Buster

Alfred Stephensen was an Iowa corn farmer, born and bred. His farm, the Stephensen farm, had been in the family since Olaf Stephensen came from Norway and bought the small tract of land for a steal. It was a fairly small farm, all things considered. It was 200 acres of corn. The month was November, and the harvesting season had come and gone. The cornfield had turned to the dull gold color that came in the death of the crop. Connie, his wife of 45 years, had passed away in July. When harvest had crept around the corner, Al couldn't get himself off the porch and out of the booze.

His dog, Buster, lay dozing next to him. Alfred twirled a small glass tumbler of whiskey in his old, gnarled hand. The whiskey burned as it marred a path into his gullet. The antique Boston rocker beneath him creaked and groaned with movement. Not because of Al's weight, it was more to do with the age of the thing. Al's father had sat in the same chair during the hot afternoons of the growing season and the cold nights of the harvest season.

The tumbler trailed it's way back up to his tired mouth. His sun-blasted face stretched in a grimace as the whiskey left its mark in his throat again. His right hand idly dropped down from the armrest to scratch the head of his faithful companion, Buster. Alfred's late wife, Connie, had always called him 'Bustah' in the strong New England Yankee accent she had developed in her youth.

Even though it sent a pang of grief thrumming through his body, he still couldn't bring himself to stop using the pronunciation. Buster was an aging Labrador retriever. His coat was a rich, creamy color that darkened in the tail and ears. His brown eyes were kind and harbored nothing but love and the simple joy only dogs can feel. Alfred's old gnarled hands idly scratched at Buster's head, which was leaning into his hand.

"Well, Bustah," Alfred said, bringing the tumbler in his left hand up to his mouth in between words "What are you wanting for dinner, old buddy?" He looked down from the sprawling sea of tall, dead corn stalks that oscillated in the crisp November evening.

Buster lifted his head and licked his master's hand. The dog rose and slowly walked over to the screen door that blocked the entrance to the house. Alfred rose with his companion and pulled the lightweight screen door open. Buster trotted into the house, veering off from the opening hallway into the dining room. Alfred almost followed, but he stopped momentarily.

He turned. He looked back out into the swaying field. The wind danced through the stalks of corn, making them sway and swing. It sometimes looked like the corn was breathing. When he was a young man in his twenties, looking into the field gave him a sense of accomplishment. Now, in his old age, he felt a deeply rooted discomfort. Whether it was the ignored harvest, his grief, or simply his own sort of madness, Al didn’t know. He broke his gaze and walked into the house.

The house itself was a large two-story farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. Connie and him had painted it a fresh coat of white with blue trim shortly after they had married. The white had begun to chip away, showing small patches of faded brown wood of the outer paneling. The house was planted at the northern end of the Stephenson cornfields.

After a moment rummaging inside, Alfred returned to the porch with the bottle of amber liquid. He set the bottle next to the small glass, both of which were sitting next to his Boston rocker. He turned back to close the door. When he did, he saw the spot. It brought a bowel shaking earthquake of grief, and a pang of sadness so intense it felt like a lead weight in his chest. His thoughts were swept away in a momentary tide of reminiscence. It had only been a few months ago.

It was a hot July morning, Connie and him had gotten up early. They had gone into a routine that was executed with practiced ease. Connie wore a plain salmon colored sun-dress, while Alfred had worn his typical blue overalls with a white undershirt. They both had gone out to harvest some of the corn, as the silk had begun to brown.

Connie had gone to take a basket of corn into the house, but she only made it to the doorway when the abdominal aortic aneurysm had come to ahead. She collapsed, and the aneurysm ruptured. She was dead in minutes. Alfred didn't discover her limp, doll-like visage for another twenty. The obscene vision of Connie's rag-doll pose haunted Alfred ever since.

