For years, I have suffered at the hands of my parents and their slow plan of incompetent butchery; gradually slicing my identity away in delicate layers, like rice paper, until my presence registers simply as the absence of absence. My life has become an arc of shame and half-truths; the sense of detachment, unremitting. They have finally pushed me too far and now they are going to pay. I have prepared carefully, secretly, waiting until they are sound asleep. I can feel the weight of silence that has been cultivating for over a decade as I move through the house with the abstracted caution of a man entering a temple: rows of porcelain angels on the vanity table; the air, heavy with the scent of old gospel texts. In the moonlight, I appear both skeletal and calm, like a cheap church icon - a tapestry of scrabbling insects in my blood. My parents don’t know what is about to happen to them; but I do. They think that the door to the cupboard under the stairs was nailed shut years ago. It was, but not anymore. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, I hear whispers calling to me from within. Initially, the voices were soft and the words hard to discern, but they have grown louder and more tangible over time. Now, the cupboard is no longer simply a place of childhood punishment; it has become a gateway to some part of me that is cold and furious. I crawl inside and sit down quietly next to the claw hammer that I placed there a few days ago. I picture my parents – almost archived to their easy chairs, with religion in their mouths like a cheap dog whistle. My father; miserable with drink and the luggage of archetype. My mother, with her cruel, doubting heart melted away by the acids of righteous zeal. They believe that their place in heaven is assured by the weighted hieroglyphs of a hymn book and the relentless chatter of TV evangelists. It’s almost time to test that theory. I drape one of father’s old coats over my head, close my eyes and I am instantly transformed into all the fictional monsters that I have always loved: the viral specters, fathomless and vengeful; the werewolf, screaming in terrible, pent-up anguish; the vampire, with its casual cruelty. It feels warm and familiar, like home – just not this one. When I take the coat away, I go back to being the monster that I have become. That they have made me. My parents don’t know this yet, but they will……soon. The voices are clear now and their instructions precise, rage-filled and honed into an orchestra of wolves. I am smiling; I am weeping with gratitude and I am vibrating at the frequency of a collapsing star as I crawl back out with my hammer, close the door, and prepare to open another one.

The McGregors had always been secretive. They kept to themselves and to their land out in the woods. But during the harvest, they became downright conspiratorial. Folks said they spoke in hushed tones and shunned questions about their farm or crops. All anyone knew was that they must have had quite a field, given the copious amounts of corn, potatoes and pumpkins hauled into market. We were and still are a superstitious community. And, with their lack of church attendance, people were all too willing to label them Satanists. Behind their backs, of course. Their reputation wasn’t so bad that our little town could shun a good potato! They were the stuff of local legend, a mystery that captivated me as a teen. So much so that it was too much to bear. Which is how I found myself stalking their farm one chill October night. Passing many no trespassing signs, littered with bullet holes. Sneaking under branches and finally over the fence to get a peek at what the locals called the damned farm. It was unremarkable. A little farmstead nestled into the woods, with a wide field ending in a large pond. In my mind, I can still see the farmhouse in the distance, lit by the moon alone, every window dark. A simple moss-covered cottage with a line of smoke reaching up towards the waiting stars. It was a bright night, but I thought I could risk a closer look. Venturing out between the rows; I found each stalk brimming with corn, every vine drooping down towards a swollen gourd, and even the freshly tilled potato patch sprouted green. I could smell the fecund earth beneath my feet, fertile in defiance of the cold. This late in the season, and given what they’d already brought to market, it seemed impossible. There was also little sign of disturbance. No holes in the leaves to indicate bugs, birds or bunnies had gotten to the crop. To my best guess, this was because of the scarecrows standing guard on the banks of the pond. Walking beneath their gaze, I admired the careful craftsmanship. Rather than crude sacks of hay, they almost seemed like macabre mannequins completely with faces scowling down at me from atop their crooked poles. Curious though, that they were only around the pond and not out in the field. As if to keep something in. Passing them, I peered into the water, wondering with sarcastic glee at the vermin one would have to keep at bay within those calm waters. Whatever teenage bravado I’d mustered sank as a shadow glided up from the depths. They weren’t keeping something in; the scarecrows were facing outward. They were a reminder and a warning to trespassers like me. Slick black feathers dripping with pond scum emerged and rose towards the sky, and I realized what it felt like to be vermin. A little thing, scampering around on land owned by something greater.

A car trudges along a country road. The windows are low while the scents of hay and grass permeate inside. A group of four grow bored of their return trip home. The driver grits her teeth. Behind her, her friend continues to whistle and tap his feet. She can feel his knees dig into the chair. "Carl, stop kicking my damned chair!" Her voice jolts another passenger awake. "I told you Cataleya, we should've left him at the cabin." She mumbles. Carl's eyes roll. "Go back to sleep, Monica." Monica leans towards the back seat. Her fatigue shifts into frustration. Her eyes summon a quiet hush. Carl sinks in his seat. A snicker beside him risks another argument. "Theo, the hell you think you're up to?" Cataleya eyes him in the rearview mirror. He glances around for a distraction. His eyes lock onto a sign outside the window. The large billboard ahead reads: Welcome to the largest corn maze in the North East! The letters transfer into his thoughts. "Let's take a detour." He suggests. "Why not?" She says. The driver follows the arrow on the sign. Soon, the asphalt breaks down into gravel. The passengers move up and down to the beat of the tires. Cataleya parks near the corn stalks. They exit the vehicle and peer around. "Where's the farmer?" Theo asks. "Who cares?" Cataleya stretches. "We could just head in." Carl scrunches his brows. He wants to retreat, but everyone else heads forward. Cataleya and Monica take the lead. Within moments, a fork appears. "We could split up." Monica suggests. "Okay," Cataleya replies. "You guys can go right and we'll take the left. Shout if you find anything." "Sounds good!" Theo adds a thumbs up. The party is divided into two. The farther in Cataleya goes, the deeper the sun appears to set. Monica lifts a brow. "How long is this maze?" Her concern is audible. Before Cataleya replies, a sharp scream carries over the stalks. "What the hell?" The two relay in unison. Feet tread back towards the fork. The two enter the other passage. The maze pulls them around multiple twists and turns. Then, the smell of corn is disturbed by a bitter metal. Cataleya and Monica stop short. To their horror they find a creature, akin to a scarecrow. It wields a scythe into the bodies of their friends. The creature snaps its head towards the unexpected duo. Cataleya pushes her friend to move. She hears the sobbing sounds echo from Monica's cracked vocals. A rustling from behind indicates the creature is hot on their tracks. Out of breath, Cataleya pushes out of the maze. She glances behind to see if her friend is close. However, just as Monica reaches the entrance, a scythe cuts through her back. Panic forces Cataleya to the car. The creature's head tilts in her direction while she drives away. In her rear view mirror, Cataleya reads the sign above the stalks: Maze Craze, enter at your own risk.