Nowadays, it’s easy to see Stephen King’s name and have a conceived notion of his legacy. He remains well into old age one of the most prolific authors of his generation, producing masterpieces that dig under people’s skin and recontextualizes fears we’ve long taken for granted. In this Short Stop series, I will explore a period before he was the icon we know and love. Even with a handful of bestsellers to his name, his status had yet to cement. That is why I’ve chosen to take a look at his first story collection, “Night Shift,” and hopefully get a glimpse into the writer taking shape, before his style was cemented into a cultural touchstone. Was he always the master of horror, or was there a simpler time when he was as messy and weird as the rest of us? All it takes is turning the page to find out.
Many could speculate on whether it’s the best, but few stories in this anthology have had as significant a legacy as “Children of the Corn.” Given that every story so far has been adapted into some other medium, it’s bizarre to note how much more substantial the franchise is. Along with one series spanning seven movies, there’s been one short, one remake, and two reboots; ultimately totaling 11 versions. Given that King has written whole series with more meat on its bones, it’s bizarre to see that this 40-page journey through Gatlin has inspired such a reputation. But the question being answered today is whether it started off on a good foot.
Full confession right off the bat. I assumed that this story was a lesser work given that I’ve long assumed the films were disposable. My relationship with “Night Shift” has mostly been mixed, and there have been few times when he’s reached beyond the novelty of his premise and found something truly provocative, something that will last and haunt the reader’s core long after they put the book down. I’m not wishing to suggest that “Children of the Corn” is the most terrifying thing that he’s written, but it’s the perfect amalgamation of what his early writing was trying to achieve. It’s there in the way the characters interact and how their fraught relationship becomes symbolized by these claustrophobic cornfields. The abandoned town lingers with dread the longer that King sits in descriptive language. There’s both history and mystery in every detail, and I love how it manages to end on a question mark without feeling like he gave up on reaching a worthwhile conclusion. This is, for all intents and purposes, his best direct-horror piece so far.
Despite their different setting, the Nebraska of King’s vision feels reminiscent of the recent film Backrooms (2026). Both feature parties wandering into an abandoned place that looks to have been previously inhabited. Without anyone to provide context, it becomes an eerie journey into interpretation, stuck in the middle of nowhere without a clue of how to make sense of the remains of human existence. There may be children who wander around Gatlin, but nobody knows their purpose. Given that the two people who are most in need of trusting each other are on the verge of a hasty divorce, it’s hard to know if anyone will survive. Is it even possible to drive down the road and head back to the turnpike and to civilization?
Everything begins with an argument between Burt and Vicky. Their voices are being drowned out by the radio, and fists are in the midst of being swung. Burt is mad at Vicky for not driving due to alleged headaches. When she defends herself, he then argues that she’s doing a bad job handling the directions. Everything is chaotic and out of control, causing them to turn off the turnpike, the last symbolic example of society, into an isolated pathway alongside cornfields. Given that it’s the Midwest, the image is not that unassuming. Everything may unfold out in the open where nobody can see, but it also poses the threat that saying the wrong thing can leave either of them (most likely Burt) to die as he waits for a second vehicle to drive by.
During their short time in the great unknown, they have run into a conflict that’s going to be difficult to explain. A child emerges from the cornfields and is struck by their car. Concerned about being accused of murder, they contemplate carrying the body into town. The premise never fully justifies its rationality, but Burt is also grasping at straws at this point, needing a win after Vicky has pretty much made it clear that she’s ready to abandon him at the first jump.
Another delicious detail is Vicky’s inability to provide decent directions. While she’s able to piece together that they’re approaching Gatlin, she can’t be sure what anything means. Most of the signs haven’t been changed in over a decade. To King’s credit, he manages to disorient the reader by leaving them unsure of what year it is for close to half of the text. Much like the locale, he’s fond of letting everything sink in slowly. It’s there in how the movie theater marquee is busted with missing letters. The gas station has prices that are way outdated even for 1976. For some reason, it feels like a town whose last gasp of relevancy was in the Mid-1950s. It’s more implied, but it helps put tragedy on top of the decay, as if they’re invading a gravesite to human endeavor that exists alongside nature’s everlasting cornfields.
Beyond the exteriors, Burt decides to visit the few sanctuaries that might house life. The most prominent location is a church. It’s during this time that Vicky reveals that she used to be dragged to church to be “saved.” There’s a sarcasm suggesting that she never took it seriously. Much like everything else, the longer that King spends reveling in small details, the clearer that something is wrong. Records show that there’s been recent life in Gatlin, though everybody’s life expectancy is much shorter than one would expect. Families have come and gone in such a short time. The question becomes just how they disappeared.
What could be novelty ends up being one of the most sensible plot devices in the story. Throughout the Mid-20th Century, there was a religious panic, especially in the Midwest, that makes the story seem reasonable. This was just a few years shy of Ronald Reagan becoming president and spirituality becoming more of a nationalized platform. With fear that the 60s counterculture led to moral panics among the youth, it makes sense that King would fixate on the youth being evil. They’re impressionable and lack developed consciousness. They can be saved or become hellions that never find greater nuance. The central children lean more towards the stubbornness that they’ll never be “saved.”
