The Field Remembers
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions!
The Field Remembers
They say trauma festers in silence, that pain buried deep will eventually grow roots. But what they don’t say, what they can’t say, is that sometimes, the land remembers too. And when it does, it grows something much worse.
Her name was Lorraine. In September of 1981, she was nineteen. She had soft eyes, a laugh like breaking waves, and a tendency to trust too easily. He was older. Bill. A college boy who wore confidence like a uniform and could lie without blinking. She remembered the way he said it: “We’re going to the movies.” He didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t even try to be creative.
He picked her up from the Bohemia train station, fresh from dinner with his family on Blake Avenue. Said goodnight to his father. Ruffled his kid brother’s hair. Perfect. Clean. Then drove her into the dark.
Past the edge of town, the road turned to dirt and the trees grew thick, like they were trying to hide something. He stopped the car in a clearing that had no name. A field nobody talked about, because people didn’t go there. Lorraine didn’t know that. She only knew the sky looked too big above them and the wind made the grass hiss like snakes.
He didn’t say anything after they parked. Just reached for her like she owed him something. She remembered her corduroy pants being stiff and difficult, remembered the buttons tearing. Remembered the taste of copper behind her teeth when she bit her tongue to stop from screaming.
And after, he wiped his hands like he was done fixing something.
He never looked at her.
He drove her back to the station. Told her not to tell anyone. Like it was his story now.
She never did.
But the field… the field never forgot.
44 years later.
Lorraine was no longer soft-eyed. Her laugh had long dried up. But in her purse were photographs, grainy, timestamped, and mailed anonymously. Some of them showed others. Different girls. Different years. Same spot.
She sat in a motel off Route 27, staring at the manila envelope. He’d written back.
“You’re confused. You’re not well. I never touched you.”
Lorraine’s hands didn’t tremble. She folded the letter carefully, placed it in the waste bin, and lit it with a motel match.
That night, she returned to the field. It hadn’t changed. Not really. The road was still dirt, the grass still whispered, and the clearing still waited like a held breath. Only now there was something else, a pressure, like standing in a room just after someone screamed.
She stepped into the center of the field and knelt.
“I remember,” she said aloud.
At first, there was only wind.
Then the voices came. Female. Warped. Layered like echoes through broken radios. They whispered not in words, but feelings: betrayal, rage, despair.
Then she heard his voice. Not from memory. From behind her.
“Lorraine?”
It was Bill. Older. Grayer. But it was him.
“What are you doing here?”
She turned slowly.
“Finishing what you started.”
And then the field opened.
Not like a sinkhole. Not like anything human. The earth peeled, wet and organic, revealing a pulsing wound in the ground. A hollow place full of movement. Shapes shifted below, humanoid and broken. Some clawed upward. Some floated like drowned corpses.
And something began to emerge.
A figure, pieced together from bones, soil, and the weeping of those never believed. Its face was a mosaic of fractured smiles. Its arms were too long. Its chest was cracked open like a ribcage that had learned to breathe. It didn’t walk, it slid.
Bill screamed. “What the hell is that?! What the… LORRAINE?!”
But Lorraine didn’t move.
The thing reached him without a sound. It didn’t touch him. It only looked. Or… remembered.
And in that gaze, he began to split.
Not flesh. Not blood. But identity. As if the creature peeled every version of him from every girl’s memory and held them up like masks. The charming boy. The liar. The monster. The man who said, “It wasn’t like that.”
They fell into the pit behind him like broken puppets.
And then he followed.
No scream.
Just silence.
When it was over, the field sealed itself like a wound that had finally been lanced. The wind slowed. The grass stilled.
Lorraine remained standing.
“For them,” she whispered.
A pause.
“For me.”
Some say the field doesn’t exist. That Lorraine never existed. That this is just a story.
But others say, if you go past the tree line on a September night, you can still hear the grass whisper. You can still see the dirt pulsing if the moonlight hits just right.
And if you listen hard enough, you might hear him still screaming.
But by then… it’s already too late.
The End
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