---
đ¤
Sarah was tired.
Not the kind of tired that made her bones ache â but the soft, sleepy kind that made her limbs heavy and her mind float. The neighbor kids had worn her out with stories, laughter, and wild games, and for a little while, the new house didn't feel so strange.
She closed the door behind her, dropped her sandals with a soft thud, and climbed the stairs to her room. Her bed looked like heaven. She collapsed onto it, face-up, arms sprawled across the mattress.
The ceiling fan spun lazily above her. The shadows in the corners of the room whispered quiet nothings. Sarah let out a breath and closed her eyes.
But something itched at her skin.
A feeling.
Like fingers crawling up her spine.
She opened her eyes slowly.
Something was watching her.
She sat up, every hair on her body standing upright, and turned toward the window.
And there it was.
The scarecrow.
Standing tall and crooked in the middle of the field, just like it always did. But now, it was facing her room. Its stitched face pointed directly at her window. And its grinâ
Its grin was wider.
The moonlight cast strange shadows on its straw-stuffed cheeks, and for a moment, Sarah couldn't breathe.
She blinked.
Still there.
She blinked again.
Still. Smiling.
Her heart thudded in her chest, but something pulled at her. A whisper, not in words â more like a feeling â deep in her chest.
Come.
So she did.
Barefoot, in her nightdress, she padded down the stairs and out the back door. The air was thick and cold, the grass damp against her ankles. But she didn't stop.
She crossed the yard, stepping into the field like she belonged there. The scarecrow loomed ahead, taller than she remembered, arms stretched wide like it was about to embrace her.
She sat beside it, her hands in her lap.
"I know you're not real," she whispered.
The wind rustled through the stalks of grass like a reply.
"But I feel like⌠you're listening."
She looked up at its face. The stitched smile. The black button eyes. The bent hat casting a long shadow.
"I don't really have anyone to talk to," she said softly. "At least, not anyone who gets me."
So she talked.
About her old life. Her old friends. Her fears about never fitting in. About being weird. About being too much or not enough at the same time.
The scarecrow said nothing. But it didn't need to.
She felt heard.
As the sky darkened and the world cooled into silence, Sarah stood up.
"Goodnight," she whispered, brushing dirt from her nightgown.
The scarecrow watched her as she left.
At least... it felt like it did.
---
đŻď¸ A Family Moment
Inside, the lights were soft. Her mom sat on the couch with a magazine in hand. Her dad looked up from his phone.
"Where have you been?" her mother asked, her tone too casual to be curious.
"Just in the farm," Sarah said, her voice even.
Her dad smiled â a real one, the kind that rarely came from him.
"Come have dinner."
The table was small, the food average, but the laughter that floated above it was something rare. For a moment, Sarah forgot about the field. About the watching eyes.
For a moment, they felt like a real family.
---
đ Midnight â From Her Father's Eyes
The night was heavy when Sarah's father stirred from his desk. Paperwork scattered like fallen leaves. The lamp glowed dim beside him.
Thenâ
scratch.
A sound.
Faint. But present.
He stood, stretching his back with a groan, and reached for the flashlight in the drawer.
Outside, the wind was colder than expected. He stepped onto the porch, scanning the field.
Nothing.
Exceptâ
The scarecrow. Grinning.
It looked the same. But something in its angle was different. Like it had turned. Just slightly.
He narrowed his eyes.
"No way," he muttered. "Just the wind."
He stepped back inside.
---
But laterâŚ
The noise returned. Louder. Closer.
He cursed under his breath, snatched the torch again, and stormed outside. "Who's there?!" he shouted, his voice slicing the night.
No answer.
He walked straight into the field, grass crunching beneath his feet. His light cut through the dark like a knife.
Nothing moved.
Except the scarecrow.
Still smiling.
Still facing him.
He stood in front of it, heart racing.
It stared.
He stared back.
A cold sweat gathered at his neck.
"Must be the neighbor kids playing games," he whispered, and turned away.
But as he walked back toward the houseâŚ
He didn't notice that the scarecrow's headâŚ
tilted.
Just slightly.
---