. I don’t exactly know how to explain it, but something was up. Something felt— off.
The next morning, the pig by the fence had a friend.
It was one of equal size and stature and it stood about a yard away from the first. It stood still the same way. The first pig was still there, having now not moved for a full twenty-four hours.
The sight was quite similar to that of a video game glitch, where the screen bugs and some of the mobiles freeze, only, real. They were not dead— simply, frozen. There was something odd about them, however. Something that almost shouldn’t be possible.
I waited to express my concern until five of Jim’s pigs were lined up at the edge of the fence— a new one frozen with the coming of each morning.
“Oh! Hello there, neighbor.” Jim greeted upon my knock.
I proceeded to explain my concerns to him, but he seemed unfazed upon my vocal communication of it. The situation, oddly enough, didn’t strike any of his nerves then, and it didn’t even register when I dragged him to the edge of the fence to show him.
“Look! They’re not moving, Jimmy! Is that normal?”
Jim placed his hands on his hips and shifted his weight to his left leg, tilting his head the same way as he fixated his gaze on the two standstill swines.
“Eh, that’s normal. They like that fence a whole mighty lot.” Jim finally spoke, nonchalantly.
“What do you mean they like that fence a whole lot? They never stand there! And they certainly don’t for twenty-four hours when they do!”
Jim looked at me like I was crazy.
“I’m telling you, neighbor. I know my pigs. I know when something’s wrong with them. They’re fine!”
“I promise I’m not fooling you! Look, the flies are eatin’ them alive because their tails aren’t whacking them away—“
Jim stepped forward.
“I don’t see anything wrong with ‘em. They like that fence.” He insisted.
“I’m telling ya, Jimmy, there’s something wrong with them.”
He shook his head and began to make his way inside his house. Since my mission proved to be futile, I returned home.
I didn’t sleep that night— I don’t know what it was, I just couldn’t. I felt a presence, and I didn’t feel safe. I couldn’t allow myself to fall asleep.
The next morning when I woke, there were seven pigs lined up at the fence. The five originals, plus two more.
That was when I decided that on that very night, I would finally figure out what was going on. I would go over to Jim’s yard in the middle of the night and examine the pigs.
I couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. I couldn’t stand to look at their soulless, stiff bodies as they got eaten alive by insects. It was sickeningly fascinating— I couldn’t wrap my mind around how it could be possible, and I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be able to.
So I waited in my house until sunset. I knew that Jim would be going to sleep right around then. He sleeps from dusk and wakes up right at dawn. I wanted to make sure that he didn’t catch me in his yard— not because I was doing anything he’d disapprove of, but simply because I wanted to avoid the awkward encounter.
Just to be safe, I waited a few more hours until it was just about midnight. When the clock struck twelve, I snuck around the side of my house and across the street to where the seven pigs stood at the fence.
I approached them, my line of sight lit up only by the dull beam of my flashlight.
They still didn’t move.
I hopped the fence to get a closer look, and they still didn’t stir. All of the other animals were asleep in their pens, but these pigs remained.
I shined my flashlight around, and it was just then that I noticed something strange. One of the pigs had a wound from an insect that bored all the way through it’s outer layer of flesh— only, instead of viscera and fascia— there was stuffing.
I easily reached my hand out to touch the spot, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I brushed off what I had just seen and moved to investigate further, to see if the animal was even alive.
I placed my hand to its chest and physically recoiled upon contact.
It had a pulse. And it was breathing shallowly.
The last thing I was expecting was a pulse. I don’t even know how it was possible— the pig was full of stuffing, but it also had a pulse. I felt sick.
I continued my investigation with the other ones, and I found the results to be the same.
I was extremely curious now. It was sickening, but I wanted to figure out how it was possible.
So, I stole one of Jim’s pigs.
Don’t ask how I did it, because it was difficult, but I managed to roll the swine to my house and into my garage without catching the attention of anything.
After a bit of preparation, I placed the pig down on the floor and used my hunting knife to make a Y incision in its abdomen.
Stuffing. It was all stuffing. Stuffing, encased in a living, bleeding, almost breathing, skin. It bled. The flesh bled into the white stuffing material, staining it crimson.
I pulled some of the stuffing aside, and to my horror, there was something pink and squishy, throbbing. I gagged and turned away upon seeing it. It was a beating heart with a pair of lungs, endlessly supplying only each other in what seemed to be a perpetual loop. At the top of the system, connected by a few nerves, was a piece of brain that I immediately recognized to be the Medulla Oblongata, regulator of involuntary responses— the thing that I now assume was key in keeping the system alive. I could hear the heart, and I could see it pulsating in the dim light of my garage. The whole thing seemed impossible.
The animal’s entire body was a taxidermy— there were no bones, no other organs. All that remained was stuffing, a wire frame, and strangest and most disturbing of all— a working cardiovascular system.
I was amazed, but also sickened. The fact that someone could taxidermy an animal while still keeping it alive was impressive, but also terrifying, as I couldn’t imagine a reason why someone would. I couldn’t imagine how it was possible.
I called Jim.
He answered the phone with a groggy “hello?”
