Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Cassie
Don’t panic.
Don’t. Panic.
I try to keep a level head, but it’s easier said than done. I placed so much trust in the compass that I didn’t work out a backup plan, and now I’m fucked.
So very fucked.
What the hell am I going to do?
Uncle Wayne is going to kill me, if Madelyn doesn’t beat him to it, and that’s if Aunt Bonnie isn’t waiting on the porch to chew my head off as soon as I get back.
I whine out a groan.
Of course, this would happen to me.
Surviving in the wild—although I wouldn’t classify a cornfield as the wild—clearly isn’t my forte, which only makes me miss the city even more.
No matter how long I got lost in the city, no matter how far I went or how many wrong turns I took, I could always find my way home with a few clicks on my phone.
Here, I don’t have that luxury.
If I make it out of here, I will never take the internet or GPS for granted again.
I silently promise whatever deity may be listening that I’ll do whatever they want if they’ll just fix my compass or get me out of the cornfield, but I know that’s a longer shot than finding the Watcher.
They’re probably up there laughing at me, amused at how na?ve I was to attempt this wild goose chase in the first place.
I hope they fall off a cloud.
“Think, Cassie, think,” I say sternly, attempting to regain control of my scattered thoughts. Freaking out won’t solve anything, and it’ll only make my predicament worse. I need to work out a plan and act on it fast, or I’ll be sleeping out here with the plants.
I look up at the sky again to mark the sun’s position.
It’s dipped lower, creeping closer to the tops of the stalks.
Before long, it’ll sink too low for me to see, and for the first time since I was six years old, I find myself wishing I were taller.
If I could see over the stalks, I could easily find my way out of here.
Northwest. That’s the direction I need to go.
Once I note which direction the sun is setting, that’s easy to work out.
I check the compass a final time, hoping the needle has managed to find north again, but it’s still spinning away aimlessly. With a sigh, I tuck the useless paperweight back into my pocket.
Trudging forward, I head off in the direction I marked seconds ago, but I only make it a few steps before something breaks the silence.
It’s a deep groan, long and loud, that makes my blood run cold. It’s undeniably human.
I freeze.
My heart leaps into my throat, making it hard to swallow, and I crane my neck around to stare into the stalks behind me.
Nothing is amiss or different. There’s no movement or rustling of leaves.
I might not have much experience growing vegetables, but I’m fairly certain corn doesn’t groan, which means I’m not alone.
Fear rockets through me and I remain still, unable to move. My gaze rakes up and down the row of stalks, and I reach for the taser in my back pocket. Of my two weapons, it’s my best shot at self-defense. I press the button to test the charge, and an angry spark erupts between the prongs.
“Who’s there?” I call out, realizing a second later that I really would be the character who dies in a low-budget horror film.
I shouldn’t be giving away my position—I’m only making myself more vulnerable.
But if it’s the Watcher, I might have just found what I was looking for.
My feet are rooted to the spot, like the soles of my shoes have been cemented to the ground, and I wait. The taser is squeezed so tightly in my grip that my knuckles are white and my fingers are starting to cramp, but I can’t move them either. Terror has seized my muscles.
I open my mouth to call out again, as it’s the only part of me that’s able to move, but another groan cuts me off. It’s the same long, deep groan as before, but this time.
Heart jumping into my throat, I burst into a sprint. I don’t pause to check which direction I’m headed. I simply throw my legs out as quickly as they’ll move and whip my way through the never-ending sea of stalks, determined to put as much distance between me and the groaner as possible.
My body is on fire. I haven’t run since gym class, so my thighs ache from the sudden exercise, and my lungs burn with every huff of cold air.
Without the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I’d probably pass out, but the energy keeps me moving until I can’t run anymore.
Even then, I push myself to keep going, gasping for air.
The sun has officially slipped out of view, disappearing behind the tops of the corn, and the blue sky overhead is gradually darkening as the minutes tick by.
As the light diminishes, so does my hope, and I realize the chances of me sleeping in the cornfield are growing exponentially.
If whatever is out there doesn’t find me first.
I’m running out of options, and my only plan is to keep running until I reach the end of the field.
There’s no telling where I’ll end up, but it’s better than being lost.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter under my haggard breath.
Who thought this was a good idea?
Oh, yeah. I did.
I’m such an idiot.
Following the dirt path before me, I attempt to keep a brisk pace to no avail.
I’m exhausted. I need to stop and rest, but I don’t want to risk that thing catching up to me, whatever it is.
When I was running, I didn’t hear anything chasing me, but that’s not to say it isn’t out there somewhere, stalking me.
I’m getting stalked in the cornstalks.
Yep. Definitely the plot to some B grade horror movie where the main character dies a gruesome death.
Up ahead, the scenery changes, and my heart skips a beat. The stalks are beginning to thin, the plants spread farther apart.
The exit.
Holy shit, I can hardly believe it.
Fucking finally!
I can hardly stand the excitement that engulfs me, and it gives me a new wind of energy as I head toward the end of the row. I’m so relieved, I don’t even care where the path lets out, as long as it’s outside the cornfield.
I’ll figure out what to do after that.
With a sigh of relief, I step past the last cornstalk and stop to admire my newfound freedom, my gaze sweeping around eagerly. I search for any sign of my blue Honda, knowing that it’s a long shot, but there’s no sign of it.
I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to come out in the same place as I entered, but a sickening realization hits me a moment later.
I haven’t found my way out.
I’m in a wide, circular clearing surrounded by cornstalks.
My stomach drops.
The ground is soft brown soil, and the center of the clearing is occupied by a single scarecrow tied to a wooden stake.
His clothes are worse for wear, a tattered red jacket covering a faded blue plaid shirt.
His arms are stretched straight out from his sides, tied to the stake with several lengths of rope.
He wears tattered jeans, black boots, and a wide-brimmed black hat on his head.
Hay protrudes from beneath the hat like hair, and also from the seams of his clothes, the ends of his sleeves, and beneath the burlap sack that covers his face.
I take a step forward, studying the figure before me from head to toe, and it takes me a second longer than it should to note the pair of eyes glaring at me from the holes in the burlap. They’re dark and narrowed in my direction.
For a long moment, I think it’s a trick of the dimming light—those eyes look all-too-real to belong to an old scarecrow—but then he blinks.