Page 14 of Curses and Cornstalks
“Do not be fooled,” he snaps. “I’m more capable than you think.”
A rustling noise comes to life behind me, and I whirl around, expecting someone to rush at me from the cornstalks. I don’t register the thick, gnarly vines wrapping around my ankles until it’s too late, and I scream as they wind their way up my calves, scratching and tugging at the material of my jeans.
Holy hell.
This isnotwhat I expected.
All jokes about horror movies aside, this is some insane CGI shit.
The vines squeeze tighter the higher they climb until my muscles ache against the pressure, and I kick and thrash against them to no avail.
“No, no, please,” I beg, kicking at the tangle of plant rope as I turn halfway to look back at the scarecrow. “I don’t mean any harm, really. I thought my cousin was overreacting, and I just wanted to show her she had nothing to worry about. Please, let me go.”
He chuckles, a sickeningly sweet sound that I can’t help but appreciate despite the horrifying weirdness happening around me. His laugh is the most human thing about him, which makes me believe there really is a person under that costume.
A magical person? A wizard? At this point, nothing could surprise me, but if he’s human, maybe I can appeal to his human nature. I’ve never tried negotiating with a psycho killer, but it’s worth a shot.
It’s definitely better than being strangled to death by vines, which are crawling their way over my knees and threatening to overtake my thighs. The pain intensifies as the plants squeeze me harder, and my thoughts go fuzzy.
If he keeps this up, I might black out from the pain.
“Do you still believe she has no cause to fear me?” The question hangs in the air, along with the sinister slither of more vines moving across the ground toward me. One snatches my wrist, wrapping around it with the same intense force as those swallowing my legs. Another brushes the end of my hoodie before slithering over my stomach and making me squirm.
I can hardly think, much less respond, but I take back every doubt I had about the Watcher.
He’s clearly real, and obviously a giant asshole.
“N-no,” I choke out.
I’ve given up trying to fight the vines—they’re too thick and tight for me to overcome—and at this point, they’re the only thing holding me upright. My strength is depleted, and the edges of my vision have started to blacken. A vine slithers up my back, wrapping around my throat like a noose, and I whimper.
I know what comes next.
If that thing squeezes tight enough, I’m done for.
“You’re as evil as they say. Is that what you want to hear?” I force out, squeezing my eyes closed. “I just wanted to prove them wrong.”
Instead, I fear I’ve proven every single one of them right.
Chapter Seven
Atticus
Another victim has cometo pay the Watcher a visit.
Even after all these years, I’m still surprised that locals venture into my cornfield. Despite the rumors and the stories and the dead townspeople. They still come to gawk or prod.
To try their luck, to risk it all.
But what surprises me most about the woman standing in front of me is that she doesn’t look like the rest; she doesn’t fit in with the others I’ve seen. Rather than boots, she wears a pair of gray and pink sneakers. And instead of flannel or denim, a jacket with a hood swallows her whole.
If I had to guess, I’d say she isn’t from Cold Springs.
Then why is she here?
Has the legend of the Watcher finally spread farther than the sleepy town nearby? Did the disappearances make the news? Will even more people soon come snooping, eager to catch a glimpse of me?
I swallow down my curiosity, knowing there’s nothing I can do about it.
