The Scarecrow Incident

Nobody in Ashveil Hollow liked talking about the scarecrow.

—or at least that is what they told Sheriff Crowe when he would wander too close to a group gathering near the town flyer for the Harvest Social later this weekend. Actually, everyone had talked about it too much over the last year since it happened.

The official version, per Town Council, was that there had been a series of unfortunate misunderstandings during the last Harvest Social. The scarecrow had been a part of the decorations. Standing at the edge of the pumpkin field, near the old split-rail fence, where it could frighten the children from the town over and amuse the adults. It had been there for years.

Accounts below beg to differ.

Same crooked hat. Same flannel shirt with the missing button. Same burlap head with the two black button eyes and the crooked stitched smile. Nobody knew who made it.

Each founding family pointed fingers at one another for the monstrosity that was the scarecrow. Nobody could remember when it first appeared. Only that it had been a staple for the event for the last ten-plus years.

To be fair, it wasn’t exactly unusual for the residents of the Hollow. Things had a way of accumulating in the town that nobody remembered bringing or creating. Though the trouble started around eight-thirty when Agnes Wren (the baker) was the first person to notice something was off.

She later accounts that she was carrying a tray of pies towards the community hall when she stopped dead in the middle of the field and turned towards the scarecrow, which was facing her. Agnes frowned. She could have sworn that the thing was positioned towards the road. She placed the pies down on the bench and walked closer. No more than ten steps in, she noticed that the scarecrow was indeed facing the road again.

Agnes started at it and grunted, “I’m too old for this nonsense.” Then grabs her tray and made her way back towards the community hall to unload her baked goods.

At 8:47, three children claimed that the scarecrow was looking at them while they ate their candied apples and waved. They were visiting from the town over, as the Harvest Festival from the Hollow was a spectacle indeed.

Their parents laughed in good fun, but slowly they were making plans to take the festivities homeward instead of seeing something blow up in their face. (Smart move. The Hollow was known for its series of unexplained events, and some dare to say supernatural tendencies. Sheriff Crowe would beg to differ and assert his own version that it was a trick of the light and nothing more to three doped-up-on-sugar hellions.)

At 8:52, Sheriff Archer Crowe was informed that the scarecrow had moved again by the Mayor, Arthur Blackwell. With a sturdy tap on his shoulders, the much smaller mayor piped up between bouts of sipping the delicious concoction that was made by Beatrice Vale, owner of Vale & Vine Apothecary. It was documented that the sheriff looked the mayor over and decided that he should “stop drinking the cider.”

By 9:03, the scarecrow was back where it always was— propped up on its post facing the road between the start of the pumpkins. Nothing menacing. Nothing of note. Just random times that the scarecrow would not be in the same place that it was placed.

No one admitted to being frightened. This was Ashveil Hollow. The people here were accustomed to the strange and unusual things. Just no more than ten minutes of time lapsed between the scarecrow being seen and not being seen. Moments when they would see it standing outside the lighting, far from the pumpkin patch. As if waiting for someone?

Finally having enough of the “nonsense,” Sheriff Crowe rolls up his sleeves at 9:47 and grips the base of the post and hauls it up out of the dirt by himself. A certain baker was known to grow beet red at the masculinity he displayed and turned to go hand out more pies.

There the scarecrow lay for the rest of the night. Or what one would seem. The Mayor, after not following the Sheriff’s orders to stop his cider tasting, walked towards the patch to sort this out for good. Finally growing the confidence of a small toddler, he tottered over to give the scarecrow a good throttling and noticed it was back upright in its spot. A sign on its shirt in scratchy letters.

SEE YOU NEXT HARVEST.

The Mayor did not like this and put his drink down for a second before turning back towards the object in question. Only to find it gone. The hole filled in. Nothing but the crickets chirping in the distance and the laughter of the bonfire in the field.

The Town Council of Ashveil Hollow met the following afternoon. They agreed that there had been no supernatural activity. They agreed that no one was harmed. They agreed that the Harvest Social was a success— also that if that scarecrow appears again, it would be “dealt with.”

No one knew or asked what that meant.

Because everyone in the Hollow knew better than to ask questions about things they didn’t actually want answers for.

First day of fall this year.

The scarecrow returned. This time no one said anything. The Town Council took matters into their own hands— whoever they may be. It took four men to pull it out of the post and throw it on the bonfire in the town square. Gone was the crooked hat, the flannel shirt, the wonky stitching of its face. Burned to ash. Feeling their dues done, the Council wiped their hands of it. Only to be met with the same scarecrow once more hours later.

Same hat.

Different shirt.

Same damn smile with dead eyes looking back at them.

Nobody remembers putting it there. Nobody admits to making it. Nobody wants to acknowledge the shirt now dressed on it, matching the same person that disappeared last autumn.

The Council has asked everyone to stop spreading rumors. The scarecrow has been dealt with. Again.

They really would like for the Harvest Festival to stop being called “The Scarecrow Incident.”

Unfortunately, nobody in the Hollow seems particularly interested in doing that.