Whispers in the Cornfield.

h Ethan Carter never put much stock in ghost stories. He was a pragmatic man, a struggling farmer who had just come into his recently departed grandfather's estate in the heart of the Midwest. The old house still stood at the edge of a very big cornfield that stretched for miles, their yellow stalks gently bobbing in the fall breeze.

The townsfolk were friendly but guarded when they spoke of his property. One old weathered man at the general store nodded gravely when Ethan mentioned he'd be tilling the fields in the evenings. "Stay out of the cornfield at night, boy. You hear voices—don't answer. You see something move—don't follow." Ethan laughed it off. Superstitions, that's all they were.

But the first evening, as he was sitting on the porch having a beer, he heard it. A whisper. Soft and distant, from out in the field. He thought at first it could be the wind through the stalks, but the sound had rhythm, pattern—almost like words.

Ethan…

He stood up, his heart pounding. The voice was softly impossible but unmistakable. He grabbed a flashlight and walked out into the field, wading through the high stalks. The deeper in he walked, the more manufactured the silence felt. There were no crickets, no leaves snapping—just the whispers.

Then he saw it.

A dark shape between the rows, right ahead of him. Tall, unmoving. The flashlight shook, and Ethan's breath caught in his throat. The shape had no face. Just a hollow, empty void where eyes would have been.

Ethan stumbled backward, nearly dropping the light. He ran out of the field, heart racing in his chest. The whispers followed him, louder now, more insistent.

The next morning, he drove into town, determined to get some answers. He visited the town library, searching through old records until he stumbled upon a newspaper article from years past.

"Another farmer vanishes in Carter's Cornfield—fifth disappearance in 30 years."

The name ran a shiver down his spine. Carter's Cornfield. His grandfather's farm. His farm.

He found additional accounts. Every twenty or thirty years, someone would disappear. No bodies were ever found. Witnesses reported hearing whispers in the dark, movement of shadows between the stalks. His grandfather, the only survivor, had abandoned the land years earlier, cautioning that the field was never to be disturbed.

That night, Ethan shut his doors and windows, determined to ignore the whispers. But at midnight, his bedroom window opened on its own. A wind, cold as death, swept into the room.

Then he heard them—whispers, just beyond the house.

He grabbed his flashlight and shotgun, stepping onto the porch. The field was darker than before, the stalks swaying though there was no wind.

Then, movement.

Shapes moving through the rows. Not one. Several.

"Help us…" The voices were clear now, sorrowful and pleading.

Ethan's hands trembled. Are they ghosts? Trapped spirits? Something worse?

A figure emerged from the field—his grandfather. But he'd been dead for years.

"Ethan," the figure rasped. "You have to go. You have to run."

Ethan shook his head, backing away. "This isn't happening."

The specter that looked like his grandfather took a step closer, and its skin tore off, revealing something rotting beneath. Its mouth opened wide—impossibly wide.

The whispers turned to screams then.

The creatures lunged at him, vacant eyes starving. Ethan fired the shotgun, but the blast tore through them like smoke. They were not human.

He ran. He did not stop until he was in his truck, tires kicking up dirt as he sped down the empty road.

He returned the following morning with the sheriff. But the field was… different.

The farmhouse was gone. The land was pristine, as if no one had lived there for years.

And in the middle of the field, where his house had stood, his own name was carved into the ground.

"Ethan Carter—Taken, October 31st."

But Ethan stayed. Still alive.

Or so he thought—until he turned to the sheriff and said, "You see that writing?"

The sheriff frowned. "See what?"

Ethan turned back. His name had disappeared.

And from deep in the cornfield, the whispers started again.

The field had claimed him.