“In the heart of Texas, whispers rise from the endless cornfields, calling for their next offering.”
Whispers in the Corn
In the dusty heart of rural Texas, where red dirt roads stretch endlessly beneath a scorching sun, there was a small town called Red Hollow. It was the kind of place where everyone knew each other, and everyone kept secrets. In the late 1980s, a series of chilling disappearances began haunting the region, and whispers grew about something lurking in the sprawling cornfields surrounding the town.
It all started with the old farmer, Amos Crane. A recluse living on the northern edge of Red Hollow, Amos tended to fields that seemed to stretch into infinity. He was rarely seen, but those who caught glimpses of him at the local market noticed something unsettling: sunken eyes, sleepless stares, and a faint stench clinging to him, a mix of damp earth and rotting flesh.
Children of the Corn
In 1987, children began to vanish. First was Tommy Wheeler, a 12-year-old boy who loved exploring the cornfields on his bike. He left home one summer afternoon and never returned. Despite exhaustive searches, the cornfields of Amos were impenetrable, offering nothing but endless stalks and parched soil.
Over the next two years, three more children disappeared, Ellie Harper (9), Caleb Dunn (14), and Sarah Kline (11). No bodies. No footprints. No struggle. It was as if the corn itself had swallowed them whole.
Rumors spread quickly. Locals avoided the farm. Some swore that at night, if you approached the fields, you could hear whispers carried by the wind, voices that didn’t belong to any living soul. Others spoke of shadowy, elongated figures darting between the rows, and a rhythmic clatter, like bones knocking together, echoing on moonless nights.
The Midnight Dare
In 1989, four reckless teenagers, Jake, Mandy, Luke, and Rachel, emboldened by cheap whiskey and bravado, decided to confront the legend. Armed with flashlights and a rusty pocketknife, they entered the cornfield at midnight.
At first, they laughed to drown out their fear. But soon, silence swallowed them. The air grew thick, sweet with the scent of corn. The stalks seemed to close in, twisting unnaturally in the windless night.
Luke was the first to notice. “Did you hear that?” he whispered. A soft dragging sound answered him, footsteps? No… something worse. Then came the snap of dry stalks, and Mandy screamed. Something cold and slick brushed her leg. They turned their flashlights downward, nothing.
Rachel spotted it first: ten meters ahead, a figure stood between the rows. Tall. Gaunt. Its limbs bent at impossible angles. It had no face, just a smooth expanse of flesh where eyes and mouth should be.
Jake shouted to run, but the corn moved, alive, twisting and tangling, cutting off their escape. Mandy tripped. Luke reached to help her… and vanished, yanked backward into the stalks. His scream was muffled, as if the corn swallowed it whole.
The Guardian’s Hunger
Jake and Rachel escaped, pale and trembling, their story dismissed by authorities as drunken hysteria. The sheriff claimed Luke and Mandy had run away together. The search turned up nothing, no footprints, no clothes, no sign of struggle. But Jake was never the same. He spoke of a faceless figure that visited his dreams, whispering his name in a voice that echoed inside his skull.
In 1995, tragedy struck again. The Crane farm went up in flames. When firefighters sifted through the ashes, they found Amos’ charred body, his face frozen in a mask of pure terror. Beneath the house, hidden under loose floorboards, investigators uncovered an altar of horrors: tiny bones arranged in circles, etched with bite marks… human bite marks. Amos’ diary, scrawled in frantic handwriting, spoke of a “pact” with something he called The Guardian of the Corn. It demanded offerings to “protect” the town, but its hunger only grew.
The disappearances stopped after the fire, but Red Hollow never recovered. The cornfields were replanted, yet nothing grew right. Locals still avoid the old road at night, warning travelers:
If you hear whispers in the corn or feel a cold hand on your neck, don’t look back.
The Guardian still hungers.
