Page 11 of Curses and Cornstalks
I’m so screwed.
Chapter Five
Cassie
Don’t panic.
Don’t. Panic.
I try to keep a level head, but it’s easier said than done. I placed so much trust in the compass that I didn’t work out a backup plan, and now I’m fucked.
So very fucked.
What the hell am I going to do?
Uncle Wayne is going to kill me, if Madelyn doesn’t beat him to it, and that’s if Aunt Bonnie isn’t waiting on the porch to chew my head off as soon as I get back.
I whine out a groan.
Of course, this would happen to me.
Surviving in the wild—although I wouldn’t classify a cornfield as the wild—clearly isn’t my forte, which only makes me miss the city even more. No matter how long I got lost in the city, no matter how far I went or how many wrong turns I took, I could always find my way home with a few clicks on my phone.
Here, I don’t have that luxury.
If I make it out of here, I will never take the internet or GPS for granted again.
I silently promise whatever deity may be listening that I’ll do whatever they want if they’ll just fix my compass or get me out of the cornfield, but I know that’s a longer shot than finding the Watcher. They’re probably up there laughing at me, amused at how naïve I was to attempt this wild goose chase in the first place.
I hope they fall off a cloud.
“Think, Cassie, think,” I say sternly, attempting to regain control of my scattered thoughts. Freaking out won’t solve anything, and it’ll only make my predicament worse. I need to work out a plan and act on it fast, or I’ll be sleeping out here with the plants.
I look up at the sky again to mark the sun’s position. It’s dipped lower, creeping closer to the tops of the stalks. Before long, it’ll sink too low for me to see, and for the first time since I was six years old, I find myself wishing I were taller. If I could see over the stalks, I could easily find my way out of here.
Northwest. That’s the direction I need to go.
Once I note which direction the sun is setting, that’s easy to work out.
I check the compass a final time, hoping the needle has managed to find north again, but it’s still spinning away aimlessly. With a sigh, I tuck the useless paperweight back into my pocket.
Trudging forward, I head off in the direction I marked seconds ago, but I only make it a few steps before something breaks the silence.
It’s a deep groan, long and loud, that makes my blood run cold. It’s undeniably human.
I freeze.
My heart leaps into my throat, making it hard to swallow, and I crane my neck around to stare into the stalks behind me. Nothing is amiss or different. There’s no movement or rustling of leaves. I might not have much experience growing vegetables, but I’m fairly certain corn doesn’t groan, which means I’m not alone.
Fear rockets through me and I remain still, unable to move. My gaze rakes up and down the row of stalks, and I reach for the taser in my back pocket. Of my two weapons, it’s my best shot at self-defense. I press the button to test the charge, and an angry spark erupts between the prongs.
“Who’s there?” I call out, realizing a second later that I really would be the character who dies in a low-budget horror film.
I shouldn’t be giving away my position—I’m only making myself more vulnerable.
But if it’s the Watcher, I might have just found what I was looking for.
My feet are rooted to the spot, like the soles of my shoes have been cemented to the ground, and I wait. The taser is squeezed so tightly in my grip that my knuckles are white and my fingers are starting to cramp, but I can’t move them either. Terror has seized my muscles.
