Page 9 of Curses and Cornstalks
My cell phone is useless this far from the city—no bars even if I needed to call someone—so I tuck it into my bag and take out the compass. It doesn’t help that after years of abandonment, the stalks have begun to venture away from their perfect rows and are growing sporadically like weeds, but I’m confident I’ll be able to find my way out.
If I get lost, I’ll just head northwest, which the compass says is directly behind me.
If I walk in any direction for long enough, I should be able to find my way out eventually.
At least, that’s my theory.
There might be a more efficient way of finding my way back, but I’m working with what I have: a little bit of survival knowledge and a whole lot of determination.
I giggle as I think back to middle school geography when we first learned about compasses, and I rolled my eyes at Mr. Winston’s lecture. If only he could see me now.Maybe he’d be proud.
Or maybe he’d tell me to abandon this insanity and go back to the farmhouse like a good little girl. I doubt he’d encourage the idea of instigating a potential demon.
I shrug off the thought and zip the bag closed again, slinging the strap over my shoulder. I’m in too deep to go back now—I have to finish what I’ve started.
After all, I have a point to prove, people to help.
It’s just after two o’clock and the sun has started to make its slow dance down the sky toward the horizon. Madelyn is hanging out with her boyfriend, and I told Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Wayne I was going to explore the town for a little while. I have several hours to poke around before I raise suspicion, and even more before it starts getting dark. That should be plenty of time to cover a sizable portion of the field.
Or at least some of it.
I have no idea how deep and wide the rows of cornstalks are.
“I sure do have a lot of opinions for someone who’s never been in a fucking cornfield,” I mumble to myself.
It’s true, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try to reason my way through every situation. I’m hard-wired for logic, which is a blessing and a curse.
Sometimes, logic isn’t enough, and you just have to grab the bull by its horns and jump into a situation feet-first. That’s what I plan to do now.
With a deep breath and a final look at my car like it’s the last time I’ll ever see it, I take a confident step toward the chaos of green. I march my way through the thick grass along the perimeter of the field and inch my way into the stalks.
It only takes a few seconds for the spacious outside to disappear completely. My heartrate spikes as a tendril of claustrophobia slips its way around me, and I take long, slow breaths to abate the feeling. I think back to living in a big city, how close together everyone was all the time. The subway rides where everyone was shoulder-to-shoulder. The giant buildings that blocked out most of the sky.
“This isn’t much different,” I whisper to myself. “The stalks are just like skyscrapers. You’re fine.”
Even though it’s clearly not the same thing, thinking about home relaxes me enough to keep plowing my way into the corn. I focus on my footsteps, listening to the soft rustle of leaves asthey brush against my arms and the crunch of soil under my tennis shoes. I count each step I take until my pulse returns to a normal rate.
Unlike the farm, where crickets and cicadas buzz up a storm day and night, the air trapped between the cornstalks is eerily quiet. Like I have earbuds in and the song I’m listening to has suddenly stopped to buffer. Like I’ve shut myself in the car after a long day at work and I’m sitting in the undisturbed space until I have to drive home.
Every sound has been sucked out of the air, aside from my breathing and the rustling of leaves. When I pause and hold my breath, I can’t hear anything past the faint pounding of blood in my ears.
Just like a scary movie.
I crack a smile at the thought.
Despite the quiet, it’s also incredibly peaceful—way too calm to be a horror film, where a jump scare is waiting around every corner. It might have been over-kill to bring the knife and taser after all, since it seems like I’m the only thing with a pulse in this field.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cass,” I mutter under my breath. The sound of my voice breaks up the silent monotony around me. It’s soothing to hear something familiar. Besides, there’s no one here to judge me for talking to myself, so I keep right on doing it.
After a few minutes of walking, the scattered stalks straighten into tight parallel lines with a thin pathway of dirt stretching between each row. It’s much easier to navigate without dealing with random weeds and brush growth, and it looks exactly what I imagined a cornfield would look like. Countless, endless rows of eight-feet tall cornstalks race into the distance, no end in sight.
This field is so much bigger than I initially anticipated.
It’s such a shame the farmers stopped harvesting it—there’s so much food. Cold Springs could sell it to nearby cities and make a killing.
Maybe then, they could afford some cell towers.
Even in an old country town, there’s always room for something new.
