The maze appears at the same time and place every year–
Although nobody alive could say who makes it.
When the mists clear on the morning of September 23rd, it's always there, like a man-sized cut in the solid wall of Joshua Brock's far cornfield.
The Brocks were here long before the first white faces came riding up from the river with their guns, smallpox, and whiskey. I reckon they'll be here long after the rest of us are gone, too.
In all that time, the Brocks' farm has neither grown nor shrunk–an' how could it, seein' as how it's bordered on three sides by the weird stretch of trees that old folks call the *'Hagswood?'*
It's in *that* field, the one butting up against those twisted trees, where the maze appears.
Between sunrise and sunset, it's a normal corn maze. Hell, some people even let their kids play there. From dusk 'til dawn, however…well, that's something else. There have always been legends about the maze.
About how anything 'lectric–from phones to drones to flashlights–goes dead the moment it approaches that wall of corn.
About the gruesome fates of those who attempt to cut, burn, or otherwise interfere with the maze.
About the single wish that's granted to anyone who makes it through the maze at night.
That last rumor is the reason for the carnival atmosphere that gets hold of our town this time of year. Folks come from all over.
Celebrities. Saudi Princes.
Official-lookin' types in long black cars.
Drunken teenagers from a few counties over, tryin' to win a bet or impress a girl.
We locals just set up our lawn chairs in front of the maze, enjoy the smell of corn husk and woodsmoke, and listen to the dyin' leaves of the Hagswood rustle in the wind.
Our kids bob for apples or paint pumpkins while we watch the parade of out-of-towners. Sometimes they come lookin' scared, like somethin's after'em and they'd give *anythin'* to get away from it. Others have a darkness about'em, like they're hungry for revenge. A few walk carelessly into the corn, laughing at fate–
But it doesn't matter. They all end up in the same place.
Most who go in never come out again.
Even if they do, there's more than one way to grant a wish.
I remember this one fella who came all the way from California. *He* made it through, and all he wanted was to get the Leukemia out of his little girl. When he got home, it was out all right. It had ripped itself right outta her in little chunks that splattered all over the carpet of their home on the oceanfront. The way I heard it, he jumped off a cliff afterwards.
Then there was the local girl who wished for a perfect boyfriend who'd love her forever. She got'im too, 'cept that he was a life-sized porcelain doll. She said her handsome doll moved when folks weren't lookin,' and did terrible things. Wouldn't let'er out of his sight. Last I saw of that awful thing was when she begged all the men in town to burn it for her.
Maybe I'm goin' senile, but I'd swear I heard it scream inside the flames.
I never figured myself for one of the fools who risked the corn maze.
Not 'til I had no other choice.
*'Early Onset Dementia'* was the diagnosis. I'm lucky I have a straightforward small-town doctor who told it to me plain:
*"By the end of it, you won't even recognize yourself."*
The whiskey I drank when I got home tasted like ashes. It tasted bitter as my future. I'd worked my ass off all my life, *an' for what?!* To be robbed of my golden years? I drank until my lips were numb, until bad ideas started to make sense. The full moon was high above the fields that night.
*A slow spiral into hell or a walk through an endless maze, what's the difference?*
Or so I thought then.
I was halfway to the Brocks' farm before I even realized I was behind the wheel.
I was *that* drunk.
Time an' again, the little voice in the back of my head–my conscience, or whatever ya wanna call it–told me to pull off the road, sleep it off, that things would look better come mornin.'
Time an' again, I ignored it.
Not 'til I was standin' in front of the wall of corn did I have second thoughts.
I didn't even know what I'd *wish for* if I made it through.
There I was, a fifty-six year old man, believin' in wishes–although in *that* atmosphere, it was *easy* to believe. The corn seemed taller and thicker in the moonlight.
It seemed to shake with excitement when I got close, like a hungry dog eager to gnaw on an old bone. I took a deep breath. The air smelled like wet dirt and rotten leaves.
That pesky little voice piped up again, telling me that this was my last chance to stay in the sane an' honest world of livin' folks. The whiskey told it to shut up, an', well–
The whiskey won.
