Murphy woke early that morning. He sat in his bed a while, collecting his waking thoughts for several minutes until he remembered what day it was. When it came to him, he rushed from his bed, pulled his window up, and threw open the shutters. There was a layer of mist covering the ground all over the farm, but he could make out the wooden fenceposts and the humped backs of the pigs in their pen. He craned his neck and saw the unicorn trudging around its corner paddock. He heard its throaty bleat, eager, like the rest of the animals, to be fed. It was not a pleasant sound.

He let the chill air seep into his clothes a bit longer as he watched his father first appear, then lumber around the farmyard with buckets of feed for the chickens, the old mare, their two dairy cows, and the pigs. 

The unicorn was in for a disappointment, Murphy figured. It never got fed on a Choosing Day.

He pulled his head back inside and dressed quickly. Then it was downstairs to grab a quick bite of toast and then out the door to get his morning chores in before the people started to arrive. He knew they’d be early—Choosing Days were full of excitement and fun and everyone got a head start on those types of days.

By the time he finished cleaning out the mare’s stall, he went into the feed room one last time. Inside was a small cooler, its electrical cord humming slightly from the outlet in the wall. He lifted the lid and used the tongs tied on a string to the corner of the cooler to lift out a piece of meat. He fished out three raw chicken livers and tossed them in a bucket. Those worked best to lure the unicorn from the outside part of her pen into the barn stall. Naturally, it was the largest stall they had, though the unicorn was only the size of a year-old calf. But for Choosing Days, they needed the space.

Privately, Murphy hated dealing with the unicorn. It was his least favorite part of the day. It wasn’t a pleasant creature to be around most normal days, and it always seemed to know when a Choosing had come around—on those days it was nastier than usual. It was an ugly creature with a bloated midsection attached to stumpy legs. Its tail hung limply behind it, furry down the length except for a grizzled tuft of hair at the tip. It had a tapered muzzle, giving its head a triangular shape, and long, floppy ears like the flaps on a bonnet on each side of its head. And from the center of the forehead, beneath a wiry forelock, was a gnarled, twisted horn the color of ash. Its eyes had the slitted irises of a goat but were red, not black. And when Murphy wasn’t paying attention, it liked to bite him on the rear end. And not the gentle, teasing bite the mare sometimes gave when she was feeling playful—this was a mean snapping of the teeth designed to draw blood.

No, Murphy didn’t like the unicorn. And he knew it felt the same about him. It tried to bite him three times in the span it took to lure it into the barn from outside.

But by the time he was done, the first cars had arrived, lining themselves neatly in a row in the grassy strip next to the house. Murphy counted three cars before he ran inside to change into his Choosing Day clothes and wipe the morning’s sweat from him neck and armpits.

When he was cleaned up, he came back downstairs, ducking guiltily past his mother in the kitchen finishing up her hors d’oeuvres, and headed out to the yard to see which of his friends had arrived. There was a good hour before the day’s festivities would begin and he’d betted Nigel Whittingham that there would be twenty more people here this year than had arrived at last year’s Choosing.

He dodged women in their Sunday best as they milled around the courtyard, some with large, floppy hats held on by gauzy wrappings that went under their chins. Men loosened their ties as they chatted near the food table, pretending they weren’t sneaking cocktail wieners from Mrs. Obel’s covered blue dish. As usual, it was a pot luck, and Murphy had his eye set on the chocolate cupcakes Thomas’s mother had brought. Those would taste especially good after the Choosing.

The air was already sticky with the heavy southern humidity that came with the tail-end of spring. The wheat from the fields had already started to bake in the sun and gave off a musty scent that made Murphy long for the coolness of the barn. 

It seemed he’d just started his fourth game of stickball when the bell began its clanging call, signaling everyone to adjourn to the barn. Murphy felt the familiar queasy flip of his stomach as he went, the boys in his group shoving each other good-naturedly as they jockeyed for a good view at the front of the line. Everyone began crowding around the largest stall at the end of the barn, and Murphy knew even before entering the barn that they weren’t going to have a good seat. 

Murphy glanced around, making sure his parents weren’t nearby, and caught Nigel’s eye. With a jerk of his head, signaling follow me, he led Nigel to the ladder that led to the upstairs hay loft. Once up, he placed one finger over his lips. Nigel swallowed, then nodded his understanding. No one was supposed to be in the loft—too dusty for their nice clothes—but there was a hole in the slats that gave the perfect view down into the large stall at the end of the barn. 

The wood was ironwood, the only kind that could contain something like the unicorn, and darker than the rest of the barn, stained with dark smears from past Choosing Days. On really hot days in the summer, the entire barn reeked of stale blood, that copper penny stench that coated Murphy’s clothes and stuck in his nose like wet cotton. 

