Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Hundreds of People Visit The Corn Maze In Our Small Midwestern Town. Not All Of Them Come Out Again.

Episode Date: October 24, 2022

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Thank you to my new patrons, Gabby, Adam, and Reni. If you'd like to also support the podcast and receive access to exclusive content, check out the Patreon link in the description below. Now back to the story. The maze appears at the same time and place every year, although nobody alive could say who makes it. When the mist clears on the morning of September 23rd, it's always there.

Like a man-sized cut in the solid wall of Joshua Brocks, 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. And how could it? Seeing 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 till dawn, however, well, that's something else. There have always been legends about the maze, about how anything electric, 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. The 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-looking types and long black cars, drunken teenagers from a few counties over, trying to win a bet or impress a girl. We locals just set up our lawn chairs in front of the maze, enjoyed the smell of corn husk and wood smoke,

and listen to the dying leaves of the haggswood rustle in the wind. Our kids bob for apples or paint pumpkins while we watch the parade of out-of-towners. Sometimes they come looking scared, like something's after him, and they'd give anything to get away from it. Others have a darkness about him, 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 fellow who came all the way from California. He made it through. And all he wanted was to get the loose. leukee out of his little girl. When he got home, it was out all right. It had ripped itself

right out of her in little chunks that splattered all over the carpet of their home on the ocean front. 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 him too, except that he was a life-sized porcelain doll. She said her handsome doll moved when folks weren't looking and did terrible things. Wouldn't let her 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 going senile, but I'd swear I heard it scream inside the flames. I never figured myself as one of the fools who risked the corn maze. Not till 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. And for what? To be robbed of my golden years?

I drank until my lips were numb. until bad idea 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 Brock's farm before I even realized I was behind the wheel. I was that drunk.

Time and again, the little voice in the back of my head, my conscience, or whatever you want to call it, told me to pull off the road, sleep it off, that things would look better come morning. Time and again, I ignored it. Not till I was standing 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 56-year-old man believing 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 and honest world of living folks. The whiskey told it to shut up and, well, the whiskey won. My mama used to tell me to never get myself into anything I couldn't get out of again. But by the time I thought of 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 him, strangled him, snapped him like twigs, how they sunk into the soggy black dirt. I knew because, well, it might be a lie to say that everyone in town avoided the Brock's corn maze. A few full-hearted 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 stocks, 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 story said?

There was something about a veiled woman and painted man and... As soon as I thought of it, I heard it. The Whistler. Hell, maybe thinking of it as well. Maybe thinking of it as 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 being a kid, gathered with the others around 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 whistling in the corn maze, she told us, take a turn and let it pass on by,

don't look, don't speak, just wait. And remember, when the whistling'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 cornwall, 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.

Abbey had told us not to look, but I couldn't help it. Rising up in the starry sky above the corn stalks, I saw a huge scythe go passing 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 want to see any more. I don't think I breathed again until 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 20 years. Then there's cases like Clayton Hullsted, who went into the maze in 51 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 out of the corn. As to what might be in them, he didn't like to say. Only once, when he was plastered out of his mind at Al's bar, did Clayton make a single mysterious comment. Know what, fellas? He burped and looked down into his bottle.

Sometimes, when I'm sitting on this barstool with you all, this cushion gets to feeling like hay, and the beer starts to smell like straw. And I get the most god-awful feeling that I'm not really here, but instead, I'm back there, surrounded by never-ending walls of corn, makes me afraid you'll all just disappear, and the moon will 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 until he fell off of 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 looking at a bunch of 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 coming out of a silver pot, like somebody was about to have a tea party.

I got the hell out of 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 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 trying 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 nothing to see but two endless ones. walls of corn. 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 know 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 them that I couldn't be sure what sort of animal they'd come from. I had a feeling I knew, but where were the heads? Black wings flapped around my head.

A heart 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 looking at, a vulture, or maybe two. I'd never seen one of those hideous things up close before. Carrying birds, eaters of the dead, with heads like strips of raw meat and beady black meat,

and beady black eyes. I didn't know they grew so large. And I'd never heard of them attacking 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.

I was going for the eyes until I left the bone-covered strip of dirt behind. The con faded, and I was left alone with my bleeding face and pounding heart. Nobody ever mentioned anything 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 me strutten into the corn, I'd figured on dying. With my diagnosis, it didn't scare me a bit. Being trapped in here forever, on the other hand, Maybe those bones were what was left of the lucky ones. I walked on, always turning toward the heart of the maze. Though, I had to admit, I had no longer any real idea of where that might be.

The sun should have risen, but it didn't. Without it, there was no way to tell how long I'd been inside the maze. No way, except for my own hunger and thirst. Pucance-Moyerned 15 minutes. We're like it's the hour dojo.

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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 looking at a wall of green. I had to cross the room. Nothing to be afraid of, I told myself. Just some two perfect grass, gords and pumpkins, some bales of hay, and a stuffed man with a

painted face. Rhett Carlson had talked about the painted man, the Wizard of Oz looking 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 killed him 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 hand slithering up my legs, the painted man padded and prodded me like,

Like a blind man trying 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 bowing low. and backing 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 as quickly as I could. My pursuer paused and whistled nervously. That sickening scythe bobbed above the corn. It stood still. It was looking for me. That wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to keep on walking. 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 something passed me by. Something that sounded like dragon 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 starting to make me thirsty. There was another room up ahead, dark wood furniture, a tablecloth, a teapot. 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 stay. stand up again. I was crawling in the muck, miserable as a man can be, when I heard a noise that

sounded an awful like tea being 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 teacup in front of me, and another in front of itself, 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, 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 and aloe as a cornhole. but he was still breathing. It was like he'd been mummified alive. The 13-year-old cheerleader a few chairs down the table, the Mexican teenager across from her, the soldier in a get-up from the First World War on my left, they all looked just like the man beside me. Live in 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 want to go home, I answered honestly. Really? There was surprise in that raspy, whisper and 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 losing 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 rustling greenstocks 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 nothing behind me but a wall of corn.

When I tell folks about the maze, they usually reckon I've lost my damn mind. Even folks who've lived in town for years and know all about the Brock's weird cornfield don't really believe I've been inside it. After all, if I had, where's my wish? Some nights, sitting on my porch and looking 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 nothing more. But on other nights, when the trees rustle strangely, and that big old moon seems too 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.