Sarah's father didn't go to work that day. His head was a storm of thoughts, replaying the old woman's grim words — Trish is dead.
He kept glancing at the clock, his mind spinning, fear gnawing at him. If Trish could die like that… what if Sarah was next?
By the time night fell, he returned home earlier than usual. Sarah was upstairs, fast asleep in her room, curled beneath the blankets. His wife greeted him with a warm peck on the cheek.
But instead of smiling back, he took a deep breath and said quietly,
"We have to leave. We have to go, tonight."
Sarah's mother froze. "What? Where are we going?"
"Anywhere," he said. "As far away from here as we can."
She shook her head. "No. We've spent all our savings on this house. We can't just leave. Where will we go? How will we start over? Sarah just began to settle here—"
"I know, I know…" his voice trembled. "But we have to."
"Why?" she pressed, her voice sharp.
He looked at her, almost whispering, "Because of that scarecrow."
She stared at him in disbelief. "A scarecrow? That's why you want to throw away everything? Because you're afraid of an unliving thing? Ever since we moved in, it's been you and that field — acting like enemies. First, you say the scarecrow is moving, now you want to uproot our lives without a plan? Sarah has just started making friends. And you—"
"I'm trying to protect us!" he cut in.
But she didn't listen. With a frustrated shake of her head, she stormed upstairs, leaving him speechless in the living room.
No one believed him. No one understood the danger. So… he decided to do the unthinkable.
In the dead of night, while the house slept, he prepared an axe. There was only one thought in his mind — destroy the scarecrow, and save his family.
Upstairs, Sarah stirred awake — partly from thirst, partly because thoughts of Trish still haunted her. She padded down the stairs, her bare feet silent on the wooden steps.
And there, in the dim light of the hallway, she saw her father, an axe in hand, moving toward the door.
"Dad?" she whispered. "Where are you going with that?"
He froze, startled. "I… I'm just taking this old rusty axe out," he lied quickly.
She didn't think much of it. She poured herself a glass of water, drank it, and told him softly, "You should go to bed."
He nodded frantically. "Yeah. Bed."
Sarah went back upstairs.
The moment she was gone, he stepped outside into the cold night air, heading straight for the field. The scarecrow loomed at the center, motionless… watching.
He raised the axe — ready to strike.
But suddenly, his body locked in place. His arms refused to move. His fingers wouldn't let go of the handle.
And then — like in a nightmare — the scarecrow's leg shifted.
Thick vines burst from the soil, writhing toward him. They wrapped around his arms, his legs, his chest, tightening with terrifying force.
He tried to scream, but no sound came. His lungs burned. His vision blurred. The vines squeezed until there was nothing left but darkness.
The next morning, Sarah's mother woke to an empty bed beside her. She went downstairs, expecting to find him in the kitchen — but there was no sign of him.
"Where's Dad?" Sarah asked sleepily as she came down.
Her mother forced a small smile. "Maybe he went to work early. Hurry up — you'll be late for school."
She dropped Sarah off, then immediately drove to his workplace.
But every person she asked gave the same answer.
"He hasn't come in today."
Her stomach dropped.
Then the thought crept in — If he's not at work… where is he?
---