The Scarecrow

The thing scraped down the road on one wooden peg. Sliding to walk, scretching horridly as it ambled. the first few homes that had jack-o-lanterns grabbed its attention in a curious manner. It turned to face them, while maintaining the shape of a mangled “t,” and screamed. It screamed the chilling, desperate, cry of a man being murdered by a butcher with an axe.

It was once a scarecrow, but then it came to life. It wore a tattered black cloth, had a carved turnip face, and haunted the small town all Halloween night. It twisted on a cobble wood stone, and with conviction, aided by the fire of a candle lit snarl, it set blaze to a cottage’s wooden door.

The fire was unnatural, it grew so fast that it left no one time to escape. The turnip head scarecrow cackled and scraped back onto the road, but now the cloth it wore was aflame.

A huntsman aimed a gun at the thing and fired, to stop it from killing any more. What he did hit was just splintered, and it made its way to another cottage door.

“How do we stop it?” The huntsman wondered aloud to his friends hiding in his home nearby.

“We can’t. It just goes until it’s destroyed itself.”

“HELP US!” There was a desperate scream, but the fire was again too fast for any survivors. The huntsman watched in shock as his neighbour stumbled into the road while on fire, then the scarecrow impaled him with its wooden peg “leg.” It hopped into his chest, and left half of its hot, glowing frame there, and turned toward the huntsman’s home.

The Turnip head cackled, then stopped and wailed at the sight of the jack-o-lanterns on the huntsman’s porch. It rotated away.

“Why isn’t it trying to kill us!?”

“I don’t know!”

Screech, Scrape, Scretch. “Muuh,” the turnip head protested. The street was lonely, lit by the cottage fires, and the bodies of victims aflame here or there. The thing stood still, seeming not to know where else to scatter despair.

Gun shots rang out through the crackle and smoke. The huntsman came from behind and decided to speed up the scarecrow’s rapid decay. The shots jerked it wildly around in the road, and glowing splinters went flying everywhere.

It made no protest as it lost bits of its frame, but seemed to watch as the chunks of glowing wood went flying through the air. It’s twisted, fiery turnip face flipped round and round again as it took in the impact of the blasts. The remaining half of the turnip laughed.

“Why are you laughing?!” The huntsman protested, before putting out the fire with his boot. He turned back toward his home and stared in horror as it too was digested by the evil of the scarecrow’s flame. He fell to the ground, where for days after he refused to move, and in despair he wasted away.

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