The feeling couldn’t be shaken, someone was watching. Hidden between the clouds hanging on the blue Midwestern sky and the dying cornfields, the gaze of dead eyes from beyond could be felt on my cold skin.


Feeling brave, I venture into the dark woods, searching for the source of my unease. As my steps crush the fallen leaves, I hear tiny cries for help. It is an unnerving sound that draws me further into the woods.

A field of corn cackles as the wind pierces the air with a high pitched shrill. I’m starting to fade into the haunted madness.

The words of Shakespeare’s Hamlet ring from the bowels of the earth….

Thou know’st ’tis common; all that lives must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin,
Unhousel’d, disappointed, unanel’d;
No reckoning made, but sent to my account
With all my imperfections on my head

We should profane the service of the dead,
To sing a requiem and such rest to her
As to peace-parted souls

O proud death,
What feast is toward in thine eternal cell,
That thou so many princes at a shot
So bloodily hast, struck?

as Death is everywhere in these parts of Iowa.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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