There’s a large pile of irony that separates the protagonists from their environment. Burt and Vicky are moving to California. Along with being romanticized as a place to fulfill their dreams, it’s often considered an immoral place by the religious types at the center of this story. Beyond the contrasting differences between two regions of the country, it’s Burt and Vicky’s looming divorce that makes the children scarier. These could be their kids. They could be parents to someone insensitive and rude. Do they really want to risk starting the next chapter of their lives in such misery?
If these individuals have parents, it’s a great unknown force that they call “He Who Walks Behind the Rows.” Nobody ever sees it, but the carnage that surrounds its abode is haunting. Somewhere beyond the cornrows is an empty space where bodies have been dismembered. Christian imagery is made out of cornstalks and given haunting contexts. Whereas most grisly King prose exists to be overwhelming, here he builds to the moments that truly shock. By having characters run through the cornfields with uncertainty, there’s already dread that they’ll run into something horrifying. The emptiness may give them space to breathe, but it also allows them to see why nothing wants to live there. It’s an easy way to expect death.
The children have all of the hallmarks of a religious cult. They lack affect and mostly do what they can to please He Who Walks Behind the Rows. They’re merciless, willing to murder anyone who gets in their way. Vicky is tied up and has her eyes gouged out. In dark King humor, he has the sockets filled with corn husks. Burt’s efforts to escape turn into a surrealistic trap as he is murdered through supernatural forces. The twist allows the story to end in the hands of the captors, eager to please their master. It’s haunting to spend the final pages in the hands of nine-year-olds trapped in a demonic state, doing everything to please a murderous force. Even so, they walk into the field, and King ends on the ominous idea that the cornfield is pleased.
The story is a curious affair because it feels like a short story that could’ve easily been fleshed out into a novella. There’s so much substance on every page that the reader is continually questioning their reality. Nothing is that strange, and yet everything becomes a haunting study of power and control, where even a relationship risks losing itself to violence. The choice to keep it a short story for Penthouse Magazine is ultimately a good idea, if just because the mystery is what carries it to the sublime finale. Without a need to extrapolate, it’s allowed to exist in uncertainty, never needing to explain He Who Walks Behind the Rows. The reader can just assume, which is often a more powerful tool.
Everything that works about King is present here. His best work focuses on the middle class, and there’s something painfully simple about what he does here. Most people have driven cross-country before, being stuck in cars for long hours. The detours often present obstacles that they’re not ready for. As a result, it forces instinctive character beats to emerge. Cross it with moral panic and the infectious nature of cornfields being tall enough to hide secrets, and you have room for infinite potential. The mazelike nature of the back third may be reminiscent of the superior finale of “The Shining,” but it still conveys the helplessness of being somewhere unwanted, where nobody is coming to save you, and those who might’ve died long ago at the hands of the entity you’re running towards.
My complaints with “Night Shift” are largely that the premises are either too simple or overcomplicated, relying on genre ideas that feel borrowed. The characters rarely have enough meat on their bones to deliver stories as impactful as this, allowing space both to breathe and for the reader to question their existence within the text. Nebraska is a real place. An abandoned town is likely sitting there right now. Everything about this story feeds off of the paranoia that has never gone away. Backrooms may be a more secular read of this, but it proves that emptiness is just as haunting as its alternate claustrophobia… both of which King uses so expertly.
As mentioned at the top, there have been many adaptations. The first was a short film in 1983 called Disciples of the Crow, in which they change He Who Walks Behind the Rows to a crow. However, it didn’t take long for a film version to appear, as Children of the Corn (1984) appeared a year later and would lead to six sequels, with the most recent being from 2001. There have been remakes and reboots as well as references in songs. The band Korn would include a song with a title inspired in part by the franchise on their 1998 album “Follow the Leader.”
To add more to the legacy of this one story, it has ties to other works. Gatlin as a location has been referenced both in the short story “1922” and the novels “It” and “The Stand.” Given that King likes to have an interconnected universe, the details may go much further than this. While there’s no confirmation, many believe that because “Children of the Corn” and “The Stand” both share locales, it’s possible that the latter’s villain, Randall Flagg, might be the identity of He Who Walks Behind the Rows. This would also mean that the story is directly tied to the even bigger King series (among others) of “The Dark Tower,” which features Flagg in a more prominent role. So while the story may be self-contained, it feels like a crucial epicenter to better understanding the world that King has created.
What may sound like a gimmick at first ends up being one of the most successful short stories in “Night Shift.” “Children of the Corn” is a haunting tale that finds King using every narrative tool at his disposal to its greatest potential. There’s lingering dread, claustrophobia, uncertainty, and emotion all tied together in trying to understand how one could survive a force that goes well beyond mankind’s capabilities. While this has been a concept in a lot of his work, this one feels more tangible and builds to something more palatable. This is The Master of Horror that has long been sold to readers. He may have stories with more depth and pathos, but this gets right to the point and delivers a wrecking ball in such a short space. King has latched onto very real fears and found ways to make them his own. It makes sense why it remains the most lucrative story in this collection.
Coming Up Next: “The Last Rung on the Ladder”
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