A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.
The Scarecrow on Maple Hill
By Trevor Wright
Every fall, when the corn turns gold and the air smells like woodsmoke, the scarecrow on Maple Hill changes.
No one admits it out loud, but everyone knows. The farmers notice first — they always do. One morning, there’s just a different one standing there. Same post, same field, different face.
It’s never announced. No one drives a truck up the hill or hauls a new dummy out from the barn. But come sunrise, there it is — fresh clothes, new boots, a hat that wasn’t there before. Always right after someone goes missing.
The Miller family’s owned that farm for three generations. Their corn feeds half the town, and their scarecrows stand like watchmen over the rows. But there’s one scarecrow they don’t talk about.
The one at the very top of Maple Hill.
The oldest folks remember when it started. Back in ’74, Tommy Miller — twelve years old, red hair, always wore that same faded Cardinals cap — went missing after school. His bike was found by the ditch, its front tire still spinning. They searched the woods, drained the pond, brought in dogs. Nothing.
Three days later, a new scarecrow appeared in the top field.
Cardinals cap. Red flannel. Jeans with the same tear in the knee.
They tore it down right away. Burned it. Said it was a cruel prank.
The next morning, it was standing there again.
Over the years, folks tried all sorts of things. They dug up the post. They salted the soil. The sheriff even set up cameras once, back when those boxy camcorders came out. But every time, same result: nothing on the tape, and a brand-new scarecrow by morning.
After a while, they stopped trying.
It just became part of the harvest — like frost or blight or taxes. You’d lose someone, and the next dawn, the field would have another guardian.
The Millers kept farming. What else could they do? The corn still grew, tall and sweet. The seasons turned. People moved on.
Mostly.
Last year, it was Ethan Crowe who went missing.
Twenty-two. Worked the feed store. Quiet kid, always helped his mom carry groceries. His truck was found near the Miller property, engine still warm, door wide open.
That night, the wind came hard from the east — a storm that rattled the windows and set the corn to dancing. When the sun came up, the newest scarecrow was there.
Plaid shirt. Work gloves. Muddy boots.
And that same crooked smile sewn into the burlap face.
Some folks drive out to see it, like it’s a roadside attraction. Teenagers dare each other to touch the fence or shine flashlights on the hill. The Miller boy — the youngest one, Jason — chases them off sometimes, waving a shotgun, saying they’re disturbing the crops.
But I’ve seen him at the edge of the field after dark.
Just standing there. Watching the scarecrow.
The strangest part? The scarecrow’s never in the same spot twice. One morning it’s by the old well. The next, closer to the treeline. Always moving a little closer to the farmhouse.
And no one says a damn thing.
I drove by tonight after work. The corn’s tall again this year, high enough to keep secrets. The air’s heavy with that late-October chill — the kind that smells like rain and endings. I slowed at the curve, headlights cutting through fog, and there it was:
A new scarecrow.
The clothes looked too clean. The skin — if that’s what it was — too pale. And when the light hit its face, the stitched mouth seemed to curve just a little wider.
Then I realized the hat it wore — a dark gray beanie — looked just like mine.
I’m sure it’s coincidence.
It has to be.
Still, when I got home, I locked the doors. Drew the curtains. And from my window, I swear I can see the hill — faintly, through the mist.
And something standing there, just a little closer than before.
🕯️ Lantern Note:
We like to think we’ve outgrown our fears — that monsters stay in stories and ghosts belong to the past. But fear doesn’t die. It adapts. It wears new faces, takes new shapes, and waits patiently for the dark to remind us who we really are.
Out there in the fields, something still stands guard. Maybe it’s straw and twine. Maybe it’s the shape of guilt itself. The truth doesn’t matter much — only that we keep building it, again and again, to watch over the things we can’t face.
And when the wind moves through the corn, it sounds an awful lot like laughter. Or warning.
The lantern dims here,
but next Thursday, it will burn again —
for those who can’t help but look twice
when the shadows start to move.
.
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