The corn field across the road had always been a part of the landscape, a quiet presence that whispered in the wind and marked the seasons with its growth. This year, though, something was different. What with all of the rain, corn had grown tall—too tall, it seemed. The stalks loomed like sentinels, thicker and more twisted than I remembered from years past. The field, once a familiar sight, now felt like a stranger.
It belonged to Kevin, the same burly farmer with whom I’d first met under strange circumstances. I could still picture him from that night 23 years ago—towering over me, well into his fifties, with arms like tree trunks. He’d been helping me chase down cows that had wandered into this very field. I never forgot the way his voice boomed through the night air as we sprinted through the corn, his presence both comforting and intimidating. Despite his gruffness, we’d struck up a neighborly friendship since then, the kind built on occasional favors and the shared isolation of rural life.
But lately, Kevin had been behaving oddly, keeping to himself, and so had his field.
I first noticed it late one evening, the sun dipping below the horizon and casting long shadows across the road. I stood at the edge of the field, staring into the rows that stretched endlessly in front of me. The air was still, heavy with the scent of earth and growing things, yet there was an undercurrent of something else—a faint, metallic tang that set my teeth on edge.
The corn hadn’t been harvested yet, and as I gazed into the dense, towering rows, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the field was watching me. I tried to laugh it off, blaming the unease on the memory of that night when I’d first met my neighbors, chasing down cows that had escaped into the cornfield at dusk. But the laughter died in my throat as the wind picked up, rustling the corn in a way that sounded almost like whispering. I stepped back, unwilling to venture any closer.
For the next few days, I avoided the field, keeping my distance as much as possible. But every evening, just as the sun began to set, I found myself drawn to it, standing on the edge of the road, staring into the darkening rows. The corn seemed to grow taller with each passing day, the stalks thickening and intertwining like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, though I could never make out any words.
One night, as I lay in bed, the unease became too much to bear. The house was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall, but outside, I could hear it—the rustling, the whispering, the faintest hint of footsteps crunching through the drying husks. I told myself it was just the wind, but deep down, I knew better.
I grabbed my flashlight and slipped on my boots, the heavy tread of my steps muffled by the thick silence of the night. As I crossed the road and approached the field, the sense of foreboding grew, tightening around my chest like a vice. The corn loomed over me, casting long, twisted shadows that danced in the beam of my flashlight.
I hesitated at the edge of the field, my heart pounding in my chest. The rustling grew louder, almost frantic, and for a moment, I could have sworn I heard voices—low, urgent, and overlapping, like a dozen whispers speaking all at once. But when I strained to listen, the sound dissolved into the rustle of the corn.
Swallowing my fear, I stepped into the field, the stalks closing in around me. The air grew cooler, denser, and the sense of being watched intensified with each step I took. I moved slowly, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the darkness, but the light only seemed to deepen the shadows, revealing nothing but endless rows of corn. The farther I walked, the more disoriented I became, the rows all blending together until I couldn’t tell where I was.
And then, I heard it—a sound that froze the blood in my veins. It wasn’t the wind, or the rustling of the corn, or even the whispering. It was a footstep. Heavy, deliberate, and far too close.
I spun around, the flashlight’s beam jerking wildly through the darkness, but there was nothing there. Just the corn, swaying slightly in the breeze. I told myself it was my imagination, that I was letting the isolation of the field play tricks on my mind. But then I heard it again—closer this time, and followed by another, and another.
Panic surged through me, and I turned to flee, but the cornfield seemed to shift around me, the rows narrowing and twisting until there was no clear path out. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, and I could feel the presence of something behind me, closing in.
I ran, pushing through the thick stalks, the sharp leaves cutting into my skin as I stumbled through the field. The footsteps followed, steady and relentless, matching my pace no matter how fast I ran. The whispers rose to a crescendo, and I realized with a dawning horror that they weren’t just in the air—they were in my head, echoing through my mind, filling it with a cold, suffocating dread.
Just when I thought I could run no more, the field suddenly opened up before me, the stalks parting to reveal a small clearing bathed in an eerie, pale light. I stopped short, gasping for breath, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that it drowned out everything else.
And then I saw it—at the center of the clearing, something was waiting for me.
The clearing was unnatural. The corn had been forced back in a perfect circle, as if something had driven it away. The pale light that bathed the area seemed to emanate from the ground itself, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed like living things. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the scene, trying to make sense of it.
As I stood there, rooted to the spot, I noticed something else—movement. At first, I thought it was just the shadows playing tricks on me, but then I saw it again. The corn stalks were shifting, bending slightly as if swayed by an invisible force. The whispers in my mind grew louder, more frantic, as if whatever was here was trying to communicate, to reach out. But the words were jumbled, incoherent, like a thousand voices all speaking at once, overlapping and drowning each other out.
