The Corn Daisies

I’ve debated for years whether to write this down. Some memories are like barbed hooks that snag on every thought, and this place is one of them. It was the summer of 2004, and my family was staying with friends in a rural part of Ohio—not quite backwoods, but close. The house was an old farmhouse, creaking at the joints, surrounded by acres of withered cornfields and a tangled orchard that had gone wild. Behind the property, a creek ran slow and dark, choked with reeds, and beyond that, a field of daisies that looked almost too perfect against the dying crops.

Our hosts were the Harringtons—Tom, a gruff man with a limp, and his wife, Ruth, who spoke in hushed tones as if the walls had ears. Their daughter, Clara, was my age, and we spent the first two days exploring, trying to find something interesting in the boredom of the countryside. Clara warned me not to go to the daisy field. ‘It’s not right,’ she said, her eyes darting to the window. ‘My mom says the corn daisies are where the whispers live.’ I laughed, but she didn’t. She just walked away, leaving me with a chill that didn’t fade under the July sun.

On the third night, I woke to the sound of scratching. It was rhythmic, like fingernails on dry bark, coming from the window. I lay still, heart pounding, and saw a silhouette against the moonlit glass—not human, but tall and thin, with limbs that bent too many ways. It turned its head, and for a second, I saw a face made of petals, their edges brown and crisp. Then it was gone. I told myself it was a tree branch, but the window was clear of any trees.

The next morning, I mentioned it to Clara. She went pale and whispered, ‘It’s the corn man. He takes people who walk in the daisies.’ I demanded she explain, but she clammed up, saying her mother had forbidden her to talk about it. Annoyed and curious, I decided to investigate on my own. That afternoon, I slipped away to the daisy field. The flowers were taller than me, their centers a sickly yellow, and the stems bled a milky sap when I brushed them. The air was thick with a sweet, rotting smell, and I noticed pieces of old cloth and children’s toys tangled among the roots, half-buried.

I walked deeper, the daisies closing behind me, and found a small clearing. In the center lay a rusted well, its wooden cover rotted away. Peering down, I saw nothing but blackness, but a cold breath rose from it, and I heard a faint, high-pitched laugh that made my skin crawl. I turned to run, but the daisies had shifted, forming walls that seemed to move with me, guiding me back toward the house. I stumbled out, gasping, and fled inside.

Ruth saw me, and her face tightened. She took me aside and said, ‘You went to the field, didn’t you? Don’t lie.’ I nodded, and she sighed, a deep, weary sound. ‘That well was here when we bought the place. They say a girl fell in it, decades ago. No one ever found her body, but sometimes you can hear her singing. And the corn man—he’s her guardian. He doesn’t like strangers.’ She told me to stay away from the field from then on, and I promised, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed me back.

That night, I heard the scratching again, louder, and this time it was accompanied by a voice—soft, childlike, singing a lullaby I didn’t recognize. I buried my head under the pillow, but the song seemed to come from inside my skull. When I finally slept, I dreamed of the well, and of hands reaching out from it, made of twisted stems and petals, pulling me down. I woke screaming, and Clara burst in, her face wild. ‘You heard her, didn’t you? The well girl. She’s chosen you.’

My parents decided we had to leave early. I was relieved, but as we packed, I noticed that the daisy field had creeped closer to the house, its edge now touching the back porch. The flowers were swaying, even though there was no wind, and I saw that pattern again—a face, formed by the darker centers of the blooms, watching me from the field. Tom and Ruth stood on the porch, waving goodbye, but their smiles were wrong, too wide, and their eyes didn’t blink.

We drove away, and I looked back until the house vanished behind a hill. I expected the nightmares to stop, but they didn’t. Every night, I dream of the well, and in the dream, I’m standing at its edge, looking down, and the girl is looking up at me, her face pale and sunken, her hair trailing into the water. She smiles and says, ‘You left me, but I’ll find you.’ I wake up with daisy petals in my bed, and sometimes, in my mouth.

It’s been twenty years, and I’ve moved across the country, but last week, I found a daisy growing through a crack in my apartment floor. It was fresh, even though it was winter, and its center was a sickly yellow, like the ones in that field. I pulled it out, but the next day, another one appeared. And last night, I heard a faint lullaby coming from my closet. I’m writing this as a warning: if you ever see a field of daisies that seems too perfect, stay away. The girl in the well doesn’t forget, and the corn man, he’s always watching, waiting to bring you back to her.