Even on regular days, the barn felt like a temple, overhung with a blanket of air that always felt too still, too heavy. And today was no different as everyone filed in, crowding against each other in the barn. It reeked of stale hay and the body odor from the audience in their wool outfits. They shifted their weight in a collective movement, chattering like small birds amongst themselves. Then, at a silent cue, they fell silent too and parted ways for the Choosing Day candidates to come forward. Five girls, aged five to ten, came in a single-file line through the throng of people, moving like acolytes over the dried straw that coated the floorboards.

From the loft, Murphy nudged Nigel and pointed to a brunette girl with yellow ducks on the hem of her frilly dress.

“There’s Maria Hettinger!” he whispered. “I’ll bet she’s going to make it this year.”

But Nigel shook his head. “Nah. It’s Arya Stoneburner. She almost made it last year.”

“Do you really think they’ll get their wish?” Murphy had always wondered how that worked. For the family of the Chosen girl, there was always one wish granted by the unicorn. But he’d never seen anything special happen to the Chosen families. Certainly, nobody suddenly won the lotto or had a perfect crop that year. But that was supposed to be how it worked. That was the whole deal. 

“Of course they will. Why else would they go through all this?” Nigel asked with scorn in his voice. 

But Murphy wondered.

The unicorn let out a bleat and the crowd let up a shushing murmur as everyone whispered to their neighbors. In the back, near the corner of the barn, Murphy could make out the bettors placing their cards on which girl would be chosen. According to Murphy’s Dad, Darryl Smith’s youngest daughter, Hannah, was slated as the favorite though she was almost too old to be in the running anymore—word was this was her last year. Murphy saw Mr. Smith’s towering frame standing a good head taller than the men around him. A young girl clung to one leg of his suit as he handed a card to Old Lady Slade, who ran the local bar and who usually acted as collector for the betting pool each year. 

Murphy and Nigel watched as the girls were let into the large stall. The unicorn pressed itself into the corner as far away from the girls as it could get. The girls lined up against the wall opposite the unicorn, and the door of the stall was closed and latched.

As one, the crowd fell silent. The air was thick with the musty scent of dried haybales and the waiting, the anticipation that was so thick Murphy thought a cough would cut right through it.  His stomach turned over on itself the way it did when he had gone too long between meals. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. But he didn’t dare interrupt the tableau below. He knew how important this day was.

The unicorn began sniffing the air and took a few reluctant steps away from its corner. The girls in the stall all clasped hands so they were one human chain. The unicorn took a few uncertain steps more, all the while sniffing the air as it if there was an elusive scent it was searching for. 

Murphy didn’t need to be down in the stall to know the unicorn’s eyes were widening, the pupils dilating as it caught the scent of the one it was seeking. He’d been to many Choosing Days before.

Suddenly the unicorn let out a loud bleat, an almost human-like scream, and charged forward. The little girls in the stall screamed in response and cowered away from the charging animal. The unicorn’s cloven hooves carried it forward to a girl on the left and it lowered its head. It reached the girl as she was turning away in fear, so its horn didn’t catch her in the middle of the stomach, as intended. Instead, it impaled the side of her, sliding through the girl’s ribcage to the soft internal organs. The girl’s mouth dropped open in a surprised O as she clutched weakly at the horn in her side. Her fingers kept sliding up and down the horn, painting it a dark red that made it look black in places. All the while, the girl’s high scream pressed into every inch of space in the barn. It coated Murphy’s ears until there didn’t seem to be room for any other noise.

The unicorn let out another bleat and backed away. The girl slumped forward, her hands pressing weakly against her side trying to stem the blood that flowed freely, staining her blue dress black like the unicorn’s horn. She stopped screaming abruptly and her body heaved upward as she took in a great, shuddering breath. There was a whistling sound as she did.

“Punctured lung,” one of the women said in a low voice that carried over the silence. Murphy glared down at the crowd. Nobody ever spoke until it was done. It was rude not to wait.

The girl gave several whistled breaths, her eyes seeking someone in the crowd but not seeming to find them. Then she sagged forward onto the straw bedding and was still. The unicorn took a few steps toward the girl and reached its head forward toward her face. With a sucking sound, it bit into her cheek and chewed thoughtfully.

There was a great shushing sound in the crowd, like that of a breeze through a cornfield. Then the girl’s name rose up on the wind: Hannah, Hannah, Hannah. It was repeated over and over, a low-voiced chant sung by everyone in the barn. Only Murphy didn’t repeat it. He was too busy wondering how he and Nigel were going to get back down the loft ladder without getting caught. 

But that didn’t seem to be a problem. 

Everyone began filing out of the barn then. The stall door was open, and the little girls were let out of the unicorn pen. One little girl was crying—her mother shushed her with angry motions, as if embarrassed.  Murphy saw Old Lady Slade pass a handful of cards to Darryl Smith, whose face seemed pinched and tight. But he managed a quick smile to those who patted him on the back. To have won two Choosings in a row was uncommon, but it seemed the Smiths had something going for them others didn’t. 