Alfred sat back in his Boston rocker and poured himself another glass of whiskey. The light of the setting sun broke through the thick clouds that lined the horizon and splayed itself across the sky. The color was a brilliant orange-red. It was like the evening sky had been set ablaze by an almighty force. He thought that it was a truly beautiful sight. Connie would have loved this, he thought as he leaned into the rocker. The thought brought a grimace across his weathered face. Alfred began to doze in his chair, part of it was the whiskey, another was the rocking, and the last was his old age. They all caught up to him in an instant and sleep took him then and there.

Waking up is never as pleasant as falling asleep. Alfred awoke from his accidental nap with confusion. There was a bright light obscuring his vision. Did I sleep through the night? Alfred hadn't. It had only been a few hours. He stood, startled out of his chair by a loud noise. The whiskey glass had shattered on the wooden porch. Buster was gone. The motion detector porch lights were on and glaring down into the cornfield. Alfred stumbled forward to the edge of the porch and a wave of shivers crept through his body, starting at the mid back and radiating outwards.

Buster was standing at the edge of the gravel driveway. His paws were spread, and his hackles had fully risen. A low, rumbling growl reverberated out of the friendly old dog and his jowls were split in a vicious snarl. He barked a few times.

"Bustah," Alfred said, his voice brimming with shock and confusion. Buster didn't move an inch. "Bustah, what in god's name has gotten into you?"

Alfred tried stepping down off of the porch but with each step, the shivers doubled down. They thrummed through his body so hard his knees begin to tremble and his eyes began to water. He stared into the cornfield, a new sense of pure and utter horror gripping him and squeezing his thudding heart. He didn't notice the entire field was standing as still as a nutcracker. The tension was so thick and present that it practically vibrated through the air.

Then, the corn patch erupted in tiny movements. Each stock seemed to quiver in spot, causing a rattling sound to sweep through the farm. Buster lost it, barking and jumping at the stalks, but never going in. Alfred didn’t scream so much as he cried out in pure terror. He ran like the devil was at his feet, gravel spitting out behind each long, yet clumsy stride. He was shortly followed up by Buster, who was much more graceful in his old age. They made it to the house in a matter of seconds and Alfred double-locked the door for the first time in a long time. He usually didn't need to worry about closing the door at night, let alone locking it.

He leaned against the closed door, panting and going over what had just happened in his head. He desperately groped for an explanation, a reason, anything logical. Nothing answered his desperate inward search.

He made his way upstairs, to the end of the hallway, and into his bed. He didn't bother getting under the thin cotton blanket, he didn't think he would sleep more than he had on the porch. He got up a few hours later to close the shades on his windows. He stopped to look out over the cornfield. He stood at the window a while, scanning what he could in the moonlit field. Nothing.

"It must have been kids," Alfred said, almost as if the words would have made it a reality. He had been egged before. Hell, he and Connie had been egged and tee-peed a few times in the long years they had lived on the farm. In his head, he was playing the incident on the porch over and over. Pouring over every little detail that he could remember. But each time, it got a little muddier rather than clearer.

He had slept for only a few hours when columns of pale morning light broke through the cracks in the shades. One of them lanced across the old, wooden framed bed and Alfred's sun-beaten face. He slowly rolled awake, grunting and groaning. He slowly stood up, all benefits of rest drained by age-induced pain.

He stretched, popped his back and neck, and bent over to touch his feet. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stumbled forward away from his bed. He idly stood at the dresser, his sleep-addled brain trying to discern how in the hell he already had clothes on. You slept in them, you old cook. The thought acted as the final push, his memory hitting a full jog. It all caught up to him, and as it did, he slowly stripped off the pair of blue denim overalls.

Eventually, he changed into a pair of faded sky blue denim jeans, a leather belt, and a white undershirt. As he walked out of his room, he pocketed a small key ring on his dresser.

"Bustah!" He elected to bypass the toothbrush this morning. He had more pressing matters. "Bustah, where are you, buddy?"

