The Cornfield Whispers.

Every town in America has a legend that kids share to scare one another. That was a Criterion box set. In Graywater, Indiana, it was the cornfield behind Old Man Riker’s barn.

They named it The Whisper Field.

“That’s your life, stay out of it,” parents said. Not because it was dangerous — “there’s just something wrong about that place.”

The legend went that if you stood at the center of the cornfield at midnight and listened long enough, the corn would start whispering to you. At first it would just be soft, like the wind. Then it would be voices. Familiar ones. Ones you knew. Dead relatives. Friends you hadn’t seen for years. Your own voice.

High school kids dared one another all the time.” Most returned laughing, declaring it boring. But every so often, someone returned a little different. Or at all.

Like Jamie Lee in 2003. Or Chris Feller in 2011. Or that drifter who rented a trailer outside of town in 2017 — you know, the one whose shoes were found sitting at the cornfield’s edge, still warm.

Then, last fall, 17-year-old Megan Carver vanished. Straight-A student, church choir, never missed curfew. A week later, her parents would find her journal, wedged under her mattress.

The last entry read:

“I heard my brother. He’s been dead three years, but I felt him. He said he’s cold. He said he’s stuck. He said I’m the only one that can help. I have to go in tonight.”

They discovered her bicycle by the edge of the corn. But no sign of her.

Search parties went in, and one by one, came out with nosebleeds and debilitating headaches. One man had a seizure. After a week, the cops threw in the towel. Said it was too dangerous.

The corn was harvested for the season last month. But when the combine got to the middle of the field, the driver encountered something he didn’t expect: A small clearing — a perfect circle — where the corn never grew at all. At the center was a wooden chair.

And on top was Megan’s hoodie, folded neatly.

People say what they can hear when they pass the field is something faint. Like hearing someone call their name from far away.

And every night, when the clock strikes 12:00 AM, the streetlights bordering the edge of the cornfield flash once, then blink out.