The Voice from the Cornfield
The little boy sat upon the maroon duvet in his bedroom. Then it came. His name broke through the windows and landed upon his eardrum.
“Johnny,” the voice hissed. Each time it became more persuasive and increasingly terrifying.
The little boy, who was cloaked with fear, tried to block out the noise. No such luck.
“Johnny, come play with us,” it continued.
With these words flashing around the room, the little boy acted in the only way he could. He stood up. He walked downstairs. He put on his boots. He went out of the front door. He stopped. He was nervous. He was afraid. He did not want to go. Nevertheless he obeyed.
“Johnny, why won’t you play with us?” it asked.
The little boy responded using his feet. He paced over the path, away from his home, and into the unknown cornfield.
It was not long until the little boy’s shoes crushed the pasture below. With each tread, the more impatient it grew.
“Johnny, come closer, closer, closer,” it beckoned.
Then the howling stopped. So did the little boy. Standing in the centre of the meadow, he looked all around. No one was there.
This was the last time the little boy’s name was whispered. No one knows what happened next.
Copyright © 2014- by Jake Borrett. All rights reserved.