The Summer of '87

I was nine when the first child disappeared in the summer of 1984.

By the time I was twelve, seven more had followed.

At the time, I hadn't thought much. Townsfolk skirted around the topic, never really believing they were gone. Somehow, the belief that they might one day just turn up never really left.

Parents would pin black-and-white posters to the noticeboard outside the post office. Search parties would comb the woods and ditches for a few days. Then life would continue. The posters would fall, faded beneath the sun. The search would stop, dwindling every passing day. And the missing children would become nothing more than a story that parents told their kids to keep them from wandering too far from home.

Don't stay out after dark.

Don't go near the cornfields.

Come home when the streetlights turn on.

I heard those warnings so many times that they became part of summer, the same as the buzzing cicadas, the warm rays of sun, or the taste of ice cream on a humid night.

Back then, I never truly understood what had happened.

The cornfields stretched for miles beyond the edge of town, tall enough to swallow a man whole. To me, they were just another place to explore, to ride our bikes by and build forts in, and to dare each other to go deeper than anyone else.

Tommy Parker felt the same way.

Tommy was brave. He’d climb the tallest tree when everyone said he couldn't. He’d jump into the old creek before anyone else. He’d venture into the cornfield, despite every warning against it.

Most of my memories have Tommy somewhere in them.

Three days ago, another child went missing.

I was sitting in my kitchen two hundred miles away when I saw the article online. A twelve-year-old boy, gone without a trace.

Twelve. The same age Tommy had been.

For thirty years, I’ve told myself that there was nothing I could have done. I was just a kid. A frightened, cowardly kid. That anyone else would have done the same thing.

But every summer, when the days grow long and the temperature rises, I find myself back there.

Back in the field.

Back in that evening sun.

This is the first time I’ve ever told the truth about what happened to Tommy Parker.

​

It was the last Friday of summer break.

I remember because my mother had already started buying school supplies. A stack of notebooks labelled ‘Daniel’ sat on the kitchen table, and I glared at them every time I walked past. At that age, summer felt endless, right until the reminder that it wasn’t. That afternoon was hot enough that when I looked at the road, you could see the wiggly lines rising. I was sprawled across the living room floor, reading through a comic, when I heard the familiar squeal of bicycle brakes outside.

A moment later, pebbles were being thrown at my window.

It was Tommy; he never knocked.

When I opened the door, a large grin spread across his face.

“I found something.”

Looking back at it, I should have been more careful. Tommy had a reputation for getting up to no good, which often ended with one of us grounded.

“What is it?” I asked.

Instead of answering, he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pack pocket and held it out.

It was a map. Or at least, Tommy’s version of a map.

Most of it was scribbles and arrows. But I recognised the outline of the cornfields immediately. Near the centre, a loopy circle had been drawn.

I tilted my head. “What's that?”

Tommy turned dramatically, glancing up and down the street before answering.

“I found where they go,” he whispered.

I laughed; he was always one for theatrics. “The missing kids?”

He nodded, but the grin had disappeared. For the first time, I realised he was serious.

“You don't know that,” I bit.

“Do too.”

“How?”

He hesitated before reaching into his backpack, pulling out a faded baseball cap.

I recognised it instantly.

Everyone in town would have.

The cap was seen in the most recent posters spread on boards through town. Belonging to no other than Michael Turner, the last child to go missing.

“Where did you get that?” I questioned, staring at the dangling hat.

Tommy shrugged. “In the field.”

Even now, all these years later, I can remember the feeling of my stomach tightening. The sudden certainty that this wasn’t another one of Tommy’s dumb adventures. This wasn’t a hidden creek or an abandoned barn. This wasn’t a silly little joke anymore.

“Maybe someone dropped it.” I tried to reason.

But Tommy shook his head. “Nope.” He popped the ‘p’. “It was tied to a stalk.”

“Tied?”

He nodded again.

For a short moment, neither of us spoke. Around us, the buzzing sound of insects persisted. Lawnmowers hummed in distant gardens. Across the road, a rowdy dog barked.

I wish I had appreciated how normal things were.

Because before sunset, Tommy and I would be standing in the middle of the field, and I’d hear something that would follow me for the next thirty years.

Tommy folded the map back up, shoving it into his pocket.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my wrist.

I should have said no. Should have gone back inside, told my parents, done something.

Instead, I grabbed my bike.

At the time, the idea of uncovering a mystery felt bigger than anything else.

Tommy smiled, and we rode towards the cornfields.

​

The fields began where the town ended.

One moment, we were pedalling past neat rows of houses and trimmed gardens. Next, the road narrowed, and the corn took over.

Even now, I can picture it. The endless walls of green and gold, stretching towards the horizon. By then, the stalks were nearly eight feet tall. They swayed in the afternoon breeze, rustling against one another like whispered conversations.

Tommy rode ahead of me. Every so often, he’d glance over his shoulder to make sure I was still following. For the ride, neither of us really spoke. I think deep down, we were both nervous, though neither of us would admit it.

After ten minutes, Tommy slowed and pointed.

“There.”

I squinted, looking at what he saw. A small gap had been cut into the corn. It wasn't a proper path, but rather an opening just wide enough for someone to squeeze through.

I remember feeling a bit disappointed. After all, part of me had expected something dramatic. Maybe a bunker, or some sort of mysterious sign.

Instead, it was just corn. Like, a lot of corn.

Tommy dropped his bike into the ditch beside the road.

“Ready?” he asked.

I scrunched my face up. “No.”

He laughed. “Good enough!”

I watched as he disappeared through the opening. I stood there for another few seconds. Behind me, the road was empty. The town was set somewhere in the distance, hidden beyond a line of trees.

