The Five-Fingered Touch

June 22, 2015

by Gerardo

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (587 words)

"My buddy Marcus and I were having a sleepover at his place, a sprawling old farmhouse that sat at the edge of a cornfield. The field itself was the stuff of nightmares after dark—tall stalks swaying, whispering secrets, and the constant rustle of something moving through them. Marcus’s parents had warned us to stay out, […]"

My buddy Marcus and I were having a sleepover at his place, a sprawling old farmhouse that sat at the edge of a cornfield. The field itself was the stuff of nightmares after dark—tall stalks swaying, whispering secrets, and the constant rustle of something moving through them. Marcus’s parents had warned us to stay out, but we were thirteen and invincible, fueled by a bag of sour worms and a two-liter of cola. We decided to have a laser tag battle in the field at midnight, using the rows as cover.

We suited up in the dark, our vests glowing faintly, and took positions at opposite ends of the field. Marcus gave me the signal to start the countdown. ‘Five… four… three…’ I shouted into the night, but before I could say ‘two,’ a scream ripped through the air, cutting my countdown short. I sprinted toward the sound, my heart pounding, the corn slapping against my face. I found Marcus on his knees, shaking, his laser gun abandoned.

‘What happened?’ I asked, trying to catch my breath. He looked up at me, his face pale in the moonlight. ‘Something touched me,’ he whispered. ‘From behind. It felt like a hand, but it was cold—like ice. I felt five fingers on my back.’ I glanced around, seeing nothing but corn. ‘It’s probably just a branch, man,’ I said, trying to sound calm. But Marcus shook his head violently. ‘No, it was a hand. I know it. There’s something in this field.’

I helped him up, and we decided to call it quits, heading back toward the house. But as we walked, the rustling in the corn grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t the wind; it was rhythmic, like footsteps pacing us. We broke into a run, and the moment we reached the porch, the rustling stopped. We slammed the door behind us, leaning against it, gasping. Marcus was shaking, and I couldn’t help but feel a chill crawl up my spine.

Later that night, we tried to sleep in Marcus’s room, but neither of us could. Every creak of the old house made us jump. Around 2 a.m., Marcus suddenly sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide. ‘Did you feel that?’ he whispered. I hadn’t felt anything. ‘Feel what?’ I asked. He put his hand on my arm, and I felt a cold, clammy presence at the foot of the bed. I looked down, and in the faint light from the window, I saw five finger-shaped indentations on the quilt, as if something was pressing down. Then, just as quickly, they were gone.

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the corner, backs against the wall, waiting for dawn. When the sun finally rose, we went to the kitchen, and Marcus’s mom asked why we looked so pale. We told her about the field, and she grew serious. She told us that the land had a dark history—a man had been found dead in that field decades ago, with five deep scratches on his back. She warned us to never go out there at night again. Marcus and I nodded, but we both knew the truth: whatever was out there wasn’t confined to the field. It had followed us inside, and I could feel its cold fingers on my back whenever I closed my eyes, even now, years later, I still feel them sometimes, just for a second, when I’m alone in the dark.

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