The Stalks

Hey kidlets! So yeah, I'm still working on my other stories, I just had this idea and really liked it. Tell me if you like it and if you want to read more. Gonna be a mystery/paranormal/horror novel.

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Corn fields are unusual things, filled with frail long stalks that at one angle look in complete chaos and another, perfect rows. It is amongst those tall stalks of my father’s corn field I adventured amongst, lost my virginity, and discovered the most unusual things. It started when I turned at the ripe age of 17 and I moved into my father’s new farm house.

Biggest revelation and mistake of my life.

 One

Bare feet against frozen ground ran tingles up my spine. Open yet confused eyes scanned the silver row of still stalks under a glimmer of frost. It is odd, that part of your brain that keeps you partially immobile in sleep. It has always been dead for me, causing those adventures at night being more ghost-like than sleep like. I stood amid those thousand rows of eerie corn stalks under a full moon in the fingers of winter, and although the immobile, sleep jailed part of my brain kept me from thinking with motive, the tingles that stood the hair on the back my neck straight was not because of the cold. The dead, brown fronds of the corn shifted and rustled behind me, and if I had not been jailed upon sleep, I would’ve whirled around.

But fait is an unusual and coy friend, and those tingles become trembles and I felt my head become much heavier and hang as though my neck had turned into jelly. My feet began to numbly shuffle down the row, away from the house that sheltered a warm and cozy bed that any normal teenage girl would be nestled into on such a cold night.

Sleep shuffled me along like a sick puppeteer, and the frost and dew seemed to gather upon my skin, chilling me to the core. To pair my numbed brain, my body began to as well, giving an unusual, trapped feeling to my soul. And yet Sleep did not bow or crumple, kept me shuffling down the path until those numb toes of mine became wedged into something.

Sleep-jailed eyes did not widen at the sight – a sleep jailed brain cannot register something so vile; I only simply stare down at the mass resting beneath me; unaware and neutrally. It is then I feel the heavy weights pull down against the curtains of my eyes, and the world becomes a numb, black hole.

Awakening in my bed the next morning did not feel right, but I had no reason to comply with my gut. I had no memory of anything except an odd numb tingle in my toes and a cold whisper of the night upon my spine. Blurred eyes shifted out of the frosty window to the huge field of dead corn that was white with a dusting of snow. I swung my legs from the bed and out I walked of my room, floor boards squealing in complaint.

It was winter when my father bunkered down in the living room watching football – for there was not much else a farmer could do. And it was just in this position I found him on a Saturday morning. I smiled weakly at him as he greeted me and told me there was bacon on the stove. I willingly wound into the small kitchen and ate the rest.

I clambered out of a skin melting shower, shaking off the unusual chill I had since I had awoken, watching my phone light up on the counter and vibrate loudly. I picked it up, answering my boyfriends low, yet friendly voice.

Not some 30 minutes later, accompanied with dried white blond hair, mascara and chapstick I was maneuvering out onto the frozen grass to my small Subaru which hid my cigarettes. The need for nicotine raked me and I shakily lit up, watching the white smoke spiral up into the gray sky. I heard the crunch of tires upon the gravel drive and I looked to see Jackson’s Audi pulling in. He climbed out, tall and trim, and about the only good looking thing in this shit farmers town. I smiled as he pulled me into his arms, taking the cig from my long pale fingers and flicking it into the snow. His dark eyes studied my blood-shot ones for a moment.

“Did you have another bad dream?” He questioned, an eyebrow arching.

“Can’t tell really.” I muttered, averting my eyes quickly to a lone and bare oak tree by the drive. A loud and old truck screamed down the road, back-firing twice before it finally silenced and I spoke again. “Just feels kinda weird.”

“Well how about we go take a walk all the way to the other side of that corn field and you can try and remember.” He stated, did not suggest, and grabbed my cold hand and led me down the slight slope into the tall stalks.

The large field was surrounded by a large forest of close standing trees, and was exactly 1 mile long and 3 miles wide; the biggest in the county. We walked awkwardly for a while, he standing slightly in front of me, accommodating the narrow rows, before turning around and walking backwards. I watched his curious face, before throwing my head back slightly and laughing forcefully. I reached out my fingers, walking along, and let them run along the dry and cold fronds of the corn.

“Anything?” He asked, smiling and tilting his chin downward, eyebrows rising expectantly like a parent awaiting a confession. I looked around, shrugging my shoulders, yet suddenly raking to a stop. The confusing and spine tingling pokes of a memory came rushing yet quickly pulled away, leaving me looking around wildly, trying to remember.

“What?” He quickly interjected, stopping and waiting. My eyes met his and it was gone, I nervously laughed it off.

“Nothing.” I sighed, smiling fakely, and pushed on.

“Disgusting.” My dad scoffed, his face flashing different colors of the TV as we walked in from our long walk. I paused in the door, kicking off my snow covered boots before trekking over to get a look at the screen.

Five Year Anniversary of the Clayton Massacre. White bold letters read on the screen. A sick feeling lurched in my stomach and I leaned closer towards the TV. How could I have lived here for 6 months and not heard of this? I looked over at Jackson, who was looking out the window, his face pale, fingers fiddling nervously with the hem of his jacket.

Today is the day five years ago the serial killer of Clayton County Iowa was trialed Guilty of 28 grotesque murders of women ranging in age from 15 to 26. The oriental reported said sincerely, her eyes down turned and features tight and sickly looking. The picture filled the screen of shrines stacked up down one of the main roads in the county, all with snow dusted roses, pictures and candles. I gulped dryly, glaring at my dad.

“Change it, watch something a bit happier.” I demanded, sickened deeply, and nearly scared.

28 girls? And I lived in a place that housed such a disgusting reputation? I shook my head as another cold chill ran up my spine.