My momma used to tell me to never get myself into anythin' I couldn't get out of again, but by the time I thoughta her, the maze had closed up behind me.
That's when reality set in. I didn't panic, didn't try to shove my way out through the plants.
I knew what happened to the ones who tried.
I knew about how the stalks wrapped around'em, strangled'em, snapped'em like twigs. How they sunk into the soggy black dirt.
I knew 'cuz, well, it *might* be a lie to say that *everyone* in town avoided the Brocks' corn maze. A few foolhardy souls had gone in, and fewer had returned.
They were tight-lipped about what they'd seen–and what they'd wished for.
We were never sure if those were the conditions of their escape, or if what they'd experienced was just too awful to talk about.
Even so, rumors trickled down over the years.
Warnings of what to avoid. Suggestions on how to proceed.
In the shadow of those tall stalks, I wished I'd paid attention.
At least I'd remembered not to panic or touch the plants, and the chill air was sobering me up fast. When I started walking, my feet squelched in the black and boggy earth. Soon as I could, I took a right–toward the heart of the maze.
The stories said that you had to pass through the darkest part of the maze before you could come out the other side. If you stayed on the edges, the distances would play funny tricks with your mind, and you'd wander there forever.
*What else had the stories said?*
There was something about a Veiled Woman, and Painted Man, and–
Soon as I thought of it, I heard it.
*The Whistler.*
Hell, maybe *thinking of it* is what gives it power.
I stepped on a corn stalk, and when it broke with a hideous crack, the sound was behind me: gentle, casual whistling.
It was far off, but getting closer by the minute.
I picked up my pace. The Whistler whistled faster.
*How the hell had folks gotten away from it?* I tried to remember. I thought back to bein' a kid, gathered with the others 'round Abby DeMille's porch. She'd run into the Whistler when she'd tried her luck in the maze, back in '85:
"If you hear whistlin' in the corn maze," she'd told us, "take a turn and let it pass on by. Don't look, don't speak. Just *wait.* And remember: *'when the whistlin's gone, it's safe to move on.'*" I slowed my pace to a walk.
The Whistler slowed down too, but it was still gaining on me. I saw a turn up ahead. Behind the corner of the corn-wall, I stood stock-still and listened.
The whistling wavered. It sounded confused, like it was irritated that it missed me. I began to hear something else, too: a low scraping sound, like claws or rusty metal being dragged over dirt.
Abby had told us not to look…but I couldn't help it.
Risin' in up in the starry sky above the constalks, I saw a huge scythe go passin' by as Whistler continued on its way. The blade was caked with dark stains and chunks of meat…I didn't look around the corner after that. I didn't wanna see any more.
I don't think I breathed again 'til it was gone...and I continued on my way.
Time works different in the maze. Sometimes the folks that walk in between dusk and dawn come out just a few minutes later, but they're thin and gray as though they'd aged twenty years. Then there's cases like Clayton Halstead, who went into the maze in '51 and and came out in 2006. *He* hadn't aged a day.
Before he ate a bullet on Christmas Eve, Clayton used to say there were *rooms* inside the maze. Square areas cut outta the corn. As to what might be in them, he didn't like to say. Only once, when he was plastered outta his mind at Al's Bar, did Clayton make a single, mysterious comment.
"Know what fellas?" he'd burped and looked down into his bottle. "Sometimes, when I'm sittin' on this bar stool with you all, this cushion gets to feelin' like hay, and the beer starts to smell like straw. An' I get the most godawful feelin' that I'm *not really here,* but instead, I'm back *there,* surrounded by neverendin' walls of corn. Makes me afraid you'll all just…*disappear*…and the moon'll be high above me, and I'll realize..*."* at that point, he'd always shake his head and order another drink. He'd keep that up 'til he fell offa his stool.
I thought of Clayton because I saw one of those *'rooms'* on my right, a little further down the path where I'd hid from the Whistler.
It was nothing like what he'd described.
Instead of bales of hay, I was lookin' at a buncha old-fashioned furniture set up on the wet grass: a polished dark wood table, high-backed chairs, and fine china that gleamed in the moonlight. Steam was comin' outta a silver pot, like somebody was about to have a tea party…
I got the hell outta there and went back to my path. Or at least, I thought I did.
