There was an old farm that sat on the outskirts of a small town, hidden away by overgrown fields and crooked trees that whispered with the wind. The locals often spoke of the old woman who lived there - Martha Grey. She had been around for as long as anyone could remember, but no one ever truly remembered her youth. Her back was hunched, her hands gnarled like twisted roots, and her eyes? well, her eyes were the strangest thing. Pale and cold, as if she had seen things no one should ever see.

Martha's farm was a strange place, isolated from the rest of the town. The barns were old and falling apart, the fences were crooked, and the crops... the crops were unlike any the farmers in the area grew. Strange, twisted vegetables and fruits, with thorns and scars, grew under her care. She never sold them at the market, and when people asked what she did with the harvest, she would only smile - an unsettling, sharp smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

One evening, a young couple named Sarah and Tom, seeking refuge from a storm, found themselves stranded near the farm. Their car broke down, and the dark clouds had quickly rolled in, turning the once peaceful sky into a foreboding mass of gray. They walked toward the farm, hoping to ask for shelter, but as they approached, they felt a chill in the air. It wasn't just the cold wind - it was something deeper, something... wrong.

Martha greeted them at the door with a slow, eerie smile. "Come in, come in, you'll be safe here," she croaked, her voice like dry leaves scraping across the ground. Tom hesitated, but Sarah pulled him inside. It was too late to turn back.

The house was dark, lit only by the dim glow of oil lamps. The walls were lined with old portraits, the eyes of the subjects seeming to follow the guests as they walked through the hall. The air smelled of decay, like something ancient had been trapped in this place for far too long.

As Martha prepared a fire, the couple sat uneasily on a worn leather couch. Tom tried to strike up a conversation, asking about the farm, but the old woman's answers were always vague, shrouded in mystery. "The land," she would say, "takes what it needs." It was as if she didn't care about anything else.

Hours passed, and the storm outside grew fiercer. The wind howled through the trees, and the house groaned under the pressure. But as the storm raged, a strange sound began to fill the air - a soft, rhythmic tapping, like nails scraping against the floorboards above them.

Tom stood up, his curiosity getting the better of him. "What's that noise?" he asked, his voice tight with unease.

Martha didn't answer right away. She just continued to stoke the fire, her back to them. After a moment, she finally spoke. "The harvest... it's time." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it sent a shiver down their spines.

Suddenly, the tapping stopped. A thick, oppressive silence filled the room, and Tom and Sarah exchanged nervous glances. Before they could speak, the floorboards above them creaked, and then - footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, as though someone was walking just above their heads.

Without warning, the door to the attic creaked open, and down the stairs came something - something that wasn't quite human. It was tall, with skin like cracked, dry earth, and eyes that glowed with an eerie, unnatural light. Its mouth twisted into a grotesque grin, revealing sharp, jagged teeth.

"Who... who is that?" Sarah gasped, her heart pounding in her chest.

Martha turned slowly, her pale eyes gleaming with a strange satisfaction. "My children," she said, her voice almost sweet. "They've come to feed."

The creature - no, creatures - emerged from the shadows, filling the room with their awful presence. They were like twisted versions of the crops that grew in the fields outside, grotesque and unnatural, their forms shifting and writhing. Their hands were like gnarled roots, reaching out for Sarah and Tom.

"We must go! Now!" Tom shouted, pulling Sarah to her feet. But the creatures were faster than they could react, their limbs snaking out and wrapping around them like vines.

Martha watched them struggle, her smile growing wider, her eyes gleaming with hunger. "You should have never come here," she whispered. "The farm always needs more."

With a final, horrific scream, the creatures pulled Tom and Sarah into the darkness, and the house fell silent once more. The storm outside had stopped, but the silence inside was deafening, broken only by the soft, eerie rustling of the crops in the field.

And on the next morning, when the town awoke, the storm had passed, but the old farm was gone. Martha Grey's house had vanished, leaving only the twisted fields behind, the strange fruits and vegetables still growing, their shapes more unnatural than ever.

The locals say the farm is still out there, somewhere, hidden deep in the woods. And if you listen closely, you can hear the soft tapping of footsteps, a reminder of the harvest that never ends.