Buddy was a good dog. A smart dog, too, when he wanted to be. He never tried to snap at the chickens in the henhouse. Not even the baby chicks-- even though they reminded him of his favorite yellow rubber ball. You know, the one with that big old hole in it from when Tucker dared me to shoot it with Pa’s shotgun on a dare.

Buddy was a good dog. And then we lost him.

We never figured out how. Pa was on the tractor by that time, and when he was out far enough, he wouldn’t notice if the house was burning down with us still in it. Mama worked at the gas station on Tuesdays. Tucker swore up and down by Grandma Louise’s stone-cold grave that he didn’t leave the door open.

And no one thought it was me. I’m not forgetful like that.

Anyways, Tucker was so put out about Buddy that it even caught us by surprise. He loved that dog-- Lord knows why-- and he was a good kid, so we put up posters on all the telephone poles.

Didn’t do anything, though. But no one thought it would, on account of the testimony of Missus Montgomery from church. (If you don't know her, she's that old lady who always wears that big ugly purple hat.) During the lady's Bible study, she told everyone that she was there the day Buddy went missing. And not only that.

She reckoned she saw him go into The Corn.

And when anything goes into The Corn, everyone in our town knows it ain’t gonna come out again.

Mama said Missus Montgomery is always flapping her lips about things she doesn’t understand. But I saw the way Mama held my arm a little tighter whenever we went past those endless fields of rusted yellow Corn. I knew she didn’t like the way The Corn blew. I knew she didn’t like how the wind whistling through it howled like a wolf caught in a trap. I knew she didn’t like how those stalks swaying in the breeze almost looked like the Devil shaking his head.

I knew she didn’t like it. Because neither did I. And neither did anyone else around here if they knew what was good for them.

Now, our town loved Buddy alright, but no one wanted to go into The Corn. So the world went back to normal. Pa got another dog to look after the farm-- a big old collie I called Biscuit. Mama kept the house running. And Tucker took to playing with the ladybugs instead.

But sometimes, I caught him staring at the window-- staring, even though nothing was there. And whenever a stick snapped or a leaf crunched, I saw how his eyes lit up like Christmas-- and how his face fell when he realized Buddy wasn't back.

A piece of Tucker’s heart was gone now: gone with Buddy, off into the unforgiving void of The Corn. But he wasn’t the only one.

Every day when I got home from my schooling, I would open the door and drop my pack on the floor. And every day, I would stand there for a second. Waiting. Hoping. Expecting Buddy to jump on me and lick my face till it was damper than a frog from Fuller’s Creek like he always did.

And every day, I was disappointed.

Until I wasn’t.

It was exactly six weeks after Buddy went out the door and never came back-- six weeks to the day. After a long day of work, Pa pulled the tractor over and tried to get it to stop. It takes a couple of tries, see, because you gotta pull the lever real hard for the engine to quit.

So anyway, there was Pa, trying to shut off the tractor. It was taking longer than usual. He was beginning to wonder whether he needed to take it out to the garage and fix it up. Pa was so put out, he turned to face The Corn.

You might be wondering “Why would he ever do something stupid as that?” Well, I tell you truly, I don’t know. But I’d reckon it’s because our family had hit hard times for months.

We were going through a drought, for one thing. Water troubles for miles on end. The crops weren’t growing and the chickens were hard-pressed to lay a single egg. And Mama’s gas station gig just wasn’t enough to keep our house running.

So he turned to face The Corn-- The Corn that he toiled in every day, The Corn that he depended on to survive, The Corn he hated and loved and feared all at once-- and raised his hands to the sky.

“Fix me this tractor,” he said. “And I’ll let you alone.”

The corn rustles a little bit. Like it’s thinking.

And just that second, the tractor shut off, easy as can be.

The world went silent. Pa didn’t hear anything-- not even the sound of his own breathing. His skin went clammy and his hands began to shake.

Before he could even think, he felt the burning cold of something’s eyes going up his back.

Now, Pa always carried a shotgun when he was out on the fields. So at this moment he stood up straighter and stiffer than a floorboard, tightened his grip, and prayed to any god that would listen.

He turned around, expecting to see some kind of moose or bear or something. And what do you expect he saw?

Buddy. Standing stock-still, staring at him with eyes a bit too ancient for such a little dog.

When Buddy walked through that door, I’d never seen Tucker happier-- not even last Easter when he found the chocolate bunny behind Mister Dawson’s cornflowers. “Buddy’s back!” he kept saying. “Buddy’s back!” Yes sir, Tucker grinned and laughed like Christmas morning.

