The corn maze had seemed harmless enough when Harland Bixby first stepped inside, a little tourist trap nestled on the edge of the county fairgrounds. From the outside, it had been all cheerful signage and neatly trimmed paths, a fun diversion before his next performance. Now, deep in its twisting corridors, it felt less like a harmless attraction and more like a place people wandered into but didn’t always leave.
The maze had grown quieter the longer he walked. At first, he could hear the distant clatter of carnival rides and the muffled hum of a crowd. But as he moved further in, those sounds disappeared, replaced only by the rustling of corn and the occasional whisper of wind. The rows of stalks loomed tall on either side of him, their dry husks brushing together in a way that sounded almost like speech.
He adjusted the puppet on his arm. Mister Barkles, a well-worn dog puppet with frayed ears and glassy black eyes, flopped against his side. The puppet had been part of his act for years, a reliable source of halfhearted applause and chuckles from the audiences who still tolerated ventriloquists.
“This is fine,” Harland muttered to himself.
“This is very much not fine,” Mister Barkles muttered back.
Harland sighed. He was talking through the puppet again. He always did that when he was nervous, but this time, it felt less like a habit and more like Mister Barkles had developed an opinion on the situation.
A gust of wind swept through the maze, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and something else. Something older. He picked up his pace, rounding a corner and finding himself in a small clearing where the paths met.
A scarecrow stood in the center.
It was tall, taller than any scarecrow he had ever seen. Its body was wrapped in ragged black clothing that hung limply from its frame, its arms outstretched as if offering an embrace. The head was not the usual burlap sack, but something else entirely. A white mask, smooth and expressionless, covered its face, the lips painted into a delicate, knowing smile. The blackened eyes seemed too deep as if they could see more than they should.
Harland stopped in his tracks. Mister Barkles remained silent.
The scarecrow stood motionless, just another prop for the maze. Yet the longer Harland looked, the more it seemed to be watching him, waiting for something. The stitched smile did not move, but somehow, he felt it had widened.
The wind picked up again. The corn rustled behind him.
He turned, expecting to see another open path. Instead, the way he had come was gone. The corn had grown impossibly thick, closing the entrance without a trace. He spun back toward the scarecrow.
It was no longer on the post.
It was standing.
Harland’s breath caught in his throat.
The scarecrow, now a figure in black, tilted its head, the painted mask catching the moonlight. It lifted one gloved hand, fingers pinching at empty air. With slow, deliberate precision, it pulled something into view.
An invisible gun.
Harland turned to run.
The first imaginary bullet hit his leg, sending him sprawling to the ground. Pain lanced through his knee, though there was nothing there. He scrambled forward, clawing at the dirt, but another shot caught him in the shoulder. He collapsed onto his side, gasping. The final shot hit him in the back, and his limbs gave out entirely.
He could not move.
The Killer Mime stepped forward, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. It crouched beside him, the stitched smile on its mask betraying nothing.
Harland tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
The Killer Mime did not take his wallet. It did not take his keys.
It reached for Mister Barkles.
The puppet slipped from Harland’s fingers with unnatural ease. The Killer Mime held it up, tilting its head as if appraising its worth. It gave a slow, exaggerated nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the corn without a sound.
Harland lay there, breathing heavily, feeling the weight of invisible wounds that should not exist. The wind died down. The maze was quiet again.
Somewhere in the distance, Mister Barkles barked.
Not a real bark. Not a puppet’s bark.
Something else.