Children of the Corn

The Road to Gatlin

The heat was oppressive. The road stretched out before them, a ribbon of cracked pavement that seemed to disappear into the horizon. Burt glanced over at Vicky, her arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed out the window as the endless cornfields rolled by.

“We should have just stuck to the main highway,” she muttered, breaking the silence that had hung between them for the last few hours.

Burt gripped the wheel tighter, trying to keep his frustration in check. “We’re saving time,” he said, though the truth was he wasn’t so sure anymore. The shortcut he had chosen looked good on the map, but now it felt like they were driving into the middle of nowhere. No signs, no gas stations, just miles and miles of corn.

Vicky sighed heavily, but didn’t say anything else. Burt knew she was still upset from their argument earlier that morning. It had been a stupid fight about something trivial—he couldn’t even remember what started it—but it had spiraled into the usual litany of complaints. They had been on edge for months, ever since Burt had lost his job, and this trip was supposed to be a chance to reconnect. Instead, it felt like they were drifting further apart with each mile.

Then, suddenly, something darted out from the corn.

Burt slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching as the car skidded to a halt. Both of them lurched forward in their seats, the sound of impact a sickening thud.

“Oh my God, what was that?” Vicky gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

Burt didn’t answer. His heart was pounding as he fumbled with his seatbelt and threw open the door. He stepped out into the blazing heat, the acrid smell of burnt rubber hanging in the air. Ahead of the car, lying motionless in the middle of the road, was a small figure. A child.

Vicky was out of the car now too, her hands trembling as she stood next to him. “Is he...is he dead?”

Burt knelt beside the body, his stomach churning. The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. His clothes were old-fashioned, a tattered brown vest and white shirt stained with blood. But it wasn’t the impact that had killed him—there was a deep, jagged wound on his throat, and his skin was cold to the touch.

“I don’t think we hit him,” Burt said, his voice shaking. “He was already dead.”

Vicky took a step back, her eyes wide with fear. “What do you mean? Who would...?”

Burt looked up, scanning the rows of corn that lined the road. The stalks were tall and thick, swaying gently in the breeze, but there was something unnerving about the way they seemed to close in around them.

“We need to find help,” he said, standing up. “There’s got to be a town nearby.”

They loaded the boy’s body into the trunk, neither of them willing to leave him behind. The car moved slowly now, as if the weight of the situation had settled on them both. The heat seemed to intensify, and the sky above was an unbroken expanse of blue, without a cloud in sight.

After what felt like an eternity, they saw a sign. “Gatlin – 3 Miles.”

The Town of the Children

The town of Gatlin was eerily quiet when they arrived. The main street was lined with buildings that looked abandoned, their windows dark and dusty. There were no cars, no people, not even the sound of birds or insects. Just the oppressive silence and the ever-present rustling of the corn in the distance.

“I don’t like this,” Vicky whispered as they parked the car in front of what looked like an old diner. “Where is everyone?”

Burt tried to remain calm, though the deserted streets were unsettling. “Maybe they’re all at church,” he said, though it was clear he didn’t believe it himself. “Let’s just find someone and get out of here.”

They walked through the town, calling out for help, but there was no response. The buildings were all the same—empty, as if the entire population had simply vanished. Finally, they came across a small church at the edge of town. The wooden doors creaked open as Burt pushed them, revealing a dark interior lit only by the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows.

At the front of the church was a large cross, but something was wrong. Instead of the figure of Christ, there was something else nailed to the wood—an animal skull, bleached white by the sun, with long, curving horns.

“What the hell is this?” Vicky whispered, her voice trembling.

Burt didn’t answer. His eyes were drawn to the altar, where a book lay open, its pages yellowed and torn. He picked it up, and as he read the words scrawled across the page, a chill ran down his spine.

“The children of the corn shall inherit the earth, and the blood of the unworthy shall nourish the soil...”

He dropped the book as if it had burned him, backing away from the altar. “We need to leave. Now.”

They turned to go, but before they could reach the door, they heard the sound of footsteps. Dozens of them, shuffling and whispering, coming from all around them.

