He cut off onto the walking path, which led him up to South Street. It was a short cut, and shaved off a few minutes. Any second was precious, now, even though they seemed to drag on forever.
In what felt like a few hours, but was less than ten minutes, he arrived at Michael’s house. It was dark, but the street light was radiant enough to serve the purpose he needed. Wiping the sweat away from his eyes, he surveyed the house, looking for any clues.
Hopping off his bike, he walked over to the grass, where a large imprint was left. Michael’s bike had been there, not long ago either. A deep, unsteady trail led out to the road, where he must have ridden off. Where had he gone? To the cornfield in Brandon’s dream? Or was he running from something when he hopped on that bike? Or chasing someone?
Scrambling through the tall, dry grass which had not been cut in ages, he got back to the road and in a few moments was flying on his bike. Wind whipped at his ears and nose, stinging his eyes, but still he carried on. Right when he had seen Michael’s bike was gone, he felt a gut-melting, queasy sensation. It seemed unlike Michael to take off without him, but he sometimes would take the lead on things, even when it was detrimental to the plan. This was one of those times when his emotions had made him act stupidly.
Peddling with furious intensity and practically bolting across the road, he crashed onto Highway 62 and snapped onto the side, making a turn so sudden and sharp that in broad daylight with cars rushing by he would have certainly been pancaked. Going steady once more, he rode along the right side of the highway, where corn would eventually meet him.
After a few minutes, the corn appeared, barely visible. It ran closer and closer until it was right alongside him. Now he slowed down, looking to the side, hoping to find some evidence of the bike or Michael’s trails. That was the only hope for seeing which way he went; wandering in the corn was not an option. Too many horror stories happened in large corn fields, and this was beginning to feel like an even more dangerous situation already.
With a quick jerk, he pulled his bike to the side, and there on the ground was Michael’s. It lay flat, with the handlebar on one side stuck into the dirt. He left his bike there, too, and found a set of footprints leading away from them, into the corn. In the darkness, he could not make out the exact size, but guessed they were Michael’s, so he followed.
Lightning began to flash overhead while he marched onwards, brushing as many corn stalks out of his way as he could, but still being whacked in the face many times, and feeling the scratches form along his face. A sudden stalk scratching his leg reminded him that he still had shorts on. With all the adrenaline and being chilled on the bike, he had forgotten. Now, they itched and stung, but still he pressed on, relentless.
The footprints in front of him seemed to morph into different shapes, or maybe he was just seeing them that way. Curious, he bent down to inspect one, and a sudden flash of lightning brought him to a startling conclusion.
They did not belong to Michael.
All five toeprints were clearly seen, dug deep into the ground as if the foot had been arched and without shoes. It was curved in a strange, alien way. His breath hitched as an idea came to his mind, an unpleasant, terrifying idea.
If Michael had not made the footprints, only one other person could have.
How does that explain the bike? he wondered.
Continuing on hesitantly, the corn seemed to go on forever all around him. Now he could feel the insects crawling, squirming underneath his feet, and smell the rotten, revolting smells that permeated not from the corn, but something else unseen. The dry air stuck to his sweat and he felt a hundred pounds heavier.
His thoughts and silence was broken by the screams of a little girl. They were familiar, hauntingly familiar, and at once he understood. This was his nightmare, as a reality. That was his sister crying out in pain. This was the end, and he was alone, because she already had Michael. It all made sense.
Dashing forward, he leapt over corn stalks and punched into the darkness ahead, before finding himself sprawled on the grass, face down in a sea of dirt a few feet around. Glancing up, he saw that he had fallen into a circular clearing, lined by the corn. Tall, wooden poles ran along the outsides of it, looking like tiki torches. In the center, three, tall objects stood, the same as in his dream. They were now clearly crosses, and three names came to mind: Lilly, Michael, and Grace.
“Welcome,” that terrible voice said from in front of him. Straightening up, he saw the lady standing, flaming torch in one hand.
Still on the ground, he backed up instinctively, landing his hindquarters in the soupy mud, soaking the shorts. She grinned maliciously, loving every second of the torture she knew he was feeling. Brandon, seeing she was not going to advance, stood up and tightened his fists, ready to swing at her.
“No need to fight on a lovely night.”
He blinked, caught off guard by her poetical response. Composing himself, he growled, “Where’s Michael? Up there?” He gestured at the crosses.
“Where, oh where? Oh, not up there.”
“Where is he then?”
“Why would he be here in this circle of fear?”
Brandon took a step backward, realizing he had been tricked. Even when the footprints were not Michael’s, there was a chance he came in a different way. Every cell in his body told him to run into the corn, dash away and try a different night to get them back, but instead he stayed.
“But, the bike... and the dream…” She did not answer, just continued to leer at him with her hideous face. “You were at my house!” he shouted.
“A lovely place to see her face and also invite my dear Grace.”
“Leave her out of this! Give her back, now. Take me.” He threw his arms out, begging for her consent.
“What would I do with stupid, little you?”
In a flash of anger, he took one running step and leapt at her. She deftly moved to the side and he landed with a thud on his knees. A sharp kick to the ribs, and he was staring up at the sky, dirt collecting in his hair and on his back.
