The sky had grown darker than usual by the time Sarah's father reached the edge of the woods. Hidden beneath crooked trees and vines was the old woman's house — a withered thing made of wood, clay, and bones. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney, and a sour scent lingered in the air.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again, and the door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the shadows seemed to move on their own, and there, seated beside a flickering lamp, was the old woman. Her back was hunched, her eyes nearly hidden behind layers of wrinkles, and in her lap rested something that looked like a dried animal's skull.
"You came," she rasped without looking up.
Sarah's father swallowed his fear. "I was told you might know something... about my daughter. About the scarecrow."
The woman raised her head slowly, her voice low and brittle. "Your daughter… has been marked. The creature has chosen her. That scarecrow is no ordinary thing. It watches, it waits, and it feeds. It's not just straw and sticks… It remembers. It desires."
Sarah's father felt the hairs on his neck rise. "What do you mean marked? What is it going to do to her?"
> "Sit down," the old woman said, his voice raspy and hollow. "If you truly want to know about that thing in the field… then listen."
> "Long ago, there was a farmer. Not just any farmer. He had golden hands. Everything he planted flourished. His crops were sweeter, his soil richer, and his name… beloved. He had a beautiful wife, a gentle daughter, and a strong son. They were the pride of this land."
> "But envy is an ugly thing."
> "Another farmer — older, bitter, forgotten by the town — couldn't bear to see him praised. So he did the unthinkable. He murdered his own child and framed the golden farmer for it."
> "The town was furious. They searched the golden farmer's home. And when they reached the basement… they found the child's body. No one listened to the farmer's cries. No one asked how the body got there. They believed what they wanted to believe."
> "As punishment, they dragged his wife and children to the fields. They killed them before his eyes. Then, they tied the farmer to a wooden post in the center of his own land… left him to rot under the sun, broken and alone."
> "Before he died, with his last breath, he whispered a curse into the soil:
'Anyone who steps foot into my house, anyone who dares speak to me or tries to take what is mine — will belong to me. I will mark them. And once the mark is complete... they are mine forever.'"
> "That post he was tied to? It never decayed. Over the years, someone dressed it up — called it a scarecrow. But it's not just straw and rags. It's a grave. A prison. A soul."
> "Your daughter… has already spoken to him. That's why he watches her now."
---
The woman stood with surprising strength and walked to a cabinet, pulling out a brittle, yellowed paper. A crude drawing of the scarecrow was etched in red ink.
"This is not the first child it has taken interest in," she whispered. "Long ago, it consumed a girl's mind until she vanished into the fields. No body. Just her laughter echoing among the corn."
His heart thudded wildly.
"You must check her," the woman said, stepping closer. "There should be a mark. Not one she will see or feel… but one that grows with the bond. When the scarecrow chooses you, it becomes part of your soul. And eventually… it wants all of you."
Unable to bear anymore, Sarah's father stumbled out of the house. The air outside felt just as heavy, but at least it wasn't thick with curses and bone dust.
He was shaking, his breath shallow. The things he'd heard were too much. He didn't want to believe it, didn't want to understand it — but part of him already did.
He ran.
All the way home, through the shadowed woods and broken path. He didn't stop to breathe until he reached the front door.
Once inside, he collapsed on the chair near the kitchen window. Sweat soaked his collar, and his eyes darted around like a hunted man's.
They weren't back yet — Sarah and her mother. They had gone to the market.
He waited. Not because he was calm, but because he needed them. He couldn't check Sarah alone. He needed her mother's help. They had to inspect her body. Somewhere — maybe on her back, her shoulder, her ankle — there would be a mark.
A mark that meant she belonged to the scarecrow.
And if they found it… what then?
He didn't know.
He only knew that the old woman had been right.
And it was already too late.