The wheat field stretched endlessly under a bruised sky, the stalks whispering as the wind slithered through. It was a place the children were warned never to play. But children, being children, seldom listen to such warnings.

It was Naomi’s idea. A dare, really. A test of courage beneath the watchful eyes of the scarecrow.

The scarecrow stood in the middle of the field, its burlap face stitched into a twisted grin, a crown of dried cornstalks atop its head. Its arms stretched wide as though welcoming—or warning—those who wandered too close. Its coat, black and tattered, fluttered in the wind, but its hollow eyes never moved. Never blinked.

“It’s just straw,” Naomi had said, smirking at the boys—Theo and Isaac—who hesitated at the field’s edge. “Are you afraid of a bunch of dry grass?”

Isaac clenched his fists. “Not afraid.”

Theo swallowed hard, staring at the scarecrow. “We just… shouldn’t be here.”

Naomi laughed and ran ahead, her red ribbons vanishing into the golden stalks. The boys had no choice but to follow.

The field was alive with sound: the rustling of wheat, the sighing of the wind, and something else—something just beneath the natural noises, like a whisper.

Theo glanced back, but the entrance was already gone, swallowed by the shifting stalks.

“We should go back,” he muttered.

“No,” Naomi said, pushing forward. “We find the center and prove we’re not cowards. Then we leave.”

Isaac’s breath quickened. The whispering… it was growing louder. And that scent—like damp soil and old cloth.

Then they saw it.

The scarecrow.

It should have been back at the entrance. But there it stood, slightly closer, its head tilted as if listening.

“I… I don’t think it was here before,” Theo stammered.

“Maybe there’s more than one,” Naomi said, her voice unsteady.

The boys exchanged glances. That wasn’t right. The village only had one scarecrow.

They pressed on, but the stalks seemed to shift, closing in behind them. The whispers never stopped. Sometimes, they sounded like their names.

Another turn. Another wrong path.

And there—again—was the scarecrow.

This time, closer. Its coat was no longer still; it swayed as if something beneath it breathed.

Naomi stepped back. “Let’s—let’s go back.”

A shadow fell across them as the last light of day dimmed.

Theo screamed first. Naomi turned, but Isaac was no longer there. Just the wheat, bending as if something large had passed through.

“Run,” Naomi whispered.

They turned, crashing through the wheat, their lungs burning. The whispers turned to laughter—soft, dry, rustling like old parchment.

Theo tripped. Naomi grabbed his arm, pulling—pulling—until he was on his feet again.

The scarecrow stood in their path.

Now there was no mistaking it. It had moved.

The burlap lips curved into something that resembled a smile.

Naomi turned, but Theo was gone, his scream cut short.

She was alone.

The wheat wrapped around her like grasping fingers. She turned in all directions, but there was no way out—just the field, the laughter, and the figure stepping closer.

The last thing she saw was the scarecrow’s empty eyes before darkness took her.

The next day, the scarecrow stood where it always had, its stitched grin wider than before. And if you listened closely, beneath the rustling wheat, you might hear children’s laughter—soft and distant—forever lost in the field.