Gatlin, the tiny town, turned out to be the teeny tiny town, although it seemed much larger than I was sure it was worth, taken into consideration that the streets were hopelessly abandoned, a cloud of lament trailing around, unexplainable grief that had closed around my insides with its misty fist before we came to a slammed stop that threw my body forward, and then back against the seat. I could feel tears welling up in the corner of my eyes, being able to stare so openly at everything surrounding the car outside, buildings that seemed to be in complete ruins beyond repair, as if some tragic storm had torn its way through, no room for survivors once it was finished. As if to intensify the feeling, a droplet of rain splattered against my window, others following closely in pursuit. From somewhere farther away, thunder shook this small world, rolling on for long periods of time. I was waiting for the lightning to crack open the sky, but it wouldn't come even after five minutes of stillness. My parents seemed dead in their seats.

There were no cars, something that struck me as highly unusual, and, taking in my theory of a merciless storm—perhaps a twister, like in the Wizard of Oz—I wondered if they had all been blown away, or to pieces. Or if, in a struggle to make it out alive, the poor people of Gatlin had jammed their keys into the ignitions in an attempt to flee, and maybe—a small part of my heart leaped at the thought—they had made it.

My eyes swept over one venerated building to the next, what still remained of those standing—at least on this side of town—dwindling for a moment longer on the one that was stated to be Gatlin Bar & Grill, the sign hanging off the side of the ramshackle restaurant, the cracked windows dusty and brown, keeping the inside of the building hidden from my eyes. That didn't discourage my thoughts though, which were focused on what the last meal had been for the people of Gatlin.

Do you really want to know? My conscious intervened, persistently knocking on the door that led to the stream of my most precious thoughts, waiting to be allowed to enter. I ignored it, despite the racket it continued to make, as I squinted with my eyes, yearning to see at least something—anything. An empty barstool possibly, or a powdery remains of a table that had once served people so long ago.

Nothing. I could feel a bead of sweat swiveling down the back of my neck, and I slapped at it absently, turning my head forward and drawing a blank. My thoughts, and, surprisingly enough, conscious, appeared to have gone mute, fallen on my deaf ears as they began to adjust to the unbearable silence.

My parents didn't stir, and it seemed that if I even so much as dared to open my mouth to speak, everything surrounding the car would break. Windows that hadn't been crushed under pressure would suddenly burst, flying shards of glass shattering against the roof of the car, and everything would spin off and lose control. I didn't want that to happen, though I knew (didn't I?) that it had been nothing but imagination, a fictional feeling, irrational and childish. Yet I believed it.

A question had formed from somewhere in the dark recess of my mind, and it was one I didn't want to answer.

Why are we still here?

It slapped against my brain, just as a wet paper caught up in a windstorm would have done to a storefront window. And from it, others formed.

Why aren't we turning around? What is wrong with mom and dad? Shouldn't you say something? Why are you allowing them to do this?

Do what? The other part of me, the sarcastic, witty part, chased the timid part away. Nothing's happening, can't you see?

Exactly.

I suddenly panicked, my chest heaving up and down, the voices in my head becoming one large jumble in a pot of confusion.

"Mom, dad!" I shouted, gaining the reaction I had least expected.

They both turned to face me—slowly, as if their bones were made of glass and would splinter if they weren't careful—their eyes staring lowly down at my shrunken form, so frail and childlike compared to their large, imposing frames. And, it felt like old times, when each would corner me, slowly break me down into shredded pieces, and tear me apart with their disappointment. I couldn't deal with it, and I suddenly snapped, the tears that had been pressing from earlier finally leaking through with a stinging vengeance. I felt as if I would wet myself, their expressions cold and slated—masked.

As if they had something great to hide.

Then, everything changed. My mother's face was back to its usual worried expression, her eyebrows turned down in confusion. My father's reflected hers, as they stared quietly at one another, appearing to have a secret conversation with their eyes.

Then, she spoke. "I don't understand, Robert. Why would people post signs that lead to an empty town?" Her voice seemed more robotic than what was normal, as if she had planned to say those exact words at that moment. And the more that I studied her; everything seemed a bit off, though I could just as easily have dismissed it if I weren't so crucial when it came to details. Her hair, bright and golden, was tinted slightly with gray, and her eyes, an ice blue, seemed faded and bloodshot. I noticed every little wrinkle on her face, the dark purple bags under her eyes, like she hadn't slept for days. The color of her skin, once so rosy, was now pallid, and an assortment of bruises, big and small, blue and green, were painted on her arms.

