There is something wrong with my bees

A 50-acre parcel of land seemed too good to be true. It was.

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 barely slept that night, replaying the low, chaotic buzz in my head every time I closed my eyes. Even buried under the covers, I could almost feel the presence of that creature, still out there, waiting in the dark. By dawn, I was out of bed, bleary-eyed and unsettled, unable to shake the feeling that whatever was out there hadn’t gone far.

After I’d gathered enough courage and daylight was on my side, I took my rifle and headed back toward the spot in the woods where I’d fired at it. The morning was crisp, and the forest was draped in silence, each step of mine seeming to echo louder than it should. Near the place where I remembered seeing the creature, I spotted the rifle casing glinting in the dirt. I pushed further into the underbrush and soon came across something else—a thick, dark smear on the leaves and branches, black and slick, like tar but thinner, almost runny. I crouched closer, breathing through my mouth to avoid the stench that hit me. It was the same rancid, sickly-sweet smell I’d found in the infected hives, but amplified, like the decay was infused with something darker, something wrong.

The dark residue clung to the leaves, and as I examined it, I couldn’t help but think back to the foul-smelling honey from the day before. Curiosity flared up, overtaking my dread, and I turned back toward my hives, determination replacing my fear. I’d put off investigating the infected honey, wanting to avoid that stench, but now… I needed to know what exactly was going on with my bees.

When I arrived at the hives, the sight made my stomach drop. The entire area was silent—every single hive, empty. The reassuring hum I had grown to love was gone, replaced by an eerie, lifeless quiet that made the hair on the back of my neck prickle. Almost forty hives, and not a single bee remained.

I could feel a pressure building in my chest as I pulled out frame after frame, each one thick with that rotten, red-brown honey. The day before, the hives had been mostly fine, despite the infected few, but now… now there wasn’t a living bee to be found.

I hauled several frames of the rancid honey back to the barn, set on seeing this through. I lit the burner and heated my uncapping knife, working as I’d done a hundred times, though this time, each movement felt heavy, uncertain. The wax caps melted under the blade, but instead of the sweet, floral scent that usually filled the air, a stench like rotting flesh wafted up, thick and almost tangible. I gagged, nearly doubling over, but forced myself to continue.

Beneath the wax, the honey oozed out, a thick, dark red, bordering on black. It clung to the knife like coagulated blood, the smell intensifying with each cut I made. My eyes watered, and a wave of nausea hit me as I uncapped a dozen frames, struggling to keep down the bile rising in my throat. It was honey in form, but everything about it was wrong—too thick, too dark, and that god-awful smell.

Gritting my teeth, I loaded the frames into the extractor, desperate to get whatever this was out of the comb. As I spun the frames, the honey oozed out in slow, syrupy streams, pooling in the extractor’s basin. The foul liquid clung to the metal, moving almost reluctantly, like it didn’t want to be disturbed. The smell hung in the air, a rancid mix of decay and burnt sugar that seemed to settle in the back of my throat.

I decided I needed answers. I had no idea what I’d find, but I wanted to send a sample of the tainted honey to a lab, anywhere that might be able to tell me if there was something in the environment—or worse, something lurking in the old coal mine—that was affecting my bees. I uncapped the extractor’s spout and watched as the honey poured into the bucket in a thick, viscous stream, oozing like clotted blood. It had the consistency of syrup left to sit in the cold too long, congealing and reluctant to flow. The sight of it, dark and pulsing in the dim barn light, made my skin crawl, and I had to resist the impulse to dump it out and walk away.

I capped the bucket and set it on the workbench, knowing that, for now, I’d have to let it sit there, waiting like an accusation. Something was wrong with my bees, and even though I couldn’t shake the memory of that creature in the woods, part of me hoped I was dealing with something simpler—some natural contaminant, some environmental hazard.

That night, I bottled what I could of the good honey, my mind cycling through images of the creature, the rancid honey, and the black ichor smeared across the leaves. Each sound in the quiet house set me on edge, and when I finally turned in for the night, sleep was fleeting, broken by restless dreams of a buzzing swarm and those evil eyes staring back at me from the forest.

Sometime deep into the night, a loud crash jolted me awake. My heart hammered as I lay there, listening, hoping it was just some stray branch or the wind. But then I heard it—the unmistakable sound of bees, the furious buzz of a swarm coming from the direction of the barn.