As he walked down the stairs, he could hear the distinctive click-clacking of Buster's nails on the hardwood floor. He walked around the base of the staircase. There was a small door with a plaque. It read 'hunting closet' and Alfred chuckled. He tried the handle, but it was locked, just like he knew it would be. He pulled a small keyring out of the back pocket of his jeans.

The door was harder to pull open than Alfred remembered, fighting him on every inch of ground. But eventually, it swung out and Alfred was greeted by a sight that gave him the same sort of comfort it had always given him. His and his father's collection of fishing poles, compound bows, and a smattering of hunting rifles.

Alfred fished around the back and pulled out an old double-barrel shotgun. He had bought it shortly after his marriage. He checked the barrels, they were loaded. He pocketed a few extra shells from a small cardboard box on a wooden shelf that’d been hand installed into the 'hunting closet'.

"Okay, Bustah. We're going out into that cornfield today," Alfred said, a tone of defiance ringing in his words. He wondered if it's a futile gesture, but headed towards the front door anyways. It's not like the kids from last night would still be in there, he thought. If they are, I’m going to put the proper fear of God in them.

The breeze was cool and crisp when Alfred walked out of the front door, the corn stalks were slowly swaying. Buster was padding along at Alfred's heels as he walked down and off of the porch. Alfred got the same strange sensation of fear and despair while he gazed into his crop.

Then, with no hesitation, no trepidation, just blind determination, Alfred waded headlong into the stalks of corn with Buster close at his heels.

When Alfred was a young man, growing up on the very same farm he lived on now, he had been afraid of going into the cornfield alone. Whether day or night, it didn't matter to him, he was always scared. He never told his parents why he didn't want to, and hell he didn't really remember why he didn't want to in the first place.

He remembered the intensity of the fear, like a true phobia. His body would seize up and his hands would fly to his chest, clutched in little claws. He would cry out and furiously fight against their protests. It got better as he got older, and by the time he was in his early teens, he was out helping the harvest.

Now, as Alfred waded through his massive cornfield with Buster at his heel, looking for god knows who or what, the memories started to surface. He briefly remembered how scared something like this would have made him as a child. It brought a distant smile to his weathered lips but his eyes were searching, scanning. He was still pushing forward into the cornfield.

There's a thought that popped into his mind as a soapy bubble pops out of the water to float for a few seconds and then burst. He was thinking, no, convincing himself that it must have all been nothing. He and Buster had been walking through the field for a good twenty minutes already, and if they didn't want to get lost, they had better cut their losses and head back to the house. They hadn't found a single trace of another living being out here.

That's when the thought bubble burst. Alfred heard the unmistakable sound of a body pushing its way through corn stalks, and the snapping of dry husks underfoot. His heart dropped into his stomach, which was simultaneously knotting into a tight ball. Alfred's hands began shaking. Buster, however, had gone completely stiff. His ears were up, hackles raised, and jowls pulled back in a vicious look that Alfred didn't know Buster was capable of. Buster's growl began, low and menacing at first. Alfred pointed his shotgun in the direction that Buster was pointing with his body.

"I'm warning you!" Alfred took a tentative step forward through the wall of corn stalks that Buster pointed into. "You'd better show yourself, with your hands nice and high where I can see 'em," He said, even though he couldn't really see anybody. "I don't know what the hell you're doing in my cornfield, but-" There was another snapping of a dead husk underfoot somewhere behind him.

Alfred wheeled around. He took a step back. His trembling hands were covered in small beads of sweat that occasionally dripped off. Buster was still growling in the direction Alfred was originally going in, but Alfred didn't notice. He lowered his shotgun slightly and turned to look at his aging dog. "Okay, Bustah," He said, kneeling by his dog and trying to speak soothingly. "It's okay buddy, we're going to go back to the house."

He tried to pet Buster, but the second his hand made contact, Buster lost it. Buster's contracted, taught muscles released as he lunged forward, plunging into the sea of golden stalks. Alfred jumped, but quickly gained some composure and ran after his dog, the fear that had gripped him slipping away.

