The old farmhouse looked like it had been exhaled from the earth itself — sun-bleached boards, blistered window frames, and a porch sagging under its own weary age. You hadn't set foot on your grandfather’s land since you were a child, and now here you were, key in hand, standing at the threshold as dusk curled its fingers around the edges of the horizon.

The fields stretched endlessly beyond the house, wind whispering through the brittle stalks like it had secrets to share. You thought you saw something — a dark, crooked shape standing out in the golden sea — but the fading light made everything a silhouette.

The farmhouse was hollow inside, stripped of personal warmth. You spent the evening unpacking the bare essentials, the unease prickling at the back of your neck growing stronger as night settled. An old grandfather clock ticked away in the front room, and by the time the clock groaned its midnight chime, you were wide awake, lying on the lumpy couch, staring at the ceiling. That’s when you heard it.

Scrape.

A long, slow drag. Metal on wood. Somewhere out in the field. You sat up. Silence followed. Then-

Scrape. Drag. Scrape.

Curiosity wrestled with the creeping cold in your chest. You pulled on your coat and grabbed a flashlight. The screen door creaked as you stepped onto the porch. Your beam swept across the fields, stopping on the scarecrow you thought you’d seen earlier. Tall. Slender. Perched atop a crooked wooden post. The tattered yellow hood drooped over what should have been a burlap face, but instead there was something else — wheat-blonde hair shifting gently in the night breeze, and beneath the shadow of the hood, two eyes reflected the beam back at you.

Yellow eyes. Glowing. Unblinking.

The air tightened around you. You took a step back, nearly tripping over the porch step. The scarecrow tilted its head. Slow. Curious. The beam flickered. When the light steadied again, the post was empty.

A whisper of breath came from behind you.

"New."