When you woke up in the park this morning, the last thing you expected was to go home with the girl that works at the farm market. Being vagrant, you didn’t expect to do that with anyone, really. You’re not a bad looking guy, but you haven’t had a proper shower in over a month. It’s been a long time since a woman looked at you with anything but disdain, so when she smiled and offered kind words you were wary, but then she gave you free food: fresh fruit straight from her family’s farm, she said, and it was best you could ever remember tasting. She genuinely seemed interested in you, even after you revealed you’re living on the streets. She insisted you accompany her home that evening because it’s the Christian thing to do. “There’s the catch,” you think, but it’s still a better prospect than you’ve had in a long time, so you agree and go wander the city for a few hours, dreaming about her and marveling at your possible good luck.
You head back to the market early and offer to help her pack up. She graciously accepts, and when you’re finished, invites you to hop in her Jeep for the long ride home. Along the way she asks you lots of questions. For reasons you can’t explain, you find her easy to talk to when usually you’re reluctant to give information about yourself. She seems genuinely interested in hearing about your past troubles, like how you ran away from an abusive household when you were 16 a few years ago and haven’t spoken to your family in ages. She doesn’t seem to mind that you’ve had run-ins with the law and have been in jail a couple times.
It’s a fairly long trip to her family’s farm, and by the time you arrive the sun is teasing the western horizon of vast blankets of corn. When you mention your amazement at the huge fields she divulges that it’s a whopping 450 acres of the best soil in southwest Michigan that’s been owned by her kin for six generations. She finally turns down a dirt drive. The house is about a quarter mile back off the road. It‘s entirely surrounded by cornstalks, and as the Jeep approaches you get an ominous sense of isolation.
She leads you up into a big, well-kept farmhouse with a wraparound porch where you are greeted warmly by her family members, which is the last thing you expected. Even her father, who is clearly the “man of the house” surprises you with his friendliness. You were anticipating hostility at the idea of his daughter bringing home a strange, unwashed male. Her mother offers you a change of clothes and shows you to a bathroom where you can get cleaned up. The hot shower feels incredible! She guessed correctly on your clothing sizes, and when you comment on it she jokes about getting lots of practice from raising kids.
They ask you to join them for a hearty, home cooked meal. It’s the best food you’ve had in ages. Around the table they discuss the day’s events. Naturally the conversation turns to you, and eventually they ask the question you knew was coming, because you are all too aware that everything comes with a price: Do you believe in God? You tell them you’ve been to church a few times, but you don’t really believe in it. You are surprised when they seem to easily accept this. You were sure this was going to turn into some kind of religious recruitment attempt, but the subject is thankfully dropped.
After supper you volunteer to help clean up, but the offer is declined, and you are invited to join the males out on the huge porch while the women see to the dishes. You suspect this is when they are going to try and convert you, and again are surprised when instead the father retrieves a stout earthenware jug and offers it to you. You accept and take a slug of the sweet, musky liquid. It’s robust, yet smooth, and immediately begins to warm your belly. He says it’s an old family mead recipe. You’ve never had mead before, but it doesn’t take much before your head is pleasantly buzzing. You notice the fireflies performing a hypnotic aerial dance at the edge of the field.
Before long the clear sky has gone dark, and the moon is peeking its brilliance over the vast tips of the cornstalks. The farmer’s daughter appears on the porch. She has shed her jeans and simple bouse for a sheer white gown. As she passes by you, she briefly leans in close, her soft lips gently brushing your ear, and whispers, “If you can catch me, you can have me.” She steps off the porch and beckons you to follow. Intrigued, yet wary you look to her father. With an approving gesture, he indicates his encouragement. As you approach her she turns and dashes away toward the corn field. Laughing wildly, your head swimming with the mead, you give chase. She leads you deep among the stalks, sometimes slowing enough to give your fingertips a brief preview of her silky flesh before disappearing once again into the vastness of the field. She darts this way and that. You try to keep up, but the effects of the mead have you disoriented and pretty soon you’re lost.
The ascending moon is full and bright and looks much larger than usual. The cornstalks seem to shimmer with a faint glow. Fireflies swirl about you in a well-defined vortex. You hear the girl’s voice calling out to you. You can’t tell from which direction. Sometimes it’s to the right. Sometimes left. Sometimes from everywhere. Then suddenly right behind you. Her hot breath exhales on the nape of your neck. It’s even more intoxicating than the mead, and your body shudders with desire. She gently caresses your ear, only now it’s not the delicate, slender fingers you remembered gracing her dainty hand. No, this is something else. Something cold and rigid. “I’m yours,” the thing behind you titters. Ragged talons drive into your flesh, and the last thing you hear is the sound of your own neck bones crunching under a wet vice full of daggers.
Back on the porch the girl’s father grins in the dark at the sound of screams drifting in from the corn field. “Gonna be a banner crop this year,” he muses.
CONTENTS RANDOM