"Whispers in the Corn":
I remember the day the sun didn’t shine right at our farm, just outside of a small town in the Midwest. The sky hung heavy with a threatening grey, like it was holding its breath. It should have been a fresh start, a chance to reconnect with the land and our roots, but from the moment we arrived, unease seemed to seep into the soil.
My name's Tom, and my sister, Jess, and I had returned to help our aging father. The city had worn us down, and the farm, we thought, would be a place to heal. But even on that first morning, walking through the tall corn that whispered like ghosts, I could feel something was wrong.
“Dad, are you sure everything’s alright here?” I asked, glancing at the trees swaying as if they were listening.
“Everything’s fine, son,” he replied, but his eyes betrayed him. They flicked nervously toward the horizon, like he expected someone—or something—to emerge.
The first few days passed quietly. Too quietly. The farm animals were restless. The cows mooed mournfully at the empty fields, and the chickens were skittish, darting about their coop like they’d seen a fox no one else could. The air felt heavier each day, like a storm that refused to break.
Then came the scream.
It was sharp and piercing, splitting the tranquil night as Jess and I were closing up the barn. We froze, the sound reverberating through us like an alarm. Without thinking, we ran toward the source, the flashlight beam trembling in my hand. But when we arrived, there was nothing—just the wind stirring the trees and an open gate swinging on its hinges.
“Did you hear that?” Jess whispered, her voice trembling.
“Yeah,” I replied, my pulse still racing. “Sounded like it came from the back fields.”
The next morning, curiosity outweighed fear, and we ventured out. What we found in the clearing chilled us to the bone. A makeshift campsite lay abandoned—tent flaps torn, a broken pole jutting from the ground, and scattered belongings soaking in the morning dew. The fire pit was cold, but the air still felt charged with something… wrong.
“We have to call the police,” Jess insisted. Her hands were shaking as she clutched her phone.
The authorities came and combed through the property, but their search turned up nothing conclusive. They muttered about a drifter with a dark history who had been spotted nearby. Their reassurances felt hollow, especially as days turned into nights filled with strange noises—scratches at the windows, rustling in the bushes, and whispers that seemed to ride the wind.
One evening, as I checked the barn, I saw him. A shadowy figure flitted between the cows, his movements deliberate yet unnerving. My shout startled him, and he bolted into the night. I gave chase, heart hammering in my chest, but the dark swallowed him whole.
The next morning, dread greeted us in the barn. One of our cows lay lifeless, its body untouched by predators but its eyes wide with a terror I couldn’t explain.
“We need to leave,” Jess said, her voice breaking. But Dad wouldn’t hear of it. The farm was his life, his identity, and he refused to abandon it.
The tension peaked on a stormy night. Rain pelted the windows, and thunder rolled like distant cannon fire. As we huddled in the living room, footsteps crunched on the gravel outside. My stomach dropped.
“Stay here,” I whispered, grabbing our old shotgun and flashlight.
Stepping into the downpour, I scanned the yard, the beam of light dancing through the sheets of rain. Then I saw him—the drifter. He stood just beyond the barn, his gaunt frame illuminated by a flash of lightning. His eyes were wide, wild, and desperate.
“What do you want?” I shouted, my voice barely carrying over the storm.
“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” he rasped, taking a step toward me. “I just… I just need to leave.”
His words hung in the air, but before I could process them, he lunged. The shotgun slipped in the mud as we struggled, our movements frantic and clumsy. The rain washed over us, chilling and relentless. Then, as suddenly as it began, he was gone—vanished into the night like smoke.
The police found no trace of him, and the mystery deepened. The drifter was never seen again, but neither were our nights peaceful. The farm seemed to exhale its unease, every creak and groan a reminder of his presence.
It was Jess who finally convinced Dad to leave. “This land isn’t ours anymore,” she said. “It belongs to whatever’s out there.”