Murphy nudged Nigel when most of the people had filed out of the barn, and they crept back down the ladder to join them. 

“Damn shame to waste a wish on a Smith,” one man muttered. Murphy recognized him as the grocery store owner, Mr. Washburn. “And two years running at that!” Then his companion, a man Murphy didn’t know, slapped his shoulder with a warning jerk of his head that seemed to encompass everyone around them. Mr. Washburn gave a surly nod and clamped his mouth shut. Neither of the men noticed Darryl Smith walking behind them. His mouth tightened a little at the corners but otherwise he gave no notice that he’d heard.

Murphy didn’t care. He was going to have to clean up the unicorn and its pen later that day, after everyone had eaten and socialized and left. And it would be as nasty as usual since they left the body for the unicorn to feast on. But that was a typical Choosing Day. 

He and Nigel got plates of food from the tables and wandered around the area looking for open seats at one of the folding tables his parents set out for the event. A slight breeze lifted the sweaty hair from the back of Murphy’s neck, and he was grateful for it. They found a spot and sat down. Murphy looked around and was surprised to see Mr. Washburn and his wife and daughter sitting a few spaces down from them. 

“I don’t understand it,” Mr. Washburn was saying. “How does his luck run true two years in a row?”

“Must be something about those Smith women,” his friend said around a mouthful of food. He gestured with his fork at the little girl sitting next to Mr. Washburn. “She’ll be ready to be a candidate next year, won’t she?”

Mr. Washburn’s face turned grave, and he put a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “Not if I can help it.”

“You know how it works,” his friend argued. “Any girl of eligible age. You won’t have a choice.”

Murphy watched Mr. Washburn look down at the girl, his food forgotten. 

“But she’s our only one,” Mrs. Washburn said in a protesting voice. 

“Yeah, there’s the option to opt out if they’re your only child,” Mr. Washburn said quickly.

His friend pointed to Mrs. Washburn. “Not by this time next year, she won’t be.” Mrs. Washburn put one hand protectively over her bulging stomach and gave a distraught look to her husband. “You won’t have a choice,” the friend repeated.

“Won’t matter if the Smiths have another run like they did this year,” Mr. Washburn snarled. He seemed wilder, as if the conversation had turned him a little feral. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in mismatched tufts. “I’ll tell you, there’s nothing good that comes from—”

Murphy was distracted from the conversation as the man next to him rose from his seat, jostling Murphy a little. But his anger turned to surprise when he saw that it was Darryl Smith he’d been sitting next to the entire time. As he watched, Mr. Smith detoured over to the trashcan to throw away his plate, then headed into the barn alone. 

Curious, Murphy followed. Nigel grabbed at his shirt sleeve, but Murphy shrugged him off with a wait here gesture. He crept along quietly behind Mr. Smith, his steps masked by the layer of hay littering the barn floor. The air was heavy with the copper-penny stench of blood and stale air. There was a stillness inside that weighed him down like a blanket, much like the humidity of outside. He trod lightly behind Mr. Smith’s towering frame as the man walked up to the stall door and knelt on one knee. He placed a gnarled hand on the top of the stall door and bowed his head.

“I want Washburn to win next year,” he said in a low voice. In the quiet of the barn, his voice was easy to hear. 

Murphy felt his stomach flip again. He wasn’t supposed to hear this—a man’s wish from the unicorn was supposed to be a private thing. He tiptoed backwards, then turned and rushed from the barn, heedless of whether Mr. Smith heard him.

Once outside, he took a few deep breaths to calm himself, and wondered about the wish he’d overheard. Wondered what it meant. Certainly, that wish couldn’t have helped the Smith family. There must have been something else to it, some part he didn’t understand. He wished he understood adults better sometimes.

Then he mentally shook himself. There was no use worrying over it now. He would see if the wish came true next year. That would tell him truly if there was anything to this wish business.

But for now, as far as he was concerned, there was only one thing he wanted to round the day out: chocolate cupcakes. With a lusty sigh, he moved towards the dessert table, savoring the summer breeze as it lifted the sweaty hair on the back of his neck, his heart lighter than it had been all morning. An auspicious Choosing, a fine start to the summer. 

[Danielle Davis (she/her) is a liar, a cheater at cards, and a misrememberer of song lyrics: only two of these are true. Her horror and dark fantasy have appeared in The Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Andromeda Spaceways Magazine, and 40+ anthologies. An active contributor to Writer Unboxed, she is also a member of Horror Writers of America (HWA). You can find her on most social media platforms under the handle “LiteraryEllyMay” and atwww.literaryellymay.com.]