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“Enjoy the maze,” I say.
They will for a while.
Then it’s our turn.
EMMA
There is nothing quite like watching a cocky, confident man swagger through a corn maze like he owns the whole damn farm. Forward, right, left, another right—he doesn’t even hesitate, just keeps turning like the maze is playing along with him. That stupid, cheerful grin spreads across his face, and I can almost hear the little victory soundtrack in his head. I pull my phone from my pocket, hands a bit sweaty, snapping a quick photo before he disappears around the next wall of stalks. I sent it to Max with barely any caption, just a knife emoji and a red pin, so he knows I’m about to have so much fun, and he should join me if he’s not being a coward tonight.
It’s pathetic, if you really think about it—him, not me. He’s got no idea about me, the way I’m stalking him—the way I’m the one in control, not him. My eyes light up when I notice the small, round red pin clipped to his shirt under his open flannel. The mark. He must think he’s so special, one of the chosen ones, a VIP if I must call it that. They always like that word. They say things like, “Oh, I’m VIP?” and laugh, and I smile back and don’t explain what it really means.
What he doesn’t know is that I’m already stalking him, counting his steps, watching his every move while I hide in between the maze. I move parallel to him, one row over, the dry corn leaves slapping at my arms and whispering against my ears every time I push through. The corn gets caught up in my hair, dragging as I duck down. I only dyed it a few days ago; the blue is still fresh, no roots showing yet. I even curled it just for today, which is honestly ridiculous. But if this might be my last day on earth, I might as well look nice when the blood hits me, right? If I’m just going to shrivel up in a bathtub later, skin puckered and pale, or in some muddy ditch if things go wrong, I want to at least die with decent hair.
Who knows if anyone will find us? Fuck, what if they don’t, and our bodies just sit here, buried under broken stalks and plastic Halloween decorations, rotting for years while kids run past screaming at fake jump scares. It’s not even our house, not our land, not our anything. That’s part of the thrill. No one will think to dig here. The past ten years have just been one long move from one end of nowhere to the other—town to town, county to county, cheaper rent, shittier wallpaper. The police could never catch up to us, and if they thought they had—even a whisper, even a strange car parked too long across the street—we’d pack our bags and be gone before the kettle finished boiling—new names, new jobs, new neighbors to smile at. And then we’d wait. We’d always find someone else to kill. The older, the better. Old people slip away more easily. Fewer questions, fewer family photos with dates and tags, less noise online. The fewer family one would or could have, the cleaner it felt; we told ourselves that meant we were good, that we were doing the world some kind of favor by picking the lonely ones, the forgotten ones.
But this one isn’t old. He’s young, mid-to-late thirties, full of himself, full of future. I can almost taste it, the sweetness of ruining that. Maybe that’s why my hands are shaking a little more than usual. Maybe that’s why I keep checking the knife in my boot like it’s going to run away on me.
I watch him stop at a fork in the path, scratch the back of his neck, and laugh to himself. He has no idea I’m right behind the wall of corn, close enough to hear his breathing when he gets just the tiniest bit lost. He thinks this is all some cute fall date idea, or whatever, something he can post on his story later with a little pumpkin sticker.
I tighten my grip on the phone, then shove it back into my pocket. Enough about pictures. Enough about my illegal gatherings, as Max likes to call them when he’s drunk and funny. This won’t just be a gathering if Max actually shows. This will be a clean slice, a quiet drag of his body into the broken part of the maze where the ground is already soft from the last event that was on here.
I lick my lips, taste metal even though I haven’t cut anything yet, and step forward, pushing through the rustling corn to follow my VIP.
“Run along, faster,” I whisper, rustling the corn. He practically jumps out of his skin, looking back and forth.
He swore he heard something, but he can’t see me, so he must be going crazy; his mind will be racing just to make him think he’s going insane.
I follow him a little longer, I want him to take the next left, and then I can jump out and start the real fun.
I follow him for five minutes until he looks left to right. Which way shall he go? Either way, he won’t get out; we made sure they were sent a different way. I’d hate to kill someone who is really here for some fun—not that I wouldn’t enjoy it. I crack a smile when he takes the left, and I have to close my hand over my mouth.
I’ve kept away for too long. I want to have fun, so I take my phone out of my pocket again and open the messages app.
Me: I’m ready, are you gonna come have fun with me?
I jump out in front of the guy, timing it perfectly so I’m right in his path. “Boo,” I shout, voice cracking through the air, and fuck me, he jumps. His whole body jerks as if I’ve just fired a gun next to his ear—shoulders up, hands twitching, eyes going wide and stupid.
The sight of it sends a dark little thrill through me. If I could, I would have ripped his skin from his bones, peeled him layer by layer just to watch him realize what was happening—but unfortunately, I’m not sure if that is physically possible, and I’m not in the mood to test anatomy today.
I throw my head back, and a chuckle ripples through the air, low at first and then spilling out louder. It feels good in my chest, sharp and mean, riding the rush of adrenaline buzzing in my veins. “You should see the look on your face,” I tell him, every word dripping with satisfaction.
He takes a step forward, slow and heavy, closing the space between us until we’re an inch apart. I can feel his body heat, hot and uncomfortable, pressing against my skin like a threat. His breath ghosts over my lips, thick with sweat and something bitter, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. His eyes lock onto mine, dark and flat, and there’s this cold, coiled anger sitting in them that makes my gut twist—not with fear, just with the pure urge to hurt him first.
He reaches his arm toward my throat, fingers curling as they come closer, like he’s already picturing his hand wrapped there. My leg tenses, ready to drive my foot straight into his balls and drop him like a sack of shit.
But before I can move, something on the edge of my vision yanks my attention away—Max. I spot him in the distance, cutting across the grass, face set, eyes locked on us. For a split second, he’s just a blur, then he starts running, faster, footsteps thudding against the ground like distant drumbeats getting closer and closer.
He doesn’t slow down. He launches himself at the man, full body weight slamming into him. The impact is brutal. The guy’s balance snaps, and he goes flying forward, arms flailing, before he hits the ground face-first. There’s a sick little smack as his nose meets the dirt, and the sharp smell of crushed grass and earth rushes up around us.
“Geez, Max,” I say, breath still a bit tight in my chest, but my tone is flat, unimpressed. I give him an unapologetic look, like he’s the one who’s overreacting, like I totally wasn’t half a second away from trying to boot this guy into next week.
“What? He was going to strangle you!” I roll my eyes, no shit, am I blind or something?
“Yeah, and I was going to kick his balls, cut them, and eat them for my tea,” I mock in a dark, unwired tone.
“You still can,” he says as if I need his permission.
“I don’t need your permission.” He huffs in frustration, a slight curl to his upper lip.