“Jim, I know it’s late, but you gotta get over here.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I—.” I paused. “I don’t know how to explain it. Meet me in my garage.”
I heard the phone hang up, and soon I heard a door squeak open and footsteps rustling through the grass.
“Alright Bobby. What’s up?” He asked. He had arrived in his bath robe and slippers, not taking the time to dress before he came over. That was understandable.
I walked him over to where I had the pig on the floor of my garage, and I attempted to explain without making myself a target for law enforcement.
“That is not my pig.” He tutted, his country drawl adding a musical twang to the word “pig.”
“What do you mean it’s not your pig? I stole it from your yard!”
He placed his hands on his hips.
“I know my pigs, Bobby. That ain’t one.”
I simply looked at him, baffled. I didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what was going on.
“Have fun with your science experiment!” He shouted from the walkway as he made his way back across the street.
I awoke the next morning, and immediately went to the garage to check in on the status of the pig that I had stolen from my neighbor, that now supposedly didn’t belong to him.
It was gone. The mess was gone too— all of the blood that had spewed upon my incision had been cleaned up, as had the entirety of the corpse.
Well, it wasn’t entirely gone, as I had discovered when I went to check my mail. It was back in Jim’s yard— repaired.
Someone had closed my incision and mounted the pig back upright in the place it had initially stood on the other side of my neighbor’s fence. There was visible stitching, almost as if a person— a very skilled person— had done it. The line of seven pigs was now accompanied by a few chickens.
The next few days went by as normal. I’d get up in the morning, see a new taxidermy animal in Jim’s yard, attempt to rouse his suspicion, be ignored, go to work, repeat.
Then the day came when the entire farm ceased to function, and my neighbor still didn’t notice. It was about a week after the initial incident, and now every animal on the farm stood stiff and still, trapped in their own bodies as Jim continued to tend to them as if nothing was wrong.
“Jim?” I had caught him in the process of milking his cows.
“Hey Bobby!” He waved to me. “You’re a little dry today, ain’t you girl?” He said to himself, patting the dairy cow’s side affectionately. I accidentally made eye contact with the animal, and my stomach surged with dread.
“I—.” I stopped myself. I had tried to convince Jim that something was wrong multiple times, but he didn’t notice that anything had changed. He was a healthy man, and from my experience he was pretty stable.
But here he was, attempting to milk an animal that no longer had the ability to lactate.
“Alright, this is getting really weird.” I muttered to myself as I turned back to go home.
I entered through my front door and ran to my kitchen, where the window above the sink offered me a clear view of Jim’s yard. I took out my phone and dialed 911.
The operator picked up, and I did my best to explain the situation.
“Yeah, it’s really strange. My neighbor— I— I don’t think he’s okay. He doesn’t even notice it.”
“What’s the address?”
I told the operator the address and she hung up. A few minutes later, the police arrived.
I saw the sirens outside Jim’s house, and I saw him explaining with his hands. After a few minutes, the officers climbed back into their cars and drove away.
I went over to his yard, where he stood with his hands on his hips.
“Why’d you call the cops on me, Bobby?”
“Jim, I’m really worried about you. This— this isn’t normal. Your animals aren’t alive!”
“Yes they are Bobby, this is normal! This is all normal. They still have a pulse, don’t they?”
Those words echoed through my head endlessly, and I will never forget Jim’s eerie tone when spoke them.
“What did the police say?” I asked.
“They didn’t see anything wrong Bobby. They saw my damn farm as it is.” He put his hand on his hip.
They saw my damn farm as it is.
I began to feel sick.
“I’ve got to get going— I have a big meeting tomorrow and I need to rest— I’ll see you later Jim.”
“You too, neighbor!” He smiled.
I waved and walked back to my house, and the minute I stepped inside the door I broke to a sprint to the bathroom and regurgitated the contents of my breakfast. Jim’s farm today had done something to me— it struck within me that kind of sense of dread that you can’t swallow. Something was seriously wrong. Why did no one see what I saw?
I woke up the next morning and looked out my window as I usually do, and something was out of place.
Jim’s animals were there, but he was not.
I went over to check on him, and when I knocked on the door, no one answered. I tried the knob, and it opened.
“Jim?” I called out.
I crept around the house, which was oddly empty. Everything was clean, not a thing was out of place. This was strange for Jim.
Everything changed when I rounded the corner to his den, and I found him staring blankly at the wall, frozen as his animals were. Dead.
I called the police and reported that I’d found a body.
I stood on Jim’s porch as they investigated the scene and got medics to take away the body. The coroner approached me from behind.
“You’re not going to believe this, but your friend isn’t dead. We’re talking him to the hospital.”
“He has a pulse.”
All I did was look the coroner in the eyes in shock before walking away. I had no words.
That night, I packed my things and left to stay in a hotel in the city. The next morning I planned to sell my house and get an apartment as soon as I could.
I knew I couldn’t stay there any longer when on my way out of town, I saw what seemed to be a person dressed in all black hop the fence to Jim’s farm, carrying the stiffened version of him still dressed in a hospital gown back to its proper place.