The Haunting of Kearney Fields (United States)

Sarah Collins, Kearney, Nebraska

My name is Sarah Collins, and I’ve lived on my family’s farm in Kearney, Nebraska, for as long as I can remember. It’s not much of a town—just a handful of old brick buildings, a few gas stations, and more fields than you can count. Life here is simple. It has to be, especially when you make your living off the land. For years, I’ve worked the fields, tended to the animals, and grown the crops that feed our community. And although I’ve spent countless hours out in the cornfields, never in my life have I experienced anything that could compare to the terrifying events that took place last summer.

It started one evening when I was walking out to the edge of the field to check on the irrigation system. The corn was tall, dense, and vibrant, and the sun was just starting to dip behind the horizon. As I crossed the field, something caught my eye—a patch where the corn was flattened in a perfect circle. I thought it was odd, but not enough to make me worry. I figured maybe a storm had come through, or perhaps some animal had run through the field in a strange pattern. It wasn’t uncommon for the wind to whip up and cause odd formations.

But the next day, I found more of them. There were three this time—each one a perfect circle, each one seemingly designed to form some kind of pattern. The stalks in these circles were bent, twisted, as if someone—or something—had gone out of its way to make sure they stayed pressed down in those strange formations. I walked closer to inspect them, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as I did. The shapes were too deliberate, too symmetrical to be the work of nature or animals. They didn’t seem like random accidents. They felt… planned.

I thought it might have been a prank, maybe someone trying to mess with me. But the further I went out into the fields, the stranger things became. Some nights, I’d hear whispers, just beyond my hearing, like a murmuring wind that carried words I couldn’t make out. At first, I told myself it was just the wind—Nebraska winds can do strange things to your mind, especially in the summer. But the whispers seemed too clear, too… intentional.

It was one evening, when the air was still and thick with the smell of fresh-cut grass, that I first saw it—the figure. I was walking back from the farthest corner of the field when I spotted something in the distance. At first, it looked like just another tall stalk of corn, but then I realized the stalk was standing upright, in the wrong place, and it wasn’t moving. It was too still, too out of place. My heart dropped into my stomach as I squinted into the twilight, trying to make sense of it.

The figure was standing about fifty feet away, at the edge of the cornfield, almost as though it had been waiting for me. The thing was unnaturally tall, too thin to be human, its body stretched and bent at odd angles, the shape almost skeletal. It was completely still, but I could feel its presence, its gaze piercing into me from across the field. My heart raced, and I instinctively took a step back. But every time I blinked, the figure was closer—just a little, but enough to make me want to scream.

Panic surged through my body. I turned around and ran as fast as I could, my legs burning, my chest tight with terror. But the sound of footsteps, slow and steady, kept pace with mine, echoing in my ears. I didn’t dare look back, afraid that if I did, the figure would be right behind me. As I reached the edge of the field, I could hear it still following, getting closer with each step. But just as I reached the safety of the porch, the sound of footsteps vanished. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. I ran inside, locked the door, and didn’t sleep a wink that night.

The next day, the cornfield seemed even more unnerving. The wind was still, but I could swear I saw shadows darting between the stalks. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The whispers were louder now—almost like soft voices trying to speak to me, but I couldn’t understand them. Sometimes, when I would walk past the circles in the corn, I’d feel something tug at my clothes, or brush against my arm as though someone invisible was trying to get my attention.

I tried to tell myself I was imagining things, that the stress of working on the farm was getting to me. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. Something was in those fields—something alive.

The following week, things took a turn for the worse. I was in the kitchen late one night when I heard something scraping against the window. I went to investigate, and as I drew the curtains back, I froze. Standing outside, in the field just beyond the porch, was the figure. I could barely make out its silhouette, but I could tell it was watching me, its thin, long arms hanging by its sides, its head tilted to one side as though studying me.

The second I blinked, the figure was gone.

I don’t know what it was, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been waiting for me. It had been watching me for longer than I realized.

The whispers started again that night, louder than ever. They were no longer just coming from the cornfield, but from all around the house—scraping sounds at the windows, distant murmurs, and occasional thumps that made me jump every time they broke the silence. I stayed up all night, keeping the lights on and my ears straining for any sign of movement.

The next day, I contacted a local priest to see if he could help. I didn’t know what else to do. He came out, walked the fields, and spent a long time standing at the spot where I had first seen the figure. He said he could sense something dark lingering in the area, something old and malevolent. But when he tried to bless the land, the whispers grew louder, almost as though they were angry at him.

That’s when he told me something I’ll never forget: The cornfields are haunted, Sarah. There’s something ancient out there, something that feeds on fear.

The priest performed a ritual to bless the land, but I never felt the same after that. The figure didn’t appear again, but the whispers didn’t stop. They were always there, lurking just beyond the edge of my mind. Even now, I feel their presence when I walk through the fields, as though I’m never truly alone. And I can’t bring myself to step into the corn after sunset.

The patterns in the corn, the circles, the whispers—they never truly left. They were a warning. Whatever had been watching me, whatever had been lurking in those fields, was never going to let me go. The farm, once a place of comfort, had become a place of terror.

I still live here, still farm the land, but I don’t go into the cornfields unless I absolutely have to. I’ve learned to live with the whispers and the shadows, but I will never forget the Watcher. And I know, deep down, that it’s still out there, waiting for the next person foolish enough to step into its domain.