What the hell is going on?

"Excuse me, Marie?" My father questioned, his cheeks turning a dark shade of purple, his murky eyes hardening as they met mine. I couldn't help myself as I watched his skin, glistening in the hoary lighting with sweat, something I had never seen before. I could always remember my dad as being a clean man, one who didn't sweat, if ever. It always seemed to me that no matter how high the temperature, sweat would evade him. Or, he would somehow evade sweat.

"W-what?" I tilted my head to the side. Had I spoken aloud without realizing?

"Why would you say that word, Marie, haven't we told you before?" The volume of his voice was rising, his eyes wide as they calculated my expression, reaching in to my very soul.

"Why would you say that word?" Mom joined in, without facing me. The proximity of my father made me shake, on the edge of bawling.

"I don't know!" I cried. "I'm sorry!"

"He will not take pity on your soul! He will not forgive you!" My father sobbed out, tears streaming down his cheeks from his eyes, which brought forth the realization that it hadn't been sweat at all. He had been crying.

My bottom lip started to tremble, so I bit down on it, drawing blood, to make it stop. Pain scratched its greedy claws against my head, pressure pounding from within, something waiting to be released, but what?

"Let's get out of here," I demanded. "Please."

No response, just the same steely stare.

"Please, daddy, let's go!"

When was the last time you called him daddy?

"This town is great. Why would we leave it?" He questioned, one calloused hand reaching out for my cheek, where he planted it there, brushing his thumb slowly across the corner of my lip. Then he squeezed my cheeks together, edging closer yet.

"Why would we leave it?" He repeated, a maniacal smile creeping up on his dried lips.

"Let go of me." It took all my strength just to pry his fingers off, and even when I was successful, the other hand came out from nowhere, snatching my hands, swallowing them whole.

"We bleed out here," a hoarse whisper sprouted from his throat. My heart skipped a beat, waiting for him to finish. "We bleed into the corn."

I tried tugging free, tried to break through the fleshy shackles, pulling as hard as I could, until I was sure I was going to pull him onto my lap. But he didn't budge, and as much as it pained me to do it, regret washing through my veins, I leaned over and bit his arm as hard as I could, a sharp howl filling the car, tearing through the silent disguise, where it transformed into a horrible laughter.

My hands were fumbling for the buckle of my seat belt, where it slid off my body with reluctance, and I flung myself out the car door, hitting the awaiting asphalt. I released a shaky breath when my ribs landed on a jagged rock, but the fear was much stronger, somehow potent over anything else.

"Daddy?" I called stupidly, watching the driver door creak open, the figure behind it safely hidden in the darkness that was falling. It seemed to silence everything it touched.

I expected to see anything but his face staring back, a hungry monster of some sort, but it was still my father, my father, his dead eyes narrowing into mine, descrying to me my own fear.

"All your answers lie from within the corn, Marie. The corn sees all. It is watching as we speak."

"Who are you?" I whined, sliding back. "Where are you?"

"It keeps Him satisfied, the blood of the adults. And He shall be very satisfied tonight, Marie. I do hope that you will watch."

That was the last thing my father said, before the real eyes behind that mask stared out at me, as red as the purest forms of blood, glowing brilliantly under a full moon. And, before I had a chance to flee, something smooth and cold slid across my neck, spilling my blood out into the open as I tried to take in one last breath.

Everything went dark, but just before it did, the monster's mouth opened into a smile, Its teeth sharp and peeking out at me, Its rank breath flowing through my nostrils.

It keeps Him satisfied. The blood.

Then my eyes opened, breaking away the bonds of the nightmare, leaving me to trek through my own terror.

I sat up too fast, throbs of pain stabbing into my temples, traveling down to my chest and into the chamber where my heart beat slowed to a crawl, the breath in my lungs rushing out all at once, as if someone had sucker punched me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. For a moment, I had forgotten who I was, (what was my name?) memories being locked away, the dream (nightmare?) hidden someplace I didn't want to venture. I was, though I probably wouldn't admit it to another living soul, frightened to the point where I was literally out of my mind. I couldn't think straight, so I waited, my hands in fists and bloodless in my lap, for everything to come back to me, like a lost puppy trapped in the rain.

