One of the admirable things about 'The Children of the Corn' is the way King deftly reveals the horror: the feeling that they're being watched from the rows of corn; the crucifix fashioned from cornhusks; the eerie radio sermon; the deserted town; the sickly sweet smell of fertiliser and death.
And from a storytelling perspective? Running down a small boy in the middle of nowhere only to discover that his throat has been slashed? That is one hell of a catalyst. King also piles on the conflict. From the opening pages, the resentment between Burt and Vicky and the pressure of their failing marriage helps to intensify dawning horror that they've stumbled into an occult nightmare. As the terror increases, the already cobwebbed glass of their marriage continues to fracture. As the story progresses, the demonic 'He Who Walks Behind the Rows' is gradually revealed.
Thinking about narrative structure, the story is like a festering onion. King gradually peels back the outer layer of creepy clues and signposts, revealing the festering rot inside. Burt tries to think his way through the mystery and eventually reaching the conclusion that religious-harvest-festival-mania took hold of the town and the children sacrificed their parents to a demonic elder god. It would be the only logical explanation after all.
And what a goddamn climax when the children descend on the car as children descend on the car with hatchets and pipes and hammers. From that point, there are some wonderfully visceral King gross-outs. Burt's flight into the corn and eventual discovery is terrifying.
Were small children and corn always this creepy or are small children and corn creepy because of this story? One of the things that works about the story is its setting. Anyone who finds themselves in a remote, unfamiliar place pretty quickly feel a creeping sense of vulnerability. About twenty years ago, I found myself at a petrol station in a remote part of Tasmania. Only after we filled up, the owner revealed that they didn't accept credit cards and gave us the sort of look that suggested he was about to learn a little more about anatomy with a rusty knife. We desperately found enough spare change in the car and got the hell out of there. Put simply: the country is scary, y'all. And I grew up in a small town.
Definitely glad I revisited this masterpiece of short horror.