I could still leave.

That thought crossed my mind.

I remember because it would later cross my mind again.

I really should have listened.

Instead, I followed Tommy into the field.

Upon entry, the temperature seemed to immediately change. The air felt cooler, and the sounds of the road soon vanished. There were no passing cars. No barking dogs. Not even the sounds of chirping birds. Just the sound of dry rustling corn stalks brushing together. Tommy was twenty feet ahead of me, following a narrow trail between the rows.

“See!” he called back. “Someone’s been in here.”

He wasn’t wrong. The path was definitely real, and not something made by animals either. The dirt and stalks had been flattened by countless footsteps.

I tried not to think about who those footsteps belonged to.

The deeper we went, the stranger the field felt. It was like a maze; every direction looked the same. It was walks of corn and endless dirt, accompanied by golden sunlight filtering through the leaves.

If Tommy hadn't been leading, I’d have been hopelessly lost within minutes.

“How far is it?” I asked.

“Not much further.” He promised.

But ten minutes later, we were still walking. The sun hung low in the sky. Long shadows stretched between the stalks. I was about to suggest turning back when I heard it.

Laughter.

Somewhere in the distance was a child laughing.

I stopped walking. Tommy did too. He turned towards me.

“You hear that?”

Wordlessly, I nodded.

The sound came again. It was brief, gone before I could place a direction.

Then Tommy started forward again.

“Maybe it’s the other kids.”

But he didn’t sound convinced. I wasn’t either.

No other kids would have been out here. None with any sense, at least.

With not much else to do, we continued walking. But barely a couple of minutes later, Tommy froze.

“What?” I questioned.

He didn't answer. Instead, he pointed at the ground. There lay something half-buried in the dirt. I bent down. It was a small trainer. A child's small trainer.

It was slightly weathered by rain and sun. And to my relief, there was no foot inside. Just an empty shoe sitting among the roots.

Despite his nature, Tommy didn’t make any sort of joke.

We stayed silent, staring at it for what must have been a while. Then, from somewhere ahead of us, a voice called out.

“Daniel.”

Every hair on my arms stood up. The voice was slightly muffled, like someone trying to get my attention from a different room.

Tommy looked at me with wide eyes. “You heard that, right?”

I gulped, nodding. My eyes felt hot as water began to collect.

The voice had sounded familiar. Terrifyingly familiar.

For years to follow, I convinced myself it was a figment of my imagination. But deep down, I knew better. Because that voice belonged to Michael Turner.

The last missing boy.

Tommy took a step forward. “Michael?” he called out.

The corn remained still. No answer came.

Then, once again, I heard that same voice.

“Daniel.”

It was closer this time. It drifted between the stalks, impossible to place.

Every instinct told me to run. To leave and never return. I should’ve been home. I should’ve been with my parents. I should’ve been anywhere but there.

But Tommy, devoid of any common sense, it seemed, kept moving. And I followed, afraid to be alone.

The path narrowed until the corn brushed against our shoulders. The sunlight had faded to a dull orange glow. Shadows stretched across the dirt like dark fingers reaching it.

Finally, we stepped into a clearing.

To this day, I can still see it.

Standing around the clearing were children. At least a dozen of them. Some looked no older than five or six. Others were teenagers. None of them spoke. None of them moved. For a short moment, I thought they were strangers. That was until I recognised a face from a faded photograph. Then another. And another.

Almost every one of them had once been pinned to the noticeboard outside the post office. My mouth went dry. My hands began to shake. Behind me, Tommy whispered, but the ringing in my ears was too loud for the words to register.

I was staring at Michael Turner. He stood only a few feet away. He was exactly as he appeared in his photo. The same clothes, only missing the baseball cap.

My eyes met his, and something crossed his face.

I don't think I'll ever forget that moment.

“You need to leave,” he said.

The corn behind us rustled. But it wasn’t the wind. I heard it before I could see, stalks bending and snapping. A path opened through the corn as something forced its way into the clearing.

Tommy grabbed my arm.

“Run.”

We sprinted into the stalks. The clearing vanished behind us. Corn whipped against my face, and dirt flew beneath my shoes. I heaved and panted, my chest tight. Behind us came the sounds of stalks breaking.

Closer. And closer.

I never looked back.

Some part of me, deep down, knew that if I did, I’d never escape that moment.

Then Tommy fell. He hit the ground. Hard.

I stopped. Just for a second, long enough to turn around. He was sprawled in the dirt ten feet behind, one of his legs had become tangled in a root. He reached towards me.

“Daniel,” he begged.

I can still see his face. The fear in his eyes. The certainty that I would help. Because that’s what friends should do. And for a small moment, I almost did. But then I heard the crashing behind him; it was so close, too close. I saw the corn folding inwards, and something was moving through.

It wasn’t my fault. I was only twelve.

I was so scared.

I ran.

His voice echoed through the field, following me. Haunting me.

Then, it stopped.

I burst out onto the road just as the sun disappeared below the horizon.

I don't remember the ride home. I don’t remember what I told my parents. All I remember is that Tommy Parker vanished that evening.

For weeks, the police searched. The town searched longer. His face joined the noticeboard, yet no trace was found.

And I never told anyone.

It wasn't because I thought no one would believe me. I knew they would. I kept quiet because I knew saying it out loud would mean admitting what I’d done. He needed me, and I ran.

​

Three days ago, another child disappeared.

This morning, I drove back to town. The missing poster is hanging in the same place Tommy’s once was.

The cornfields still stretch beyond the road.

The sun is beginning to set now. In a few minutes, I’ll walk back into that field. I’m not sure what I’ll find. But for the first time, I know I won't run.