That's another thing about the maze. The paths…*change.*
I had been going straight when I'd turned the corner, but when I went back, I found *three* paths, all leading away from where I wanted to go.
If the paths changed, I reckoned, there was no sense tryin' to remember which one I'd taken. I chose one at random and kept walking.
There was no sound but wind in the corn, no scent but rotting stalks–and nuthin' to see but two endless walls of green.
That was another thing Abby DeMille used to say, back when we were kids gathered around her porch: *"the green gets to you."* Now I knew what she meant.
I felt something beneath the sole of my boot, something hard and sharp. *Bones.*
Ribs, broken femurs, whole spines. There were so many of 'em that I couldn't be sure what sorta animal they'd come from. I had a feeling I knew, but…
*Where were the heads?*
Black wings flapped around my head.
A hard beak struck my cheek, then my brow–
I felt warm blood and *knew* that it was going for my eyes.
I swatted at the mass of black feathers, and as it circled around for another swoop, I realized what I was lookin' at: a vulture, or maybe two.
I'd never seen one of those hideous things up close before. Carrion birds, eaters of the dead, with heads like strips of raw meat and beady black eyes.
I didn't know they grew so large…and I'd never heard of'em attackin' the living…
*Unless it figured I was dead already.*
I had to keep moving. I used my jacket as a makeshift whip to smack away those awful beaks. They swooped again and again, always goin' for the eyes, until I left the bone-covered strip of dirt behind. The cawin' faded, and I was left alone with my bleeding face and pounding heart.
Nobody ever mentioned anythin' about *vultures.*
Or bones.
I thought of folks like Clayton, who'd walked out of the maze years later. How many trials like that had *he* faced…and how many more were ahead of *me?*
When liquid courage had sent me struttin' into the corn, I'd figured on dyin.'
With my diagnosis, it didn't scare me a bit.
Bein' trapped in here *forever,* on the other hand…
*Maybe those bones were what was left of the lucky ones.*
I walked on, always turnin' toward the heart of the maze…
'Though, I had to admit, I no longer had any real idea of where that might be.
The sun should've risen…but it didn't.
Without it, there was no way to tell how long I'd been inside the maze.
No way, 'cept for my own hunger and thirst.
If I hadn't been so focused on feelin' sorry for myself, I might have noticed it: the way the corn opened up on either side. By the time I realized I'd walked into one of the *'rooms,'* it was too late. When I turned around, I was lookin' at a wall of green.
I *had* to cross the room.
Nothin' to be afraid of, I told myself. Just some too-perfect grass, gourds and pumpkins, some bails of hay…
*And a stuffed man with a painted face.*
Rhett Carlson had talked about The Painted Man, that Wizard-of-Oz lookin' scarecrow with a face that looked like it had been drawn on by a disturbed child.
When he'd come out the other side of the maze, Rhett's simple wish had been to win the lottery. He'd only had a few years to enjoy it before his wife Marla had him killed to collect on his life insurance policy. Rhett had a single piece of advice about the Painted Man: *"Whatever it does, ignore it."*
But *I* had already stopped to look at that freaky oversized scarecrow. When I did, the Painted Man's face snapped in my direction. It stood on straw-filled feet…
Despite the awful sound of its creaking limbs, I ignored it. I kept my eyes on the opening of the maze–
Even when I heard its hay-stuffed arms extending horrifically across the grass.
Even when I felt its fake-gloved hands slithering up my legs.
The Painted Man patted and prodded me like, like a blind man tryin' to identify something by touch. If it got to my face–if it realized that I was human–I figured I was done for.
I could feel its raspy, wheezing breath on my neck…
*And I whistled.*
"The Farmer In The Dell:" the same tune as the Whistler. It wasn't dead-on accurate…
But it was pretty close.
I couldn't see what the Painted Man was doing behind me, but I got a feeling that it was bowin' low and backin' away slowly.
But I had bigger problems.