She leant down, putting her knee to his neck. “Don’t fight me. I’ll push my knee.” Then she leant down, trailing one cold, wrinkled finger over his lips, taking a large sniff. “You smell so right on this wicked night.”
With one quick twist, he tried to kick his foot up and nail her, but missed. Standing up, she rammed her foot into his jaw, drawing blood. He tried to raise a hand, but she crushed it with her foot. Brandon let out a yelp of pain, to the amusement of the lady.
She said, “Grace came easy, much better than you, but if you want to die, I’ll help see you through.”
Spitting blood, he mocked, “Not a good rhyme.”
After slamming her bare foot into his ear, slamming his head harder into the ground, she stood up and walked away. “I don’t rhyme; just wanted to mix things up.” Chucking a stalk of corn into the endless rows like a playful child, she added, “Like your soupy brains.”
While he got to his feet and watched her cautiously, the lady lit one of the tall poles, and the flame grew until it caught the next one on fire as well. Like a tiki torch, it stayed only near the top, never traveling far enough to catch any corn stalks on fire.
Brandon saw an opportunity and rushed up to attack her, but she spoke and he halted immediately.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?” he countered. How did she see me?
“We must talk.”
“I don’t talk to monsters.”
“I am not.”
He laughed dryly, pointing up at the crosses when she turned around. “Only a monster puts people on those.”
“How do you know they’re on there?”
“Why else would Grace have screamed? You put all three on there.”
“She never screamed, and as for me, I believe I counted two, not three.”
“It doesn’t matter!” he shouted, refusing to listen to her babbling and pointless poetry. “Give them back, you witch!”
“And worse. Evil and a murderer!”
“At least call me something creative,” she smirked. “And I am not a murderer.”
“I won’t let you kill them!”
“I do not kill,” she said, waving her arms all around at the sky and the air. “They kill. The elements. I merely deliver.”
“Doesn’t matter; you’re evil! Stop with this stupid-”
“Doesn’t matter? Well, nothing matters to you, boy,” she spat. When he did nothing but clinch his fist tighter, she continued, “You don’t know evil. Stereotyping, segregating, judging, hating, fighting; every one of you is evil. I balance the evil; I help.”
Speechless, he stared at her disbelieving. After a minute, struggling to speak, he coughed and asked, “Do you believe that?”
“I’ve been taught to by Mother.”
“You’re mom was a witch like you. She-”
The lady leapt towards him, throwing them both to the ground. Brandon rolled around, freeing himself. Scrambling across the grass, his scraped knees and hands propelled him towards the corn, where he could escape. Behind him, she was howling unintelligible words, smacking through the air, still holding her shaky, flaming torch. If she touched any of the stalks, the entire field would burn, and them with it.
In an act of incredible agility for a woman her age, the lady dashed ahead and landed on top of him. Right by the flaming pole, she pressed him down with her elbow. Eyes blazing and mouth snarling, she stared at him, holding the torch just above his face, so that he could feel the heat melting into his face.
“That cross up their was yours,” she said, “but I suppose this will do.”
With that, she threw the torch into the corn, where it set everything on fire underneath a wicked sky.
21. Visitors
“Get the phone!” Nicole Walker shouted up the steps in her hungover state of headaches and weariness.
Her voice was the first thing Michael heard as he snapped back to reality. Rudely awoken from a haze, he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. The room was bright this morning, strangely so. Looking out the window, he saw the sun rising high in the sky.
What time is it?
“Get the stupid phone!”
“Okay, Mom.”
According to the clock on his dresser, it was nearly noon.
How did I sleep in so late?
Only then did he hear the phone ringing downstairs, persistently interrupting all of his thoughts. Groaning, he stood up and began to walk groggily towards the hallway. Into the hall, and then down the stairs, and soon he was standing in front of the phone. Picking it up, the ringing finally stopped, and while his mother was falling asleep in the other room, Michael received the phone call that would change his life.
“Michael, here. Who-”
“Michael! You’re okay. Thank God.”
“What? Why- why wouldn’t I be?”
“Brandon’s missing. Your sister, his sister…. They found your bike by the…. Where are you at? I need to see you. You need to see.” Michael stared blankly at the telephone. “Michael?”
“Huh? Sorry. I’m at home. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“They’re gone, Michael.” His mind did not process immediately, but slowly the realization dawned on him. “They’re all gone. Lilly, Grace, Brandon-”
“Brandon?” he muttered hoarsely, his voice cracking. “What about Brandon? He’s not-”
“There’s no bodies, yet. But I’m afraid for the worst. I’m sorry.”
“What do I need to see?” He was desperate to talk about anything other than Brandon. “You said something-”
“Know where the cornfield was? I mean where it is.”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I am. You need to-”
Michael left the phone hanging and dashed out to the front yard. Sure enough, his bike was gone from the spot where it had been last night. There were marks leading out to the road, through the grass.
They’re all gone. Lilly, Grace, Brandon.
He ran onto the road, and did not stop. For nearly half an hour, his feet pounded on the pavement, as cars occasionally zoomed by, but he hardly noticed at all. Instead, his eyes focused ahead and in the distance. As he turned onto the main highway, there was the corn-
No. There was no cornfield.
