When the news came, Sarah felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room.
"Trish… disappeared?" The words spun in her mind like loose leaves in a storm. No. It couldn't be. Trish had just left their house yesterday — smiling, laughing. This wasn't possible.
She went straight upstairs without another word, shutting the door. A knock came minutes later.
"Sarah, open the door," her mother's voice was soft but insistent.
"Go away," Sarah muttered.
But when her mother didn't stop, she finally opened it, eyes heavy with confusion and fear.
"What's wrong? Why are you like this?" her mother asked.
"They said… Trish disappeared. I don't understand, Mom. She just left here. How could she—"
Her mother's brows knitted. "It can't be… Don't stress yourself, Sarah. I'm sure she'll come back." But even as she said it, there was a flicker of worry in her eyes.
At dinner, Sarah could barely eat. When her father asked what was wrong, she told him. He froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
"She's… missing?" he said slowly. His mind jolted back to the memory of when the scarecrow in the field had vanished. And now, a day later — Trish. Could it be…? No. No, it's impossible. A scarecrow can't—
He shook the thought away. "Don't worry," he told Sarah, forcing a calm smile. "They'll find her."
That night, Sarah dreamed.
She was standing in a place that wasn't anywhere she recognized — dark, cold, and whispering with unseen voices. Trish was there, trembling, her hands raised in desperate defense.
"Please," Trish sobbed. "Please don't kill me!"
Sarah ran forward. "Trish! Who? Who's going to—"
A shadow moved. An arm lifted. There was a glint of something wet in the dim light, and then—
Blood.
Trish collapsed.
"NO!" Sarah screamed — and woke up gasping, her nightclothes damp with sweat. Her father burst in, her mother right behind him.
"What happened?!" her father demanded.
"I dreamed… she died. She begged me to save her, and I couldn't—" Sarah's voice broke as she cried harder.
"It's just a dream," her mother soothed, pulling her close. "Trish will be fine."
But as her father turned his head toward the window, something froze him.
The scarecrow stood in the field. But it wasn't facing the crops — it was turned toward the house. Toward Sarah's window.
---
The next day, Sarah's father dropped her off at school, then drove straight to the police station. They laughed at his story, told him scarecrows didn't kill people, but eventually agreed to visit his field if he paid for their time.
They found nothing. He paid anyway. Still uneasy, he found himself walking to the old woman's cottage. The door, as always, opened before he touched it.
"I told you to leave that house," the old woman said without looking up.
"I will," he said, "but my daughter's friend is missing. Do you know where she is?"
The old woman's voice was steady. "She's dead."
He stared at her. "What? That's impossible. I saw her few days ago—"
"If the scarecrow has grown attached to your daughter," she interrupted, "it will not let anyone take her attention away. Take your daughter far from that field, if you value her life. Leave."
He wanted to ask more, but her eyes warned him not to. He left.
That evening, the wind howled over the field. The scarecrow still stood there.
Only… its head was tilted now. Tilted just enough that it seemed to be watching the house.
---