The Hollow in the Corn

I never believed in the old stories about the cornfields behind our farmhouse. My grandmother used to warn me, her voice dry as husks, ‘The hollow takes what it wants, and it never gives back.’ I thought she was just trying to scare me away from the abandoned grain silo where we used to play. But now, after what happened with the boy in the yellow hat, I understand.

It started three weeks after we moved back to the farm to care for my ailing grandfather. One evening, as the sun bled orange over the rows, I saw a child standing among the stalks, about fifty yards from the back porch. He was small, maybe six years old, wearing a bright yellow rain hat that seemed absurd in the dry heat. He didn’t move. He just stared at me with eyes that were too large and too dark. I blinked, and he was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, a scarecrow I hadn’t noticed. But the next day, he was closer. And the day after that, he was standing at the edge of the field, almost at the porch.

Each time I saw him, I felt a coldness seep into my bones, like the temperature dropped ten degrees. My grandfather, who spent his days in a rocking chair by the window, started mumbling about ‘the boy who drowned in the well.’ I dismissed it as dementia. But my wife, Lena, saw him too one afternoon. She came inside, pale as milk, and said, ‘Who is that child? He waved at me.’ I lied and said it was the neighbor’s kid, but we both knew the nearest neighbor was a mile away.

Last Tuesday, I decided to confront the apparition. I walked to the edge of the field, my heart thudding, and called out, ‘Hey, are you lost?’ The boy turned and darted into the corn. I followed, the stalks towering over me, dry and rustling. I pushed deeper, and the silence grew oppressive. Then I saw him again, standing perfectly still between two rows. He was closer now, and I could see his face clearly: pale, almost translucent, with wet hair plastered under the hat, and water dripping from his chin. The ground beneath him was dark and muddy, as if he had just climbed out of a bog. He smiled, and his lips were blue.

I ran. I crashed through the corn, my legs burning, until I burst out onto the field’s edge. When I turned back, the field was empty. But that night, I heard a knocking at the back door. Three slow knocks. I opened it, and no one was there. But on the step was a small, wet footprint. The same footprint I’d seen in the mud by the well, which had been sealed for years.

Since then, things have escalated. The boy appears inside the house now, always at the edge of my vision. He stands in the hallway, his wet hat dripping onto the floorboards, leaving a trail of dark spots. He doesn’t speak, but I hear a faint gurgling sound, like water down a drain. My grandfather passed away two days ago, and at his funeral, I saw the boy standing behind the preacher, shaking his head slowly. Lena refuses to stay in the house anymore. She left with the kids last night, and I can’t blame her.

Now, I sit alone in the kitchen, the house creaking around me. The well in the backyard has started to overflow, even though there’s been no rain. And I’ve pieced together the old stories: my great-uncle had a son who drowned in that well in 1923. They never found the body. They said the well was bottomless, but that’s a lie. I know because when I looked in, I saw the boy, floating just below the surface, his yellow hat bobbing, his hand reaching up. And he was smiling, as if he had been waiting for me all along.

Tonight, I’ve decided to confront him. I’m going to open the well, and I’m going to climb down. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. But I can’t live with his eyes following me, his wet footsteps echoing in my dreams. If you’re reading this, don’t come looking for me. And if you ever see a child in a yellow hat at the edge of a field, run. Run as fast as you can, because he’s already seen you.