Where once a large, plentiful field had stood, now there were only charred remains of the crop. As he ran along the road, three crosses sprung up to meet his eyes, and along with them a series of poles, set up in a circle around the crosses. Police cars littered the road, with sirens blaring. One house which stood next to the vacant cornfield now blazed with fire, as bright red fire trucks sprayed water onto it. Men in blue uniforms blocked traffic, while other policemen inspected the cornfield.
Sprinting faster, he ran straight into the crop remains, heading towards the crosses. The sun was just rising, painting the wooden structures in blood-red rays, and giving the clouds a menacing shade. Dryness hung in the air, pricking at his eyes, while he neared the crosses, determined to see what was there. If there was a sign, even just a drizzle of hope, that the detective was wrong, and this was some misunderstanding, some sick coincidence, then he would be free. The heart-wrenching agony this month had brought, this woman had brought, was unbearable.
With a jolt, his body ran into the thick wall formed by two policemen. Their faces were serious, unrelenting, and a touch exasperated. The whole ordeal clearly had taken a toll out of their wits and out of their morale. Pushing him backwards with a gentle shove, one man sighed and waved him off.
“Can’t, kid. Police business.”
“But that’s-”
The other man said, “Your friend? Dog? Neighbor? Shove off.”
“My sister is missing,” he cried out. “She’s gone, and my best friend’s gone, and his sister’s gone too. I need through! Let me in or-”
“Or what?”
“Let me in!” he yelled, attracting all the attention to himself. Delirious, and with tears staining his cheeks, he began shrieking insanities and smacking at the officers. One man tried to pick him up forcefully, but Michael scratched and fought.
“Michael,” he heard a familiar voice say. There, standing with a concerned, grieved look on his face, was Detective Smith. “Come with me.”
The policeman practically threw Michael in his direction, earning a glare that could melt steel from the detective. He opened his mouth to scold the man, but thought otherwise and turned away, half-helping, half-dragging Michael along behind him.
When they got to the detective’s burgundy car, Michael started pointing and crying, “My- my sister. Bran- Brandon is-”
“Stop,” Detective Smith growled. “Pull yourself together. I know it hurts; I know you want to do something, but there is nothing you can do. Nothing. Not now.”
Michael thrashed for a moment, before the detective held his arms still and he saw the look in his eyes. It was not hate, or irritation, or weariness. His eyes were blazing with love and in that moment Michael understood how much this man cared. Why? He did not know, but whatever happened to him had made a man who took the time and risk and person effort to aid a teenage boy, in need of a helpful adult.
“Wha- what do we do?” Michael asked, his voice shaking and changing in pitches as fast as a roller coaster changes heights.
“Go home. Stay there. I’ll call the Moore family you told me about, and tell them what’s happened, tell them to go to your house. Some police will come by later and start questioning you. Listen to me, boy! Tell them very little. Be helpless. Be weak. Then when your two friends get there, tell them what’s happened, somewhere nobody can hear. You all are smart and will plan something whether I say to or not; don’t deny it. Call me the next day and tell me. Mail me the diary, if you have it. If not, get it. I need it.”
“Wha- what about Bran-”
“Stop. Stop thinking about that. We don’t know if this is really the end. Ther
e were no bodies in the field, not even the smallest of remains. I’m scared that the worst happened, but you need to stay alert. Stay in touch. I have to go.”
With that he walked away, leaving Michael leaning against the car, staring around at a beautiful morning, which turned colder and darker every second. The whole world seemed to be staring and mocking, spitting out vile and gazing with emotionless eyes on his weak, pointless life. What was life without control? When everything seemed the bleakest, and death seemed inevitable, and everything and everyone loved is gone, is that life anymore?
On the road back home, he could not help thinking about what the detective had said. He said to not think about it. He said it might not be the end. But those thoughts only brought Michael to the conclusion it was the end. Brandon was dead. Grace was dead. Lilly was dead. Every fragile sliver of hope he clung to was dead. All the good memories and all the laughter was dead. His friendships diseased, his home crumbling, his mother cracking, his love ripped, Hardy misplaced like a puzzle; life was all of those things. Life was diseased and crumbling and cracking and ripped and misplace. Life was death.
Arriving home, he sunk into a chair, ignoring the lifeless body of his mother on the couch, or the dirt collecting on the floors, or the shattered window straight ahead, broken by the force of a beer bottle. He closed his eyes and pretended everything was alright. He wished Lilly was on his lap, curled up in her blanket and watching a movie. He wished his mother was making popcorn in the kitchen, asking whether or not he wanted salt, butter, or both. He wished Lilly’s giggles would vibrate his chest, while he laughed along, more because of her contagious smile than the movie.
Now they were at a pool. It was odd, and unfamiliar, probably somewhere on vacation last year. Lilly, younger then but still as cute, swam around with floaties on her arms, splashing and squirming in the water which felt as warm as a bath. The sun was covered with clouds, only just recently having been hidden, and Michael beamed at his little sister while sitting on a pool chair, relaxing.
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