The ground beneath me felt unstable, as though it was hollow, and from within the earth, I heard a familiar sound—a low, rhythmic clattering that sent a shiver down my spine. It was the same unnerving noise I’d heard in my ducts back at the house, the one I’d tried to dismiss as nothing more than the creaks and groans of an old system.
But here, in the middle of the cornfield, there was no denying it. The noise was coming from the earth itself, from whatever was moving beneath the soil. I took a step back, my instincts screaming at me to run, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight before me.
Slowly, agonizingly, something began to rise from the ground. The earth trembled beneath me, and I could feel it—a presence, something old and malevolent, awakening beneath the corn. The whispers reached a fever pitch, and I realized with growing terror that they weren’t just in my head—they were coming from the ground, from whatever was buried beneath the field.
I had to get out of there. Whatever was happening in this field, it was beyond my understanding, beyond anything I could hope to deal with. The sense of being watched, of being hunted, was overwhelming. I turned to run, but before I could take more than a few steps, the ground beneath me buckled, and I fell hard onto my knees.
Pain shot through my legs, but I barely registered it. I was too focused on the sound rising from beneath the earth—the clattering, now accompanied by a low, guttural growl, like the sound of something waking up after a long, long sleep. The earth trembled beneath me, and I knew, with a sickening certainty, that whatever was beneath the cornfield was waking up, and it was angry.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the pain in my knees, and ran. I didn’t look back. The whispers grew louder, chasing me through the corn, filling my mind with fear and panic. The ground shook with each step I took, as if the field itself was trying to pull me back, to drag me down into the earth.
But I kept running, the terror giving me strength, until I finally burst out of the corn and onto the road. I didn’t stop until I was back at my house, slamming the door behind me and locking it tight. My heart was pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
After that night in the cornfield, life felt different. Every creak of the house, every rustle of wind through the trees, even the faintest hum from the ducts made me jumpy. I tried to shake it off, telling myself that I was just being paranoid, that I’d let a few eerie coincidences get the better of me. But deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. Had I been dreaming?
One evening, in an attempt to distract myself, I decided to unwind with a movie. I scrolled through my options, settling on a horror flick that felt oddly appropriate. I chuckled at my own foolishness. “Great choice, genius,” I muttered to myself, knowing full well I was just setting myself up for another sleepless night.
As the movie played, my eyelids grew heavy. Maybe it was the weight of the recent events, or maybe it was just the fact that I hadn’t slept well in days, but before I knew it, I was dozing off on the couch. The last thing I remembered was the eerie sound of children chanting in the background as the screen faded to black.
When I woke, I was back in the cornfield. The tall stalks towered over me, their dry leaves brushing against my skin as I moved through them. The whispers were louder this time, surrounding me, suffocating me with their intensity. I felt the ground shift beneath my feet, as if the earth itself was alive, breathing, waiting to swallow me whole.
I stumbled through the maze of corn, my heart pounding in my chest. Every turn led me deeper into the field, the stalks closing in around me, until I could barely move. And then I saw it—a dark figure standing in the distance, just beyond the reach of the moonlight.
It was Kevin, the burly farmer, his face twisted into a sinister grin. His eyes glowed with an unnatural light, and in his hands, he held something that pulsed and throbbed—something that looked disturbingly like a heart.
My breath caught in my throat as he began to move towards me, the corn parting effortlessly before him. I tried to run, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I could only watch in horror as he came closer, the whispers growing louder, more insistent, until they drowned out everything else.
Just as he reached out to grab me, I jolted awake, my heart racing, drenched in sweat. The TV was still on, the credits rolling on “Children of the Corn,” casting a flickering light across the room. I blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fear, but it clung to me, refusing to let go.
I laughed, a shaky, nervous laugh, realizing how ridiculous it all was. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time,” I muttered, rubbing my eyes. “Freaked out by your own overactive imagination.”
I turned off the TV and headed upstairs to bed, trying to convince myself that it was all just a bad dream, like the last one. But as I lay there in the dark, listening to the quiet hum of the house, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Or maybe… just maybe… I’d finally watched one too many horror movies.
Either way, one thing was for sure: I’d be steering clear of cornfields—and horror movies—for a good, long while.
Author’s note: This story is inspired by Children of the Corn, a classic horror film released in 1984, based on a short story by Stephen King. It’s a bit longer than usual and may only be of interest to those who have enjoyed my earlier stories.
This story previously appeared in Facebook, Robin Kers Story Page.
Edited by Marie Ginga
A 75-year-old retiree, I spent my career crafting technical documents on labor relations and health and safety for a number of Canadian federal government departments and trade unions. Though I once dreamed of writing the great Canadian novel, I now embrace the art of flash fiction and short stories, enjoying this creative outlet in my later years on our hobby farm in southeastern Ontario.