We sold the farm within a month, leaving behind the whispering cornfields and the knowing eyes of the cows. Now, in another town far from that haunted place, I still dream of it—the heavy grey sky, the open gate, and the shadow that always lingers just beyond the light. Some secrets, I’ve learned, never stay buried. And some places never let you go.
"Whispers from the Barn":
I remember the day I first stepped onto that desolate farm as though it happened yesterday. It was early autumn, the kind of day where the chill in the air whispered of the winter to come. The leaves had begun their slow, fiery descent, painting the ground with amber and crimson. I wasn’t looking for much—just a place to work, something to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted. What I found instead was a nightmare that would forever stain my soul.
The farm belonged to John. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that seemed carved from stone—hard, unyielding. His eyes never smiled, not even when he offered me the job. They were the kind of eyes that seemed to see right through you, as if sizing up your worth. The pay was decent, better than anything else I could find, and that was enough to quiet the unease knotting in my stomach.
“Keep your head down, do your work, and we’ll get along fine,” he told me as we walked past the barn. It stood like a relic from another time, its wood weathered and cracked, its paint long since peeled away. The smell hit me then—pungent, sharp, and wrong. It wasn’t the earthy smell of livestock or the tang of manure. It was something deeper, fouler, like decay had sunk its claws into the place.
My first task was straightforward: assist with the slaughter of the animals. It was bloody work, but necessary. The rhythm of it became almost mechanical after a while, the screams of the animals fading into the background of my mind. But as the days passed, I began to hear other sounds—low, muffled cries that didn’t belong to any animal. They came from the barn, slipping out into the night like ghosts.
“John, what’s making that noise in the barn?” I asked one morning, trying to sound casual despite the tremor in my voice.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” he replied, his tone sharp, his eyes narrowing. His gaze lingered on me a moment too long, like a predator sizing up its prey.
The sounds continued, though, and my curiosity grew unbearable. One night, when the moon hung high and the farm was cloaked in darkness, I decided to investigate. Every step toward the barn felt like a betrayal of common sense. The door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, the sound echoing into the stillness.
Inside, the air was thick, suffocating. And then I saw them. People. Not animals. Men and women, bound and gagged, their eyes wide with fear and desperation. One of them locked eyes with me and managed to whisper through the gag, “Help us.”
Panic surged through me, and I turned to run. But before I could take a step, a hand clamped over my mouth. John. His grip was iron, his breath hot against my ear.
“You shouldn’t have come here,” he hissed, dragging me deeper into the barn.
I tried to fight him, but he was too strong. That night, he revealed the truth of his farm. It wasn’t just livestock he dealt with—he trafficked in human lives. People who owed debts, people who had crossed him, people who simply vanished from society. This was his operation, his dark empire, and now I was part of it.
“You’re in now,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “You help, or you end up just like them.”
The following weeks were a blur of terror and guilt. I did what he demanded, too scared to resist. We buried bodies under cover of darkness, shoveling dirt over secrets no one would ever know. The screams from the barn were a constant reminder of my complicity. Every night, I prayed for a way out, for someone to uncover the horror I was trapped in.
That day finally came when a neighbor, disturbed by the stench emanating from the farm, called the police. When the officers arrived, John’s demeanor changed. He was calm, smooth-talking, trying to deflect suspicion. But as he argued with them, I saw my chance. My legs carried me before my mind could catch up, sprinting through the fields until my lungs burned and my legs wobbled.
When I reached the authorities, the words tumbled out of me in a frantic rush. They listened, and soon the farm was swarming with officers and forensic teams. What they uncovered was worse than even I had imagined. Shallow graves, evidence of torture, and the faces of those who hadn’t made it.
John was arrested, but the damage was done. The farm became infamous, a macabre landmark of human cruelty. I was free, but the chains of guilt and regret remain. The faces of the victims haunt me, their silent pleas etched into my dreams.
To this day, I can still smell the decay, hear the muffled cries, and feel the weight of the lives lost. That desolate farm, once a symbol of honest labor, now stands as a grim monument to the depths of human depravity. And I, forever scarred, carry its story—a warning to never ignore the knot in your stomach.