Cursing myself for not bringing my beekeeping suit inside, I threw on my clothes, grabbed my rifle and flashlight, and slipped out the back door. The cold air hit me like a slap, heightening every nerve as I crept across the yard toward the barn. The buzz grew louder as I got closer, an angry, pulsating noise that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. My flashlight beam cut through the dark, landing on the barn doors—they were wide open, swinging gently in the breeze.

I kept those doors locked with a chain, secured every night to keep out any curious animals, but now the chain hung loose, as if something had wrenched it free with ease. I tightened my grip on the rifle, every instinct in me screaming to turn back, but I forced myself forward, stepping over the chain and shining the light into the barn.

The swarm was everywhere, bees darting and swirling in a chaotic frenzy, so thick they looked like a storm cloud of black and gold, filling every corner of the barn. And in the center of it all, standing amid the furious swarm, was the bucket of dark honey. The lid lay twisted off beside it, the sickly liquid spilling over the rim, dripping onto the barn floor in thick, sluggish drops.

The swarm whirled in violent chaos around the bucket, thickening the air with the furious hum of countless bees. They buzzed erratically, their sound jagged and unnatural, as if something monstrous was twisting their very essence. My flashlight trembled in my hand, illuminating the spilling honey, dark and viscous, dripping over the rim like a slow bleed.

Then, from the far shadows of the barn, a shape began to emerge.

The beam of my flashlight caught the edge of something massive and hunched, dark fur slick with patches of what looked like congealed blood. The creature moved slowly, dragging itself out of the shadows, each step accompanied by a rattling, wet breath. Its eyes—red and gleaming—fixed on me with an intelligence that seemed ancient and hungry, far too knowing for any animal. It straightened slightly, towering above, and that’s when I saw it.

The thing had a mouth, but not like any mouth I’d ever seen. From its chin down to its navel was a gaping, grotesque maw lined with rows of twisted, jagged teeth, each one yellowed and uneven. The flesh around the maw was stretched and torn, as if it had split open under its own sickening hunger. Inside, the mouth was a pit of darkness, wet and glistening, and I could see flashes of those serrated teeth glinting as it moved.

The creature’s gaze was locked on me as it took a step forward, the maw twisting into what could only be described as a smile, the lips—or what passed for lips—curling back to reveal even more teeth. A slathering hiss escaped from the monstrous chasm, a sound that raised every hair on my body.

Suddenly, the swarm surged toward me, as if following some unspoken command from the creature. The bees struck like a storm, their stings piercing through my clothes, jabbing into my skin with merciless fury. I stumbled back, trying to shield myself, but the pain was everywhere, hot and sharp, each sting pulsing with venom. The buzzing was deafening, filling my ears, clawing into my mind.

In a frenzy, I raised the rifle, barely able to keep my aim steady as the swarm attacked, stingers burrowing into my face, my neck, every inch they could reach. I fired blindly, the shot echoing through the barn. The creature lurched, its maw splitting wider, and it let out a horrid, gurgling roar that sounded like it came from the pit of some endless, hellish cavern.

I fired again, this time catching it in the shoulder. Black ichor sprayed from the wound, thick and foul-smelling, mingling with the stench of rotting honey. The creature staggered, momentarily retreating, and I seized my chance, turning and running for the open barn doors, tearing through the swarm as they tried to follow me.

Behind me, that horrible, guttural roar rose up once more, and the swarm broke off, as if summoned back to their master. I glanced back just long enough to see those red eyes fixed on me from the darkness, the gaping maw closing, only to open again in a silent, taunting promise.

I stumbled out of the barn and into the night, bruised and burning from the stings, heart pounding with the terror that it would come after me—that it would come for whatever was left.

The creature dropped to all fours, its massive, twisted limbs propelling it forward in a horrifying sprint. I barely had time to react, my body operating on pure instinct as I fired two more rounds, the shots ringing out sharp and loud in the night air. But it didn’t stop. It barreled toward me, faster than any animal I’d ever seen, jaws gaping in that nightmare maw.

I turned and ran, adrenaline surging as I tore across the yard toward the house. The barn was far behind me now, but the stings from the bees still burned, searing into my skin with each step. I gritted my teeth against the pain, trying to reload as I stumbled, forcing myself to focus despite the agony that laced through every inch of my body. My hands were shaking as I finally got a round chambered, and without slowing down, I whipped around and fired.