Alfred only made it a few feet, before his foot caught on what might have been a downed corn stalk, a root, or possibly even his own shoelace. The world keeled over sideways as he fell headlong into the packed soil. The world went black.

When he woke up, the first thing he heard was the crickets. He looked up, then around. Concussion induced haziness fogged his immediate memory. He slowly worked up onto all fours and a few coughs escape him, sounding far more ragged then he would have expected. He stumbled as he slowly stood up, stretching his back. He found his balance once more. First, after his body was adjusted, the mind followed. He stiffened, his whole body becoming rigid with tension and fear. First, he needed to find Buster. Then he needed to get the hell out of this cornfield. Before take-off, Alfred dropped to all fours again and blindly patted around the husk laden floor for his shotgun. Once he found it, he gripped it firmly in his tired hands.

"Bustah!" Alfred was tottering through the corn stalks, shouting his dog's name. "Bustah, where are you!"

The stalks blurred past him as he moved through the field, his every fiber thrumming with fear. He stopped for a moment and the quietness of the field impressed itself upon him. Where did all the crickets go? He thought as he looked around the field, hoping to catch some glimpse of movement. His head scanned his surroundings, looking left and right like an oscillating fan. As he did, a new sound slowly rises around Alfred, quickly filling the silence that lay heavy over the cornfield.

The noise was loud and soft all at the same time. It was a cacophony of quiet voices, incomprehensible yet distinct amongst the rasp of wind on dead husk and stalk. They swirled around him, an immutable chamber of sound and insanity. He felt as if the cornfield was pressing in around him, confining him to itself.

He let out a cry, a primal release of fear and tension as he continued to twirl around, looking and pointing his shotgun. Finally, he could not take it anymore. He lifted the shotgun, the butt slapped back against his shoulder as he aimed. Bang! He let a shell loose into the field. The moment the buckshot flew from the barrel, the whispering stopped. The sudden lack of noise was more unsettling than the whispering had been. Alfred broke off in a dead totter, going as fast as his old legs would take him.

As corn passed, and he moved towards the direction he had shot, his heart seemed to be sinking further and further into his stomach. He had a horrible feeling that somehow this had all gone wrong. As wrong as whispering in a dark, dead cornfield could go. He had started to, honest to god, run.

He was running for the first time in what felt like years but was only a few months. He had run to Connie. His knees were screaming, but so was his mind. He thought that he could push it. A few minutes of labored, painful running and Alfred had burst into a small clearing. When he did, his heart finished dropping into his stomach, and his stomach engulfed it like a ravine where it just kept sinking deeper, and deeper. There, lying in the center of the clearing, was Buster.

When Alfred had shot the buckshot, Buster had been wandering around the cornfield, desperately trying to reconvene with his lifetime pal. Call it fate, dumb luck, or the cruel nature of reality that Alfred's desperate bid had ended in him driving the wedge of isolation that had been jammed into his life when Connie had died so deep that it threatened to destroy him. He stumbled over, lips and fingers numb, just like when he found Connie.

He slid his arms around Buster and picked him up, cradling the body against his heaving chest. At that moment, his old age flooded from him and his legs did not squeal in protest. He lurched forward, back into the corn.

Alfred stumbled, not even bothering to watch the ground, and made an even pace through the dried cornfield. He made his way in a direction that he somehow, in the back of his mind, knew was the direction to the house. He kept walking, the even soft thumping of his boots on the dirt and the rasping of parting stalks filled his world.

His watery eyes continued to gaze blindly, unblinking and unbelieving, into the cornfield. Silent tears ran down his face, making small rivers in the dirt that had dried on his face.

