The light they had seen from the bus was still visible, a faint, unwavering beacon in the distance, but it seemed to be perpetually just out of reach, receding as they advanced. The path they were following was not a defined track, but a sort of intuitive passage carved by the sparse vegetation that dared to grow between the dense rows of corn. It was a narrow corridor, barely wide enough for them to walk abreast, and the towering stalks on either side created a claustrophobic effect, as if they were being funneled into a suffocating embrace. "Watch your step," Liam cautioned, his beam catching a patch of uneven ground. "There could be anything out here. Roots, ditches…" He hesitated, the unspoken thought hanging heavy in the air: or something else. The silence between their words was filled by the ceaseless, dry whispering of the corn, a sound that seemed to mock their every movement, to question their intrusion. Sarah let out a small gasp. "Did you hear that?" "Hear what?" Mark asked, stopping and turning his flashlight towards her. "It sounded… like a sigh," she breathed, her eyes wide. "From the corn." Liam shone his light along the closest row of stalks. They swayed gently, their dry leaves rustling in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate, as if mimicking a human exhalation. "It's just the wind, Sarah. It's playing tricks." But his voice lacked its earlier conviction. The sound, if it had been a sigh, had been too soft, too nuanced to be mere wind. It had carried a hint of melancholy, of ancient weariness. They pressed on, the whispering growing more insistent, more varied. It seemed to shift from a collective murmur to individual, sibilant voices, each one distinct yet indistinguishable from the next. They spoke in a language that was not their own, a low, guttural rasp that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the field. It was a sound that bypassed their ears and resonated directly in their bones, a vibration of unease that tightened their chests and made the hairs on their arms stand on end. "I don't like this," Daniel admitted, his usual bravado completely absent. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if expecting something to emerge from the darkness behind them. "It feels… wrong. Like we've walked into someone's private property without an invitation." "We're looking for help, Daniel," Mark reminded him, his voice firm but tinged with the same apprehension that gripped the others. "We're not here to trespass." Yet, even as he said it, the feeling of being an intruder intensified. The whispering seemed to grow louder whenever they spoke, as if their words were an affront to the field's own silent discourse. The dry scent in the air seemed to thicken, becoming more cloying, more pervasive. It was as if the very air they breathed was being filtered through countless dried husks, a testament to a harvest long past, a season that had ended and left behind only desiccated remains. And with this intensified aroma came a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a growing sense of being observed. It was a primal awareness, the instinctual knowledge that eyes were upon them, even though no eyes were visible. Liam stopped abruptly, holding up a hand. "Wait a minute." He angled his flashlight beam upwards, towards the dense canopy of corn leaves. "There's… something caught up there." Following his beam, the others looked up. High above them, caught in the brittle embrace of several stalks, was a piece of cloth. It was faded, tattered, and appeared to be part of a garment, fluttering gently in the unseen currents of the night.