The shot struck home, and the creature halted, its twisted body jerking as a wretched howl escaped its open maw. The sound was somewhere between a scream and a death rattle, filling the air with an unnatural echo that made my skin crawl. Then, just as suddenly, the bees attacking me dropped to the ground, littering the yard in a sickening splatter, their bodies piling around my feet in a grotesque, sticky mess. I felt their tiny corpses hit my skin, felt their stingers break off inside me, but the intense buzzing had dulled, weakening as if the force driving them was finally retreating.

I forced myself to look up, catching the glint of a single red eye shining out from the darkness. The creature stared back at me, wounded but still seething with that primal rage, until, with a shuddering breath, it turned and disappeared into the trees, the broken buzz of bees following it like a death march. The forest swallowed them both, leaving only the quiet and a low, fading hum.

I stumbled the rest of the way to the house, my mind spinning and my body on fire. In the bathroom, I collapsed against the sink, barely able to recognize the reflection that looked back at me. My face, neck, and hands were swollen with stings, red welts forming where the bees had latched on, and my clothes were covered in dead bees, their sticky black ichor staining the fabric. Broken-off stingers jutted from my skin, each one leaving a small, painful pulse of venom.

Shaking, I began pulling out the stingers, one by one, feeling the sting each time. The ichor clung to me in thick patches, its rancid, sickly-sweet smell filling the bathroom. I scrubbed at it frantically, but it felt like it had seeped into my very skin, lingering in my hair, my clothes, everywhere.

When I finally looked up, the creature’s blood-red eye was still burning in my mind, a smoldering ember that wouldn’t let go. I didn’t know what I had just encountered out there in the barn, but whatever it was, it wasn’t finished with me. And as I stood there, stripped raw and aching, I knew that this place, with its cursed land and rotting honey, was no longer mine. It belonged to that creature now, and I had been nothing more than an intruder.

I spent the next hour meticulously washing off the foul-smelling ichor, scrubbing my skin until it was raw and red. The stingers came out one by one, each removal a fresh jolt of pain that spread through my whole body. There were barely any places the bees hadn’t stung. My skin was swollen and pulsing with venom, every nerve alive with a deep, throbbing agony. When I finally lay down, exhausted and sore, I felt the phantom hum of those bees beneath my skin, echoing in my bones.

Sleep, when it came, was restless and fractured. I drifted in and out, the pain a constant, gnawing reminder of the nightmare I’d just lived. By morning, though, the swelling had receded, far faster than I’d expected. My skin felt tender, but the worst of it was gone, and the venom’s fiery pulse had dulled to an uncomfortable ache.

As the morning light crept across the yard, I knew I had to go back to the barn and face whatever was left of the night’s horror. I steeled myself and opened the barn door, the sight inside freezing me in my tracks. The floor was carpeted with the remains of my bees, thousands of tiny bodies lying in thick piles, each one dusted with that black, tarry substance. Pools of the blood-red honey had oozed across the dirt floor, glistening in the dull light, the stench of decay and sweetness so overpowering that it turned my stomach.

But something about the honey was… different. It still smelled like rot, that sickly sweetness hanging thick in the air, but now, it almost seemed to beckon, as if something buried in that cloying scent was calling out to me. I don’t know what possessed me, but before I knew it, my hand reached out, dipping a finger into the honey. I lifted it to my mouth, feeling its strange warmth as it slipped over my tongue, a deep, intoxicating taste that was both horrible and irresistible.

After that, things are hazy. I can remember brief flashes—a blinding rush of heat through my veins, my skin prickling as if thousands of tiny legs were crawling under it. Then darkness, and a deep, gnawing hunger that seemed to consume me from the inside out.

When I finally came to, I was lying on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, naked and aching. The rancid, sweet taste of the honey lingered in my mouth, clinging to my lips, thick and sour. My muscles ached as I forced myself up, reaching for the bathroom light. And as I looked into the mirror, my hand froze mid-air.

Running down my chest, from my collarbone to my navel, was a line of teeth, sharp and jagged, interlocked like a zipper, pressing up against my skin from within. Each one was small but sharp, stretching the skin as if something inside me was trying to break free. My hands trembled as I reached up, touching the edges, feeling the points where skin met teeth, and a deep, hungry craving bloomed in my chest.

I wanted more. The honey. The foul, bloody honey that had taken my bees, that had summoned that thing from the woods. I could still taste it, sweet and rotting on my tongue, and I needed it—desperately, completely.

The creature in the barn, the monster with the endless maw, had left something inside me. And as I stared at myself, the zipper of teeth grinning back at me in the dim bathroom light, I understood one thing clearly: whatever hunger it had passed on, whatever part of itself now lay under my skin, it was awake. And it wasn’t done.