Short Story: Spirit of the Scarecrow

April 2, 2020 Colin Lawson Comments 0 Comment

For generations, scarecrows have been a familiar sight in the countryside—silent sentinels meant to guard crops from unwanted visitors. But what if one was more than it seemed? What if it had a purpose far darker than protecting the fields?

When the Cartwright family moves into an old farmhouse in the English countryside, they believe they’ve found their perfect escape from city life. But the villagers whisper warnings, and the land holds secrets long buried. At the heart of it all stands a scarecrow—weathered, twisted, and watching.

Spirit of the Scarecrow

The Cartwright family, Oliver, Margaret and their 12 year old daughter, Emily, had always longed for a change of pace. Tired of the relentless hum of city life, they leapt at the opportunity to purchase a secluded farmhouse nestled deep in the English countryside.

The sprawling fields, the aged oak trees that lined the property, and the quaint charm of the house itself felt like a dream come true. It was an idyllic escape—or so they thought.

From the moment they arrived, there was an unshakable stillness to the land. The villagers at the nearest market spoke in hushed tones when they learned where the Cartwrights had settled. Their smiles faltered, and their eyes darted towards one another, as if they shared a terrible secret. When Oliver Cartwright inquired about the history of the farm, the butcher merely wiped his hands on his apron and muttered, “Best keep to yourselves.”

It was young Emily who first took notice of the scarecrow in the eastern field. She pointed it out to her mother, Margaret, as they walked through the tall grass one evening. It was a grotesque thing—far too detailed for a mere farmyard guardian.

The head was a burlap sack with crude features stitched into place, yet the buttons for eyes seemed almost sentient. The body, clothed in tattered garments, sagged unnaturally on the wooden cross. Something about it felt deeply wrong.

That night, a storm rolled in. The wind howled against the farmhouse, rattling the windows. As the family huddled indoors, a sharp tapping echoed from the attic. Oliver dismissed it as an old house settling, though he felt an unease he could not shake.

Days passed, and the air around the farmhouse grew heavier. Emily became convinced the scarecrow had moved. At first, her parents laughed it off, but one morning, when Oliver stepped outside to inspect the fields, he noticed the scarecrow was no longer standing in its usual place. Instead, it had shifted slightly, its head now tilted towards the house.

Margaret began to experience unnerving dreams—visions of a man tied to the very same post, his mouth sewn shut, his eyes wide with terror. A dreadful history clawed at the edges of her mind, as though the land itself whispered secrets to her in the dead of night.

One evening, as Oliver locked the farmhouse door, he caught sight of something at the edge of the field. The scarecrow stood there, its shadow stretching impossibly long in the moonlight. He swore it was closer than before. The next morning, they found claw-like marks on the back door.

The breaking point came when Emily awoke to the sensation of straw brushing against her cheek. She screamed, sending Oliver and Margaret rushing to her room. The window stood open, the curtains billowing, and on the floor lay a single scrap of cloth from the scarecrow’s tattered coat. The air smelled of damp earth and something fouler, something rotten.

Desperate for answers, Oliver visited the village elder, an ageing woman named Agnes who sat by the fire in the local inn. When he explained his plight, her expression darkened. “That land should never have been sold,” she murmured. “Long ago, a man was wrongfully accused of witchcraft. The villagers, fearful and cruel, tied him to that post and left him to the crows. They stitched his lips to silence his curses and watched as he withered beneath the sun. But he did not die easily—his spirit lingers, bound to the soil, seeking retribution.”

Oliver’s stomach twisted in horror. He rushed home, determined to burn the scarecrow, to end whatever malevolence plagued their family. But as he and Margaret approached the field, the scarecrow was gone. The wooden post stood empty, the ground disturbed by what looked like dragging footprints leading towards the house.

A bloodcurdling scream rang out from inside.

They sprinted towards the farmhouse, hearts hammering in their chests. Emily’s room was in disarray—the walls clawed at, the bed overturned. And in the centre of the room, where their daughter should have been, lay nothing but a mound of straw and a single, hollow burlap mask.

The wind outside carried a whisper—a laughter that was neither human nor kind. The farmhouse stood silent once more, the fields stretching endlessly, as if they had always been empty.

Days turned into weeks. The Cartwrights remained in the farmhouse, too grief-stricken to leave, too terrified to stay. Margaret refused to step foot in Emily’s room, while Oliver patrolled the fields at night, armed with a shotgun that never seemed to make him feel any safer.

One evening, as Margaret prepared to turn in for the night, she heard footsteps creaking on the landing. “Oliver?” she called, but there was no answer. She turned the corner and froze. Standing at the end of the hallway was Emily—or what looked like her. Her eyes were black as coal, her skin pale as wax, and strands of straw peeked from the corners of her mouth.

Margaret’s breath caught in her throat as Emily lifted one hand, fingers twitching unnaturally. “Mummy,” she whispered in a rasp that carried the weight of something ancient, something vengeful.

Margaret screamed, stumbling back as Oliver rushed to her side. But when they looked again, the hallway was empty. Only a trail of straw remained, leading back to Emily’s room but not a sign of the child could be found there or anywhere else on the farm despite a desperate search.

Oliver and Margaret left the next morning, abandoning the farmhouse and everything inside. As they drove away, Oliver glanced in the rear-view mirror, tears falling down his cheeks, a river of pain. The scarecrow was back on its post, its head tilted slightly, watching them go.

The villagers never saw the Cartwrights again. The farmhouse remained empty, its windows dark, its fields untouched. But on certain nights, when the wind howled through the trees, those who dared to pass by swore they could hear a child crying mournfully as if in the depths of despair—the heart breaking sound echoing across the fields, drifting from the place where the scarecrow stood, waiting patiently.