The Children

Burt and Vicky froze as the figures emerged from the shadows. They were children, but there was something off about them. Their faces were blank, devoid of emotion, and their eyes glowed with a strange, unsettling light. Each one of them clutched a sharp object—knives, sickles, scythes—and their clothes were ragged, stained with dirt and blood.

“Who are you?” Burt demanded, his voice cracking with fear.

One of the children, a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, stepped forward. His hair was cropped short, and there was a strange mark on his forehead—a symbol carved into his skin.

“We are the children of the corn,” he said, his voice calm and emotionless. “We serve He Who Walks Behind the Rows.”

Vicky let out a small cry and grabbed Burt’s arm. “What does that mean? What do you want from us?”

The boy smiled, but it was a cold, joyless smile. “You have brought us the offering,” he said, gesturing toward the trunk of their car. “The blood of the sinner shall feed the corn, and the earth will be renewed.”

Burt’s heart raced. “That boy—he was already dead when we found him. We didn’t kill him!”

The boy tilted his head, as if considering Burt’s words. “It does not matter. He was chosen. And now you are too.”

Without warning, the children surged forward, their weapons raised. Burt grabbed Vicky’s hand and pulled her toward the door, but they were surrounded.

Escape or Sacrifice

Vicky screamed as one of the children lunged at her, a sickle glinting in the dim light. Burt acted on instinct, grabbing a nearby candlestick and swinging it with all his strength. The child crumpled to the floor, but more took his place, their eyes gleaming with the fervor of zealots.

“Run!” Burt shouted, pulling Vicky toward the back of the church. They barreled through the door and into the cornfields, the tall stalks closing around them like a prison. The children followed, their footsteps a soft whisper in the dirt.

Vicky was sobbing, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. “We’re not going to make it, Burt! They’re going to kill us!”

Burt didn’t answer. His mind was racing, trying to find a way out, but the cornfield seemed endless, the rows stretching on forever. Every direction looked the same, and the sounds of the children grew closer with each passing second.

Just as they were about to give up, they stumbled into a clearing. In the center stood a massive figure, its form obscured by the shadows of the corn. It was He Who Walks Behind the Rows.

The ground trembled as the creature moved, its massive, hulking shape towering over them. Burt could feel its presence in his bones, a malevolent force that seemed to sap the very air from his lungs.

“We have to keep going,” Burt gasped, grabbing Vicky’s hand. But it was too late. The children had caught up with them, and they formed a circle around the clearing, their eyes gleaming with the dark power of the entity they worshipped.

The Final Choice

The children chanted in unison, their voices low and rhythmic, calling out to He Who Walks Behind

the Rows. The creature moved closer, its form becoming clearer as it stepped into the light.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even animal. It was something far worse—a twisted, monstrous thing born of the corn and the dark soil beneath it. Its eyes burned with a cold, malevolent intelligence, and as it reached out toward Burt and Vicky, they knew there was no escape.

Burt held Vicky close, his heart hammering in his chest. He had no weapons, no plan, no way out. But he couldn’t let her die here, not like this.

He made a decision.

“I’ll do it,” Burt said, stepping forward, his voice trembling but determined. “Take me instead. Let her go.”

The children stopped chanting, their eyes fixing on him. For a moment, the air was thick with tension, and then the creature paused. Its eyes, those dark, burning orbs, turned toward Burt. Slowly, it withdrew, leaving a path through the corn.

Vicky cried out, trying to pull Burt back, but he shook his head. “Go,” he whispered. “Get out of here.”

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes filled with tears, but then she turned and ran, disappearing into the rows of corn.

Aftermath

The creature loomed over Burt, its shadow swallowing him whole. The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was the children, their eyes fixed on him with a strange, reverent gaze.

He had made his choice. And now, the corn would have its due.

Vicky ran through the cornfield, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t know how long she ran, or how far. All she knew was that she couldn’t stop, not until she was far away from that place, far away from the children and their terrible god.

She stumbled onto the highway, her clothes torn and her body trembling. In the distance, she saw the faint outline of a car approaching.

As it pulled over and the driver stepped out, Vicky collapsed, sobbing, into their arms.

She had escaped.

But she would never forget.