Harvest of Shadows

By Ethan Ross

In the quiet rural town of Eldridge, where vast fields stretch under endless skies, Harlan Graves rules his agricultural empire with a cold, iron fist. But beneath his stern professional veneer, a twisted obsession is rotting.

Vicky Harlan was supposed to be just another employee—bright, independent, and untouchable. Yet, her very autonomy serves as a silent taunt to Harlan's need for control. When his simmering resentment finally boils over, the golden horizon of the Midwest becomes a backdrop for a waking nightmare.

Abducted and vanished from the world, Vicky finds herself entombed in a forgotten barn, isolated by miles of stalks and silence. As the weeks bleed into a cycle of violation and despair, Harlan's darkness consumes them both, pushing the boundaries of human endurance.

Harvest of Shadows is a harrowing exploration of the fragility of power and the depravity that festers in the shadows of isolation. In this visceral psychological thriller, Ethan Ross weaves a tale of obsession that leads to a brutal, shattering end—where the only thing left to grow is regret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Firebird Publishers
• Release date: Jan 9, 2026
• ISBN: 9798224495177

Ethan Ross

Ethan Ross is a versatile and prolific author who refuses to be confined to a single genre. While he is acclaimed for his bone-chilling holiday horror, such as the terrifying Santa's Slay List and the short story collections like The December Dark, he demonstrates mastery across the literary spectrum. In addition to crafting relentless tales of winter dread and forgotten folklore, Ross also writes romance that explores the complexities of human connection, high-stakes thrillers that keep readers on the edge of their seats, and many other genres, proving his capacity to engage audiences with a wide array of narrative styles and emotional depths. His diverse body of work showcases a broad storytelling range that promises something for every type of reader.

Book preview

Chapter One: Seeds of Obsession

The afternoon sun hung low over the Eldridge dealership lot, casting long shadows across rows of gleaming tractors and harvesters. Harlan Graves leaned against the frame of his office window, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the figure moving among the machines. Vicky Harlan—no relation, thank God, or the irony would choke him—wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, her ponytail swinging as she bantered with the other sales reps. Her laugh cut through the hum of idling engines, sharp and unbidden, like a thorn snagging his thoughts. It wasn't joy that twisted in his gut, but something thicker, a resentment coiled around the way she carried herself, free and unyielding, as if the world owed her its ease.

He'd noticed her months ago, this slip of a girl barely out of her twenties, with skin that browned under the Midwest sun and eyes that sparked defiance when she questioned his directives. Harlan's fingers tightened on the windowsill, the wood rough under his calluses. She was his employee, under his thumb in theory, but she slipped through like dry soil. Today, as she joked with Mike from parts, her hand brushing his arm in casual camaraderie, Harlan felt the heat rise in his chest. Isolation, he thought—that's what she needed. A way to strip back the noise, to make her see him.

By midday, he slipped out to the lot, a folded note tucked in his pocket. He waited until she stepped away to grab a clipboard from the supply shed, then wedged the paper under the windshield wiper of her beat-up sedan. 'Watch your back,' it read in block letters, no signature. Simple, anonymous, enough to plant the seed of doubt. Harlan retreated to his office, heart thudding with the thrill of it, imagining her puzzled frown as she discovered it later.

The sabotage came easier that afternoon. Vicky was inventorying a shipment of plows when Harlan tampered with the manifest on her desk, swapping dates to make it look like she'd missed a deadline. He watched from afar as she pored over the papers, her brow furrowing, frustration etching lines around her mouth. Good, he thought, let the others pull away, whisper about her carelessness. She argued with the warehouse guy over a misplaced crate, her voice rising, but no one rallied to her side. Harlan's lips curved in satisfaction; the fractures were forming.

As the day wore on, his mind churned with plans, sketches of routes and alibis flickering like heat haze off the asphalt. Vicky's independence chafed him, a constant abrasion, and he envisioned corralling it, bending it to his will. He lingered in the lot after closing, the air cooling as the sun dipped, pretending to check locks while his eyes traced her path to her car.

Finally, as she passed his truck, Harlan called out, voice steady. 'Vicky, got a last-minute delivery. Remote farm out on County Road 12—old client needs a tiller dropped off tonight. You mind handling it? I'll square it with your hours.' She hesitated, keys in hand, but nodded, the weight of the day dulling her suspicion. He watched her drive off, the dust trailing her taillights, and turned toward his own vehicle, the first threads of his snare pulling taut.

Vicky gripped the steering wheel tighter as the sedan bumped along the gravel-strewn County Road 12, the dealership's lights fading in her rearview mirror like a distant memory. The sun had surrendered to twilight, painting the endless cornfields in bruised purples and golds, and the radio crackled with static, offering no company but the hum of tires on dirt. She replayed the day in her mind—the mangled inventory list, the snide glances from the crew, that damn note on her car like a ghost's warning. Harlan's request had come out of nowhere, his face all business, but something in his eyes had lingered, a shadow she couldn't shake. Just a quick drop-off, she told herself, the tiller rattling in the trunk, its weight a reminder of overtime pay she desperately needed.

The farm emerged from the gloom, a sagging silhouette against the horizon: weathered silos, a house with boarded windows, and a sprawling barn that swallowed the last light. No truck waited, no farmer waving her in. Vicky killed the engine, heart quickening as she stepped out, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. Hello? she called, her voice thin against the wind rustling through stalks. Silence answered, broken only by the distant low of cattle. She checked her phone—no signal, of course, out here in the sticks. Unease coiled in her gut, sharper now, as she unloaded the tiller, propping it against the fence post where Harlan said it should go.

Headlights pierced the dusk behind her, twin beams cutting through the haze. Harlan's truck rumbled to a stop, gravel crunching under its tires. He climbed out slowly, his silhouette broad and unhurried, toolbox in hand. Figured I'd check the site myself, he said, voice gravelly, eyes locking on hers with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Wouldn't want you out here alone. Vicky forced a smile, nodding