The scarecrow’s hands break like a shell—toothpick timbers burst out and reveal thick tri-pod fingers. Its talons sink into my shirt and gash my skin as they close.

Trapped in it’s immovable clutch I try to brush back shock as if it hadn’t already grown into a dominating tree in the landscape of my conscience.

Adrenaline kicks in at the right moment. I throw all of my weight into a frantic spin and free myself from my shirt’s confinement.
I’m officially peppered to the cusp of spasmadic now, running into the field with a craned neck. Peeking behind me every few feet, I see nothing. I am alone.

Panting and looking through the swaying corn, I see the scarecrow hung up in its original position gripping my blood stained shirt.

I run.

Back inside the barn the air is cool and feels good on my overexerted body.

But there’s no time to rest. Small pieces of wood fly into a pile at my feet. The scarecrow materializes, trapping me in a corner of the barn.
Extending—It offers me my bloody shirt.