It was a crisp autumn evening when you and your friends hopped onto the hayride at The Farm. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the farmer, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, barely said a word. The tractor clattered down the dark path, flanked by tall cornfields that seemed to whisper in the wind.
 
As the ride crept deeper into the fields, the animals grew restless. The pigs grunted angrily, their eyes wide and wild, while the chickens cackled like something was wrong. Even the goats ran in frantic circles, hooves pounding the earth as if they were being chased. “Stay close,” one of your friends said, but no one dared to reply.
 
The air grew colder, and the corn stalks swayed, casting long shadows that seemed to move on their own. The tractor slowed, stopping at the entrance to the corn maze. The farmer gave you a sharp look, his voice low. “The maze ain’t for everyone.” With that, you exit the Hayride.
 
As you ventured into the maze, the rustling of the corn grew louder, almost like breathing. The path twisted and turned, but it wasn’t the maze that scared you—it was what was inside. Shadows moved quickly between the stalks. The animals were no longer the only sound. Low growls echoed from the darkness. Something was out there, watching.
 
You heard it—a snort, too close, and the soft thud of hooves. Panic surged as you turned to run, but the maze seemed endless. And the growls grew louder. The animals’ screams rang in your ears as you fled, feeling something just behind you, its breath cold against your neck.