Somewhere far across the maze, the Whistler had heard me..and it had whistled back.
Now it was rushing toward me at an insane speed. I grabbed my knees to keep myself from running, and turned a corner quick as I could.
My pursuer paused and whistled nervously. That sickening scythe bobbed above the corn. It stood still, doubting–I could tell by the pitch.
*It was lookin' for me.*
That wasn't supposed to happen–it was supposed to keep on walkin'–but then again, maybe *I'd* broken the rules first by whistling. The leaves of corn tickled my back, and I knew I couldn't go back any further without being swallowed by the maze. I shut my eyes tight, and somethin' passed me by.
Somethin' that sounded like draggin' metal and reeked of death.
When I went to move again, though, I nearly fell over. I was dizzy from hunger and thirst–
But did I dare to eat or drink anything in the maze?
The room with the Painted Man was behind me, at least…
Even if the scummy puddles along the path were startin' to make me thirsty.
There was another room up ahead: dark wood furniture, a tablecloth, a tea pot..
*No. It couldn't be, but somehow...*I was right back where I started.
I dropped to my knees in the mud and cried like a baby.
I didn't think I'd have the *strength* to try a different path. I wasn't sure I'd have the strength to *stand up* again.
I was crawlin' in the muck, miserable as a man could be, when I heard a noise that sounded an awful lot like *tea* bein' poured.
My eyes snapped open. I looked into the room. A figure had appeared in one of the high-backed chairs.
From head to toe, it was draped with an enormous black veil.
WIth a black-gloved feminine hand, it placed one tea cup in front of me, and another in front of itself.
*Come.* Its voice, a woman's voice, beckoned to me from inside my head. Dizzily, I got to my feet and ambled over to the high backed chair across from her. There was a platter of cookies and cakes between us, lit by the bone-white glow of the moon.
*Eat. Drink. It is the perfect night for a moon-viewing party, don't you think?*
I didn't say anything, but the Veiled Woman didn't seem to mind.
My stomach growled. I blew on the steaming cup of tea and reached out for a little flower-shaped cake. I happened to look to my right–
And my hand froze above the silver platter.
I wasn't the only one attending this weird party.
Beside me, a man sat with his spine perfectly straight, staring upward. His eyes were round as marbles, and the skin beneath his old-fashioned farmer's clothes was all as dry an' hollow as a corn husk, but he was still breathin.'
It was like he'd been mummified alive.
The thirteen-year-old cheerleader a few chairs down the table, the Mexican teenager across from her, the soldier in a getup from the first World War on my left–they all looked just like the man beside me. Livin' goddamn skeletons, wide-eyed, with the skin still on.
Half-drunk cups of tea and pastry crumbs moldered on silver plates in front of them.
I drew my hand away from the platter of cakes.
The Veiled Woman seemed disappointed.
*What is it that you want?* She asked inside my head.
"I just wanna go home," I answered honestly.
*Really?* There was surprise in that raspy, whisperin' voice. *That's ALL you want? You won't be able to change your mind again later, you know…*
I hadn't forgotten about the fatal diagnosis or what would come after, but I'd discovered that there were things worse than death…maybe even worse than losin' your mind…
And they walked the shadowy paths of the Brock's corn maze.
I nodded to the Veiled Woman. With a shrug, she waved a black-gloved hand. The rustlin' green stalks behind her parted. In the misty field on the other side, I could *just* make out the outline of my truck, drunk-parked diagonally in the dirt lot in front of the maze.
The Veiled Woman watched me leave, but when I turned around again, there was nothin' behind me but a wall of corn.
When I tell folks about the maze, they usually reckon I've lost my damn fool mind. Even folks who've lived in town for years and know all about the Brocks' weird cornfield don't *really* believe I've been inside it. After all, if I had–where's my wish?
Some nights, sittin' on my porch and lookin' up at the moon, I think that was the trick all along: the only way to safely leave the corn maze was to wish for that, and nothin' more.
But on other nights, when the trees rustle strangely and that big ol' moon seems to bright and silvery to be real…I wonder if maybe I'm wrong about the maze...
*I wonder if I ever really left it at all.*