Not Buddy, though. Buddy didn’t even bark.

I never would’ve dared tell Tucker. But deep down, I wondered if he was really the same dog. Outside, he looked the same. Same size, same fur, same nose and ears.

But there was something different about those eyes. They didn’t shine anymore when he got a treat. They didn’t look wide and afraid when he heard gunshots across the street.

They wouldn’t do anything at all, really. Barely even blinked. All they did was stare. And even then, Buddy stared like he saw things no one else could. No, no-- like he saw things no one else should.

He was different. And we all knew it-- well, everyone else but Tucker. But Mama, Pa, and I had made a silent pact to never raise the slightest breath of suspicion. Tucker had finally gotten his dog back, and it would’ve crushed his soul into a million pieces if he knew we thought there was something wrong with him.

Now I regret that silent pact more than anything. Now I curse myself for not having the heart to warn him. But this isn’t about now. This is about then.

One day, after a long time at school, I swung open the gate to our front yard. It creaked like a woman’s shrieking of pain-- like an omen. My eyes sweeped across the grass, expecting to see Tucker drawing stuff in the dirt like always.

But somehow, he wasn’t there.

“Tucker?” I yelled. “Tucker? Where are you?”

There was no response.

Mama walked back over from the stables, wiping her hands on her apron. “What are you calling him for? He’s right over there, ain’t he?”

I shook my head. “No, he’s not. Look.”

She did. The space where he always sat felt like a hole in the universe without him.

Mama, she got that look in her eyes-- the same look as when she passed The Corn. “Where’s Buddy?” she said, voice dangerously tight.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. My throat was blocked with a mass of terrible possibilities.

“I said,” she repeated, “where’s Buddy?”

I finally managed to force out a few words. “I-- I don’t--”

And then she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me inside.

The house was quiet-- too quiet. Every floorboard creaked. Every hinge groaned. I’m as tough as anyone, but I found myself hiding behind Mama like hiding behind a mountain in a storm.

“Mama?” I murmured. “I think we should call Pa. Maybe he--”

She stopped.

“Mama?”

With a cold, shaking hand, she reached out to me-- like she was checking to see if I was still there. “Tucker,” was all she could whisper. “Tucker.”

I peeked out behind her. And what I saw next was something I’ve never been able to purge from my mind since.

Lying on the floor was Tucker-- or what was left of him, anyways. I can’t figure how to describe it now. I could see chunks of bloody meat and fragments of pink bone. I could see what looked like moldy spaghetti.

But what I remember the most is his head. I remembered how it was bathed in blood. I remembered how it was preserved-- almost neatly, carefully, like it had been saved for last.

And I remember how Buddy looked, chewing off Tucker’s ear.

“Mama?” I muttered. “Get the gun.”

She still stood, wide-eyed, mouth ajar in a perpetual wail. “My baby. My little boy…”

I realized then and there that she wasn’t gonna move. I had to do the job myself. So without a peep, I swiped Pa’s spare shotgun from over the fridge, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

A blast screamed out-- a blast so loud, for a second I wondered if it had shattered the world. By the time I opened my eyes, Buddy was gone.

Not dead. Just gone.

And what was no longer Tucker still lay on the floor, attracting flies.

It took a while to clean up all that blood all by myself. But I did the job, all right. I scraped the body off the floor and buried it in the hole Tucker and I had been digging to China.

It looked like the two of us would never get to China now.

Mama didn’t talk from then on. She stayed inside, mostly, and cleaned up Tucker’s room. I didn’t have the heart to stop her-- even as the years flew by.

I found her dead in that room last week, Lord rest her soul. Old age. Or maybe decades-old heartbreak. But she’s with Tucker now.

As for Pa, he never came back from the fields that day. Maybe he’s still there-- wandering through the stalks, wondering when it’s time for dinner.

Now, I’m old and gnarled like ancient wood, and I know you kids won’t listen to nothing I have to say. No one listens to their elders. They never have. But as sure as hell, that ain’t gonna stop me from telling the truth.

Something lives in The Corn. Everyone knows it but no one will admit it. And I’m telling you right here, right now-- don’t bargain with The Corn. Don’t try to talk to The Corn. And whenever you walk past The Corn, hold your kid a little tighter and make sure to pray.

Before The Corn got involved, everyone was happy. Before The Corn got involved, my life was perfect. And before The Corn got involved, Buddy was a good dog.