Dinner had been warm. The laughter, though unfamiliar in the house, came easily as Sarah and her mother cooked side by side. For once, there were no sharp silences, no bitter glances. Just the soft bubbling of stew, the clatter of spoons, and the soft, healing rhythm of togetherness.
Now, the dishes had been washed, the table cleared, and Sarah had gone upstairs—sleep tugging at her limbs. Her mother remained, waiting by the window, arms folded gently as her gaze stretched into the night.
When her husband returned, she greeted him with a soft kiss. He looked tired, older somehow, as though the land had whispered things to him he couldn't forget. Still, he smiled.
"How was work?" she asked softly as they sat.
"Quiet," he replied. "But… something's bothering me. Can we talk?"
She straightened. "Of course. What is it?"
He gestured for her to sit with him in the living room. His voice was calm, but the weight in it made her heart beat faster.
"It's the field," he began. "Something's not right with it. I can't explain it exactly. Every time I'm near that scarecrow... I feel like I'm being watched. Not in the normal way. Watched like—like we're intruders. Like it wants us gone."
His wife stared at him, confused. "But you said you wouldn't clear the farm. You promised Sarah. She loves that scarecrow. You can't just change your mind—"
"I know, I know," he cut in gently. "But I didn't realize how it made me feel. That thing… it's wrong. I go out there and I feel like I've stepped into something I shouldn't touch."
His wife's brows furrowed, a quiet worry blooming in her chest. "Maybe you're just stressed. You've been working so much—"
"No," he said firmly. "This isn't work. It's that field. That scarecrow. The way it faces the house now—like it moved. It looks at us like we're... pests."
She didn't know how to respond. Was it exhaustion? Was he imagining things? She reached for his hand.
"Try to rest. If it still bothers you in the morning… we'll talk again."
Reluctantly, he nodded. But inside, the unease twisted tighter.
---
That night, silence settled across the house. The world outside was asleep. But Sarah's father lay awake, chest tight with thoughts he couldn't shake.
Thirst pulled him from bed. He crept downstairs, poured a glass of water, and drank slowly in the dark.
Scratch…
He froze.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
He turned toward the sound, heart thudding. But it wasn't coming from the field.
It was coming… from the basement.
His breath caught. Maybe it was rats—they hadn't cleared the basement since they moved in. But the sound grew louder. Clawing, dragging, urgent.
Grabbing a flashlight, he stepped cautiously down the creaking steps. The air was thick, stale, colder than before.
"Hello?" he whispered.
Nothing.
He moved the light across dusty boxes and old furniture.
And then—movement. A flicker in the corner of his eye.
He turned sharply.
"Who's there?"
Still nothing.
He stood there for a long moment, heartbeat roaring in his ears. Then shook his head.
"Just rats," he muttered. "Just rats."
But something inside him whispered: No. It isn't.
He climbed back upstairs and finally collapsed into bed.
---
Morning came like a thin sigh. Sarah woke up with a strange feeling—like something had shifted in the night. Still, she got ready for school, putting on her uniform and smoothing her hair.
Downstairs, her parents were already eating.
"Good morning," she said softly.
"Morning," her mother replied. Her father nodded.
As they drove to school, the silence was thick. Then—her father spoke.
"Sarah… haven't you noticed anything… odd? About the scarecrow?"
Sarah blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
But he quickly looked away. "Never mind."
Still, the question stayed with her.
At school, Trish greeted her with open arms. "I missed you, you ghost!"
Sarah smiled. "You missed me?"
"Shhh. Come on! We're late."
The girls laughed, whispered through class, and shared stories like old friends.
When the day ended, Sarah returned home to another quiet house. She changed, stepped outside, and walked into the field. The scarecrow stood there, still and silent.
She sat beside it.
And talked.
About school. About Trish. And then, about her father's strange question.
"He asked me if I noticed anything about you," she whispered. "Isn't that weird?"
The wind slowed. The grass hushed. The sky darkened for a brief second, as though the clouds had paused to listen.
Sarah looked up. Everything felt... off. Heavier.
Then—it passed. Just like that. The wind resumed, the sky cleared, the world returned.
She shivered, rising to her feet.
"Mom's calling," she murmured. "I'll be back."
She turned, leaving the scarecrow behind.
But the scarecrow…
was no longer looking at the field.
It was turned—just slightly—toward the house.