Jester’s Maze

By Lincoln Reed

The scarecrow’s eyes glowed at twilight. Two slits blazed orange as the October sun dipped below a horizon of corn, ten feet tall.

Jester was strapped to a wooden cross. Dressed in a tattered flannel shirt and faded jeans. Straw for tendons and muscles. No heart or organs, much less a brain. But his gaze—it was alive.

His grain sack face twisted, and his stitched mouth tore.

My heart jumped into my throat. Hairs bristled. His glowing eyes met mine. The taste of metal crept into the back of my throat.

Can’t be.

I had entered the corn maze hours ago. The clock on my cell phone proved it. Now, the battery was dying. There was no reception. The thick walls of each narrow pathway stretched taller than I could reach—rigid stalks like dry bones, leaves of brown and yellow crinkled in the wind.

I fled left and tried for the tenth time to locate an exit, studying the winding turns and retracing any missteps. But whenever I reached a dead end and backtracked to the center of the maze, Jester’s eyes sparked, and the maze changed. Pathways, once familiar, curved in altered directions, replaced by diverse trails of parched dirt.

How many times had I traveled these dissimilar aisles to find myself blocked by a wall of endless corn? Dozens.

Yet here I was again. I dreaded going back, but what choice did I have? When I stepped into the center once more, the maze reset.

Thirty yards away, Jester loomed above, silently observing. As fading sunlight turned to gray, his head pivoted for the first time. Shedding straw, Jester plucked his arms and legs free of their bindings. Crouching atop the cross like a spider, his luminescent eyes darted toward me.

“We all grow here.” A whisper. Inside my head? Had I imagined it?

I dug out my phone, hoping for a signal bar. Again, the gruff voice spoke. Dry like twigs during drought, each syllable snapped as the scarecrow said, “All of us.”

Gooseflesh rippled down my arms. I watched, helpless, with rigid limbs and feet weighted like bricks as the scarecrow crawled down the pole and into the cornstalks.

My ears strained as wind rustled dead leaves. Crickets chirped. He can’t be…

Jester’s voice returned, grating like tractor wheels churning gravel, murmuring beneath the folds of my subconscious mind. “We all grow here.”

I cupped hands around my chapped lips and screamed until I was hoarse. Only a crow cawed a response and flew away. No one was coming to help.

It’s just me... and Jester.

Fighting against the heaviness rooting my legs in place, I sprinted into the sea of corn. Turned left and right, left again and again until Jester appeared, lingering in the center of my path, looming over eight feet tall. His feed sack hands spread open, fingers like talons. The scarecrow’s orange eyes shone like beacons. When his mouth spread, there were no teeth. Only darkness.

I spun and tripped. Cursed. Pumped arms and ran back the way I had come.

The labyrinth changed once more, presenting only a single route heading west… or was it east? The trail behind me was now gone, replaced by a blockade of corn. There was no choice but to return to the alley where Jester awaited.

I hesitated. He closed the distance. While the harvest moon hid behind the clouds, I picked up a stone and threw it at his face. Missed. Jester’s chuckle rattled within my skull.

His form towered as I lunged to escape, but he was too quick. He grabbed me. His reach infinite. His grip too strong.

When he swallowed me, all was dark until I sprouted.

That’s my story.

So, why’re you here?

Let me guess. The homemade sign caught your eye, didn’t it? The one advertising pumpkins, baked goods, and hayrides?

You say to yourself it’s just a quick pitstop—this remote farm in rural Indiana, far away from the highway, along a country road, hidden by a cluster of maple trees in autumn colors.

You’re hungry. Like me, you’re desiring the taste of farm goods. Apple butter. Apple fritters.

Now that you’re here, go ahead and leave your vehicle with the other empty cars and trucks. As you can see, the grounds are well kept, but deserted. The farmhouse is empty. You’re probably wondering, where are all the patrons and employees?

Nobody monitors the concession stand. It’s always fresh. Help yourself to a candy apple. Slurp crisp cider. The pumpkin-glazed doughnuts are delightful. Trust me.

While you’re licking sticky fingers, follow the worn, grassy lane until you discover a wooden sign with letters painted red: Jester’s Maze.

Curious? We all were.

Go ahead, step inside. That’s it…

I bet you’re like us, thinking you’re smart enough to finish this maze and be back on the road within the hour.

Do you see, up ahead, Jester the scarecrow? He’s funny looking, isn’t he? Two dark slits for eyes in his grain sack head. A stitched mouth. Flannel shirt and jeans. Nothing to fear. He’s just straw. Don’t be afraid. You can defeat this maze.

There you go. Straight ahead.

You’ve tried several paths. All dead ends.

That look on your face. I felt the same. Are you lost? Don’t worry, we all were, too.

The sun’s setting. Ah, Jester’s eyes. They’re flicking. He’s pulling himself free.

You’re running now. Are you afraid? I was, too. We all were.

You’re near the exit, but we block your path again and again. Jester is closing in now…

His mouth consumes you.

It’s dark at first, but don’t fret.

We grow here. We’re a family of listeners. Watchers. All ears, no mouths.

We need sustenance. Our soil needs fertilizer. We need you.

Jester’s cornfield is always growing. Ever changing. Never the same.

This phase will pass. Soon, you will break through the soil and grow as tall as us.

We’re so happy you’re here.

Welcome to Jester’s Maze.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than 25 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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