The Whispering Maize

THE WHISPERING MAIZE

No one in the village of Kilbradden went near the old McCreedy farm anymore.

Once, long ago, it was known for its sweet corn—tall stalks of maize stretching to the sky, golden cobs fat and perfect. But ever since the incident in ’79—when young Liam Donnelly wandered into the field and never came out—the place had been cursed.

People say the maize grew unnaturally tall that summer. Taller than a man, taller than two. So tall it blocked out the sun and muffled the wind. Some swore it moved, ever so slightly, even when the air was still. Others claimed to hear whispering voices deep inside, like secrets being shared by someone—or something—that never meant for you to listen.

Nobody went near it. Until Niamh did.

She was sixteen, headstrong, with no time for old ghost stories. One dare from her older cousin was all it took.

“Go in,” he said. “Just walk to the scarecrow in the middle and back. Easy. I’ll time you.”

She scoffed. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid field.”

She stepped between the stalks. And they closed behind her like a gate.

Inside, the world changed. The sunlight dimmed to a green-gold haze. The air turned still and thick. The tall maize whispered softly, brushing her arms, her cheeks, her hair. Her cousin’s voice faded instantly. All she could hear was rustle-rustle, and a whisper like—

“Turn around. Go back.”

She laughed it off, told herself it was just the breeze. But the path behind her had vanished. Every row looked the same now. Identical. Endless.

She called out. No answer.

Still, she walked on, pushing stalks aside. The whispering grew louder. More urgent. Voices in dozens, maybe hundreds, murmuring over each other like a rising tide of words she couldn’t quite understand.

She reached the scarecrow at last.

It was not what she expected.

The clothes were old and rotting. A sack for a head. But it was the arms that unnerved her—they weren’t made of wood or straw, but… bone.

Worse still, its head slowly turned.

And it whispered:

“You came too far.”

Niamh screamed. She turned and ran. But the stalks seemed to move, shift, rearrange themselves. No matter which way she ran, the whispering followed. Growing louder. Angry now. Accusatory.

Faces appeared between the stalks—hollow-eyed, dirt-smeared, whispering mouths. Hands reached out, grabbing at her arms, her legs, pulling her down into the loamy soil beneath the roots.

Just before she vanished completely, she saw Liam Donnelly’s face—young, unchanged, grinning from between the stalks.

The next morning, the maize field was silent again.

But if you stand at its edge—on a windless night—you can hear the stalks whisper:

“We’re still growing.”

And if you dare step inside… you might just never return.