But it didn't quite happen like that. Instead, I stared around the car, searching for something, and definitely not for the blood that was sleek and shiny on the tan seats. My eyes twitched slightly, the color fascinating to me as I reached out to dip my fingers in it, and it was then that everything came, rushing at me like a wrecking ball, smashing into my face.

A scream pressed against my lips, tears blinding my sight, changing the world into blurs of color (blurs of bright, bloody red) and my mind collapsed. I noticed cornhusks, dried and golden, strewn about the car, seeming to fit right in with it all, the situation, my madness, and the blood. It was like the missing piece to the puzzle—my nightmare—and I bolted out the door as I remembered every little detail, horror pumping hotly through my veins.

The pavement was littered with droplets of blood, as well as the dead leaves of corn, and I could feel the bile rising up my throat, but I swallowed it down, wringing out my hands as I took a step forward, careful not to get any on my shoes.

Let's go with your Wizard of Oz theory. Just follow the droplets of blood.

But was that truly the way to go? Follow the exact path the killer had made, the one that they intended me to follow? The one that they wanted me to discover? Expected me to use?

I stopped in my tracks, the decisions becoming burdens to my mind, but the thought of my parents, dead and cold, losing blood, outweighed everything.

No. I didn't want this to happen. I thought I did, hell, I think a lot of things, but it was something that I didn't actually think was possible. I honestly thought they would die, in their golden years, still ignorant, yet blissful as always. Still my parents, not dead faces to be dropped behind for the past to swallow.

So I trailed along—the puppy, trapped in the storm—stepping carefully, yet determinedly beside the glistening red, looking up from time to time to see where it was I was being…

Herded.

Though I couldn't see them, I could detect their eyes, setting my back on fire, making me sweat, forcing me into the panic that only fueled my steps, injected my mind with images of the worst possible outcomes. I wanted to run back to the car. I wanted to jam the keys hastily into the ignition, as I had imagined that the people of Gatlin had done in what seemed like only minutes ago, in my nightmare. Or was I awake? I wondered as my heart sank. It was hard to grasp, difficult to understand.

Are you awake now?

I wasn't too sure about that, either, but I hoped, almost clutched onto the idea, that this was a device being put to use by my own twisted mind. I hoped, so much in fact, that I became reliant on the dim thought, trying to feel invincible as the trail abruptly ended, and I nearly stumbled into the entrance—the corn.

Of course. It makes sense.

But that didn't make me feel any inclination to enter. In fact, it made me take a step back, and then another, my arms wrapping around my stomach, as if to protect myself from the hidden stares. The corn rustled, my heart pounding furiously, as my eyes swept across the man-high stalks, the sound gone and leaving me completely clueless as to where it had come from.

"Show yourselves!" I shouted out, referring to the people hidden so dexterously from my view. Peeking out at me from their safe shadows, nothing but cowards.

The faint acrid smell of smoke intoxicated my nose, and the multiple trample of footsteps from close behind made me stiffen. I found myself, for the first time in nearly ten years, whispering a silent prayer. A habit I had lost so long ago, when I refused to believe.

Where are you now, God, when I need you the most?

I could hear their hoarse breaths, all around, and I knew that was my cue to turn around, to see what I was up against. What startled me the most had not been the variety of weapons clenched in their fists—axes, pitch forks, butcher knives, rusted cleavers, sickles, and even torches, highlighting my features with orange.

None of that seemed to matter. What squeezed my heart together with fear was their ages, seeming to range from seven to fifteen, and their faces, more aged than I had ever seen, showing their experience, displaying their anger, forcing my knees to tremble, and then to suddenly collapse. I had forgotten about the blood, my parents, and my instincts. I couldn't remember anything other than to breathe slowly through my nostrils, as the darkness closed itself around my form, wrapping me tight in black sheets of silken misery.

Then, they locked me up in a tight circle, their expressions unafraid, bold. They used their weapons without any hint of regret, as my blood spilled, joining the little droplets, forming a giant pool in comparison. I lost a lot, and when they seemed appeased as I slammed my head down on the rocky blacktop, they dispersed and left me alone, possibly to die.

Then, God seemed to finally recognize my desperate prayer, as another sound approached, footsteps much heavier than the children's, as my breath clogged up in my throat. The dark silhouette seemed to reach out for me, but I knew better than that, and tried to crawl away, to no avail.

Its hand clutched my shirt, and I realized it would have turned out okay if I had just stepped into the corn and continued my search, as I was dragged away.

I left my own trail of blood, one that no one would follow.

Criticism, por favore? :]