"Garrison Farm":
This is the story of the Fearful Farm, a place where the horror wasn’t supernatural—it was human. It’s a story that unfolded in the Midwest, in a small, quiet town surrounded by endless fields of corn and wheat.
Growing up there, everyone knew each other's business. It was the kind of place where news traveled faster than the wind. But there was one spot everyone avoided: the old Garrison Farm. Hidden behind overgrown trees and thick brush, it sat on the outskirts of town, its silence more deafening than the summer cicadas.
Kids dared each other to go near it, but none ever did. The stories were too chilling—whispers of people disappearing, strange lights at night, and the distant echo of screams. “Stay away,” our parents would warn, their voices tinged with genuine fear.
I was 17 that summer, eager to save up for a car. I’d taken up odd jobs at farms, moving hay bales, mending fences, and cleaning barns. Work was drying up when I overheard someone mention that Old Man Garrison needed help. The pay was good, they said, but everyone warned me to steer clear. Desperate and foolish, I didn’t listen.
The day I walked down the dusty road to the farm, the air felt heavier, as if the land itself was holding its breath. The farmhouse was in ruins—shutters hanging by a nail, paint peeling like dead skin, and windows covered with grime. The barn was worse, its roof sagging, and the doors barely clinging to their hinges.
Old Man Garrison was waiting. He stood tall but bent, his gaunt frame casting a long shadow. His eyes, deep-set and hollow, pinned me where I stood.
"You lookin' for work?" he rasped, his voice like the scrape of metal on stone.
"Yes, sir," I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“Good,” he said, nodding toward the barn. “Animals need tending. Don’t wander where you’re not supposed to.”
The barn smelled of hay and manure, but underneath was something darker, a foul odor that clung to the air like a curse. Garrison handed me a pitchfork and set me to work. The tasks were mundane at first—feeding the livestock, cleaning the stalls. But as the hours turned into days, strange details began to emerge.
I noticed the tools—hammers, saws, knives—all stained with something dark and crusted. There were ropes, too, frayed and stretched in ways that made my stomach churn. The animals were few, yet the barn was filled with sounds at night: soft, muffled cries that didn’t belong to livestock.
One evening, I stayed later than usual, the sky bleeding into shades of orange and red. I heard voices—one was Garrison’s, rough and low, but the other was softer, trembling with desperation. My heart pounded as I followed the sound to a part of the barn I hadn’t been in before.
Behind a stack of hay bales, I found a door, barely visible. It creaked open to reveal a hidden room. The sight froze me in my tracks—a young woman, bound and gagged, her eyes wide with terror.
"Help me," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
My hands shook as I reached for her, but before I could move, I felt his presence. Garrison stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light.
“What are you doing, boy?” His voice was calm, too calm, and that scared me more than anything.
“I... I got lost,” I lied, my voice cracking. My eyes darted to the pitchfork leaning against the wall.
He stepped closer, a knife glinting in his hand. “You won’t be leaving here.”
Fear surged through me, but so did adrenaline. I grabbed the pitchfork and swung wildly, catching his arm. He howled in pain, giving me just enough time to grab the girl. We ran, stumbling through the barn and into the open field, the tall corn stalks swallowing us as his shouts echoed behind.
We didn’t stop until we reached the main road, where a passing truck driver called the police. When they arrived at the farm, they uncovered horrors no one could have imagined. Shallow graves dotted the property, each marked with crude wooden crosses. The barn’s hidden room wasn’t the only one; there were others, each holding evidence of Garrison’s gruesome deeds.
The woman I’d saved was one of many. Garrison had been preying on drifters and the vulnerable for years, his crimes hidden by the isolation of his farm. He was arrested that night, his eyes cold and unrepentant as they took him away.
The farm was burned to the ground, its ashes scattered to the wind. But its memory lingers in the town, a shadow over the fields.
I still dream of that summer, of the girl’s desperate eyes and the smell of fear that clung to the barn. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the real monsters aren’t hiding under your bed—they’re living just down the road.