The Scarecrow's Smile

The cornstalks rustled like dry bones in the autumn breeze, a sound that usually brought comfort but now felt like a warning. My grandfather, a man as weathered and rooted as the ancient oak by the barn, had told me to stay away from the field's edge. "That one," he'd said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "he's just for show, but some things… some things are better left alone." He was talking about the scarecrow.

It was an old thing, its burlap sack head faded to a pale gray. But it was its face, a single, carved block of wood, that held my attention. A wide, unnatural grin was etched into the grain, so deep it looked less like a smile and more like a permanent grimace of glee. The straw from its neck stuck out like a mangled beard, and its button eyes were just two dark, empty holes. I couldn't look away from that smile. It felt like it was looking back.

I was leaning against the fence one evening, watching the last sliver of sun dip below the horizon, when a shiver ran down my spine. The scarecrow, silhouetted against the blood-orange sky, seemed to have shifted. A moment ago, its head had been tilted slightly to the right, but now it was perfectly straight, facing me. My heart hammered against my ribs. I shook my head, blaming the setting sun and my imagination. The scarecrow didn't move. It was just an old doll filled with straw. It couldn't.

Later that night, I was sitting on the porch with my grandfather, a glass of iced tea sweating in my hand. The crickets chirped, and the fireflies blinked like tiny, wandering stars. But beneath it all, I heard a different sound—a soft, scraping whisper coming from the cornfield.

"Grandpa," I said, my voice barely a whisper, "do you hear that?"

He froze, his eyes fixed on the distant field. The scraping sound grew louder, like a rustle of heavy cloth. My grandfather's face was a mask of cold fear. "Don't you ever look at him, boy," he said, his voice tight. "Don't you ever try to understand that smile. He likes to be seen, likes to be known. Just turn your back."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. A gust of wind blew across the porch, and I swore I could smell something sweet and rotten, like decaying sunflowers.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The memory of my grandfather's fear was more terrifying than any ghost story. Around midnight, the scraping came again, right outside my window. I crawled to the sill and slowly pulled back the curtain. The moon cast long, ghoulish shadows, but I could make out the figure of the scarecrow standing at the edge of the cornfield. And its head was tilted. Not to the side this time, but down, as if it were looking at the ground. Or maybe at the house. My blood ran cold. The smile seemed to glow in the moonlight. I could see the lines of the carving, and for one horrifying moment, they seemed to shift, to deepen, as if a genuine, malevolent pleasure was twisting its features.

I bolted out of bed, grabbed a flashlight, and crept down the hallway. I had to see it up close. I had to prove to myself that my mind was playing tricks on me, that this was just a trick of the light and shadow. I slipped out the back door and walked toward the field, the beam of my flashlight cutting a shaky path through the darkness. The crickets had fallen silent. The only sound was my own frantic breathing.

As I approached the scarecrow, the air grew colder. My flashlight beam found its face, illuminating the sinister, wooden grin. I raised the light higher, and that's when I saw it. The burlap shirt, where the straw was stuffed, was moving—just a little, like a heartbeat. I stood there, frozen. I could feel the smile on that wooden face, feel its mocking gaze. Then, a low, scratchy sound filled the air, a whisper that seemed to come from all around me. It was like a voice made of rustling cornstalks.

"You came to see me, little one," it rasped. "I knew you would."

The scarecrow's head snapped up. Its smile widened, the lines of the carving so deep now that they looked like fresh, cruel cuts in the wood. A long, straw-stuffed arm lifted slowly, creaking at the seams, and pointed a frayed finger directly at me.

"That smile on your face," the voice hissed, "it's almost as sweet as mine."

I screamed, dropping the flashlight as I turned and ran, the beam of light rolling behind me and illuminating the cornfield in a spinning, disorienting strobe. I ran for the house, for my grandfather. I burst through the door and slammed it shut, panting and shaking.

"Grandpa!" I yelled, "Grandpa, it's alive!"

The house was silent. I raced to his room, threw open the door, and flicked on the light. The bed was neatly made. The room was empty. On the pillow, a small, hand-carved wooden doll lay on its back. It was a man, its face a perfect, polished copy of a smiling farmer. The doll's eyes were two small, dark, and empty holes. The scarecrow's smile had found a new face to wear.