This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/select873 on 2024-10-01 12:20:35+00:00.

It was the summer of 1998 when I first encountered the thing. I was 17, living in a rural town in the middle of nowhere, and bored out of my mind. My family owned a small farmhouse, and just beyond it was a wide expanse of cornfields that stretched for miles. It was the kind of place where nothing ever happened—until it did.

One evening, I was sitting in my room when I heard something strange. It wasn’t the typical hum of the night, nor the soft rustling of the corn. It was a slow, deliberate scratching—like nails scraping against glass. I looked out the window, thinking it was just a branch, but there were no trees near my window. Nothing but the field, waving gently in the wind.

I ignored it. I wanted to believe it was nothing. But every night, around the same time, the scratching would start again, and each time, it got louder. By the fourth night, I couldn’t sleep. I told my parents, but they shrugged it off, saying it was probably some animal.

One night, the sound was unbearable. I grabbed a flashlight and went outside, determined to find whatever was making it. The air was thick and humid, the kind of night that clings to your skin. I made my way toward the edge of the cornfield, the beam of the flashlight cutting through the dark like a knife.

Then, I saw it.

At first, I thought it was a scarecrow. There, at the edge of the field, stood a figure—tall, hunched, and barely visible against the dark sky. It didn’t move, didn’t sway in the wind like the corn. Just stood there, watching. I aimed the flashlight at it, expecting to see fabric and straw, but what I saw made my blood turn cold.

The figure wasn’t a scarecrow. It was… human, or at least it had the shape of one. Its skin was pale, too pale, like something that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Its eyes were large, round, and reflective, catching the light from my flashlight like an animal’s eyes in the dark. But the worst part was its mouth—hanging open, unnaturally wide, stretching across its face in a grotesque, silent scream.

I froze, unable to move or even breathe. The figure just stood there, watching me with that horrible, gaping mouth.

Then it moved.

Not like a person would. It didn’t walk. It seemed to glide, sliding silently through the field, the corn parting as it moved toward me. I turned and ran, faster than I ever thought possible. Behind me, I could hear the rustling of the corn, faster now, as if it were right on my heels. The sound grew louder and louder, that same horrible scratching noise, but this time it wasn’t just against glass—it was right behind me.

I burst through the door of the house, slamming it shut and locking it. My heart was pounding, my breath ragged. I ran to my parents, yelling about what I saw. They rushed to the window, but of course, there was nothing. Just the still, empty field.

But I knew what I saw.

The next morning, I woke up to find deep, jagged scratches on my bedroom window. Long, parallel lines etched into the glass, as if something—or someone—had been trying to get in.

I never saw the figure again after that night, but the feeling never left. Every time I passed the cornfield, I could feel it watching, waiting just beyond the edge of the tall stalks. I moved away the moment I could, never looking back.

Years later, I heard a story from someone in the neighboring town. They said there had once been a farmer who lived near the edge of those same fields. He disappeared without a trace, leaving nothing behind but his empty farmhouse and a strange, scratched-up window.

They say he was taken by something that still watches from the field, waiting for the next person to catch its attention.

I never went back to find out if it was true. But if you ever find yourself near an empty cornfield at night, and you hear scratching at your window, don’t look outside. Whatever it is, you don’t want to see it.