Sarah's father sat outside on the porch, hands clenched, mind spiraling. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe properly. The old woman's story kept echoing in his head like a chant:
> "The one who speaks to the scarecrow will be marked. And once the mark is complete... he will take them."
When Sarah and her mother finally returned home from school and work, he barely even greeted them. His eyes locked onto Sarah.
Without a word, he pulled her inside, his grip tight on her arm.
"Dad?! What are you doing?" Sarah gasped, stumbling backward as he dragged her into the living room.
"Show me," he muttered, voice cracking. "I need to see… just a mark. Any mark at all."
"What?" Sarah stared at him in disbelief. "What are you talking about?!"
"I just need to check," he said again, more desperately. "Where did he touch you? Did he touch you?"
Sarah flinched, her instincts kicking in. She pushed him away with a force that surprised even her. "Stop it, you're scaring me!"
Her mother rushed over. "What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?!"
He turned to her, wild-eyed. "The scarecrow," he whispered. "He leaves a mark on those he chooses. We need to make sure she's clean. Please."
Sarah, panting and shaken, looked to her mother for help.
The woman stepped forward calmly and placed herself between her daughter and her husband. "As you can clearly see, there's nothing on her. No mark. No scratch. No bruise."
But he wasn't satisfied. He gently grabbed Sarah's hand, inspected her wrists, her neck, her ankles. Nothing. Not a trace. Relief slowly crept into his face.
"See?" her mother said, more softly now. "There's nothing."
He nodded, still uncertain.
"What mark are you talking about?" Sarah asked.
He froze. "It's nothing," he mumbled. "I… thought maybe you got a tattoo or something."
That earned a burst of laughter from her mother. "Sarah? A tattoo? Please."
Sarah rolled her eyes and headed upstairs to change, still rattled but trying to shrug it off.
That night at dinner, Sarah and her mom were all smiles, chatting and laughing. But her dad didn't eat a single bite. He just kept pushing the food around his plate, haunted by a fear he couldn't name.
Am I imagining all this? Was she lying? Or is this really happening?
His wife noticed his silence. "You're not yourself," she said gently. "Is this about the man who disappeared in the field? Maybe he just ran away. It's not our problem."
But Sarah's father knew. This wasn't about a runaway. It wasn't even about a stranger. It was about something that was watching them from the field.
And it wanted his daughter.
Later that night, after Sarah had gone to bed, her mother cornered him in the living room.
"Talk to me," she said. "You've been acting strange all day. What aren't you telling me?"
He glanced toward the window, toward the field.
"It's that scarecrow," he murmured. "There's something wrong with it. I don't think we should've come here. I think we made a mistake."
She sighed. "You're tired. Let's just go to bed, okay?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I'll come up."
But even as he climbed the stairs, dread weighed on his shoulders like lead.
---
The next morning felt deceptively normal.
Sarah was bouncing with energy as she came downstairs, humming a little tune. Her mom was cooking breakfast; her dad was seated, staring at nothing.
"I'll drive her today," he suddenly said.
His wife glanced at him. "Alright." She handed over two lunchboxes — one for Sarah, one for him.
Sarah practically skipped to the car, her mood still bright. Her dad followed her in silence.
Halfway through the drive, he finally spoke.
"Sarah… I don't want you going to the field anymore."
Sarah turned to him, surprised. "Why?"
He didn't look at her. His fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter.
"Just… don't go there. Please. For my sake."
She stared at him, the happiness draining from her face. But she nodded slowly.
"Okay," she said. "If you say so."
But deep down… she already missed the scarecrow.