To him, Buster was the last of his everything. Although, if anyone had asked him what was most important to him, he would answer that his farm was. In truth, both before and after her death, it was Connie and the simple life they had so lovingly shared. Her sweet, simple smile. Her kind voice, and her even kinder eyes. And her thick tumbles of blond hair that she somehow kept almost perfect in her older age. When she had collapsed on that fateful summer afternoon, his life was restricted, reduced. He had Buster and the farm. Buster was a godsend, Alfred now realized. Buster had kept him sane, almost rooting him to reality. Fresh tears ran in the wrinkles that lined his old face like small rivers.

The moon hung high in the ink-black of the night as Alfred had emerged from the dead cornfield, tenderly cradling Buster in his arms. An off-putting calm had settled over him. A small part of his brain, the part that had cried out in grief and rage when he found Buster, still tried to yell out into the night.

Another, the bigger part had taken over. His eyes were calm. They stared ahead, unblinking and completely unperturbed. Despite the whispering, the grief, the paranoia, and most importantly, death. Al felt odd. Like he wasn't him anymore like it wasn't him walking out of the cornfield and towards the house. Like it was not him tenderly setting Buster down on the porch. He tried to call out Buster's name, but nothing came out. Radio silence. He felt like he was driving a car and some stranger had thrown him in the back and wouldn't let him back up to drive.

Everything was numb, yet he was walking in a smooth and confident stride. That was something he hadn't done in many years, nor something he thought that he could do if he had tried. He tried hard to fight it, to regain control, but he was powerless. All he could do was watch.

Horrible comprehension dawned on him when his body walked into the garage and picked up the spare gas can. He mentally kicked, fought with all of his might, and he finally accomplished something. "Mm-m-n-n-no," He cried out in a weak, hoarse tone. For the briefest of moments, he clenched his right fist, the knuckles going a pale white. He grits his teeth and clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. He took a shaky step back, but as quickly as it had come back into him, the control fled. It left in a rush of releasing energy, and his taut muscles went limp. His back straightened. His mind fogged, and he was forced into the backseat again.

He reached the gas can, but this time he could do nothing but watch in dawning horror. He fought the sense of pure disconnect that stood between him and his own body. Again, his fist clenches. This time it clenched so hard that his nails drove into the flesh of his palm and small driblets of blood trailed down his outstretched arm.

With a great popping sensation and a wave of relief, he was free once again. He felt a terrible, screaming pain in his head where the big part that had taken over was. Whatever was or had been there, it sure as hell did not belong to Al. He grabbed the can of gas that his body had reached for before. He opened the mechanical garage door. He tottered, his old bones and joints aching again.

If he knew how long this freedom would last him, he would have tottered faster. He got to the cornfield and clumsily worked the long yellow cap off of it. He poured a trail into the stalks a couple of feet and then started tossing it all over the stalks around him. He dropped the can in the central puddle of gasoline and worked his way back to the house.

He was moving a bit faster. His knees hadn't hurt as bad and a new sense of purpose had filled him. At least, that's what he had thought it was. He strode into the house, the same confident stride from earlier. He got the matches for the gas stove from the kitchen and strode back out to the field.

He lit a match. He held it over the small patch of gasoline that peaked out of the field. It wavered in his hand, as his control did. But with one last great push of effort, he dropped the match. The gasoline ignited with a bright, hot fury. It leaped forward, surging into the cornfield. A gout of flame shot into the air when the thin trail of flame reached the central puddle. The flames climbed high into the night and quickly expanded into the surrounding dried corn.

Alfred could feel the heat on his face, but only slightly. It was like a faint whisper, the memory of a long lost campfire. Al felt like he was far away, the big part of his brain that had been there before loomed in him once again. His eyes were no longer full of terror. They were the blank, fully glazed eyes of a man who is gone inside. Gone far far away, perhaps in a pleasant memory. He was only dimly aware of his body rising, walking over to Buster and bending over to pick him up. The Stephensen property had burned to a crisp, house, barn, and all. They never found the bodies of Buster or Alfred Stephensen.