The Bad Harvest

In the small city of Ravenwood, the afterlife crop was the most important event of the time. It was a time for growers to reap the fruits of their labor and to celebrate their hard work with their families and musketeers. But this time, commodity was different. The fields were barren, and the crops were withered and rotting on the vine. It was as if the earth itself had turned against them.

The townsfolk tried to make the stylish of the situation, but as the days passed, their despair grew. There was talk of curses and dark magic, and rumors of a strange figure who had been seen lurking in the murk at night. Some said it was a witch, while others claimed it was the devil himself.

As the crop jubilee approached, the city council held an exigency meeting to bandy their options. They decided to shoot a group of men to probe the fields and see if they could find any suggestions as to what was causing the bad crop.

The men set out beforehand the coming morning, armed with shovels and lanterns. As they walked through the fields, they noticed a strange smell in the air, a sickly sweet odor that made their tummies turn. They soon came across a patch of land that was darker than the rest, as if it had been burned by some unknown force. In the center of the patch stood a lone scarecrow, its tattered clothes flopping in the wind.

One of the men, a planter named Jacob, stepped forward to examine the scarecrow. As he drew closer, he noticed that its face wasn't made of straw, but of mortal skin. The eyes were empty sockets, and the mouth was twisted into a grotesque smile. Jacob stumbled back, affrighted, and the other men rushed to his side.

Suddenly, the scarecrow came to life. It let out a blood- curdling laugh and dived at Jacob, its arms flailing hectically. The men scattered in all directions, running for their lives. Jacob wasn't so lucky. The scarecrow caught him by the neck and dragged him into the near forestland, fading into the murk.

The remaining men returned to city, pale and shaken. They told the council what had happed, and the city was thrown into a state of fear. They knew now that commodity wrong was at work in their fields, and they did not know how to stop it.

As the night of the crop jubilee approached, the townsfolk gathered in the city forecourt, hoping to find some solace in each other's company. But as they looked out at the fields, they saw that the scarecrows had multiplied, standing watch over the ruined crops like an army of the undead.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the sound of crows, thousands of them descending on the city like a black pall. They swooped down from the sky, attacking the townies with razor-sharp talons and beaks. The people ran for cover, but it was no use. The crows were far and wide, tearing at their meat and drawing blood.

In the chaos, the townsfolk caught a regard of the figure they had heard about by whispers. It was a woman, dressed in black blankets, with a pale face and wild eyes. She stood in the center of the forecourt, girdled by a circle of fire. In her hand, she held a staff, outgunned with a glowing demitasse.

The woman began to chant, and the ground shook beneath their bases. The scarecrows came to life, marching towards the city with a single purpose. They weren't there to scarify down the catcalls, but to reap a crop of their own.

The townsfolk fought back with all their might, but it was no use. The scarecrows were too strong, too multitudinous. They tore through the city

structures, leaving destruction and death in their wake. The crows continued to attack from over, their figures acting to multiply by the nanosecond. The woman in black continued to chant, her voice growing louder and more hopeless.

Eventually, with a final burst of energy, the woman raised her staff grandly above her head and let out a piercing laugh. A bolt of lightning shot down from the sky, striking the demitasse at the top of the staff. The ground shook formerly again, and a massive billabong

opened up beneath the scarecrows.

With a blaring roar, the scarecrows were swallowed up by the earth. The crows faded as snappily as they had come, leaving behind a city in remains. The woman in black collapsed to the ground, her body limp and breathless.

In the days that followed, the townsfolk sluggishly began to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. They buried their dead and tried to come to terms with the horror that had chanced their city. Some said it was the work of a revengeful god, while others claimed it was simply the result of a bad crop.

But deep down, they all knew the verity. There was commodity dark and malignant at work in their fields, commodity that had taken root long before the first seeds were planted. And though they tried to forget, they knew that it would noway truly be gone.

Times latterly, trippers

passing through Ravenwood would occasionally report seeing a figure standing in the fields at night, dressed in black blankets and carrying a staff with a glowing demitasse at the top. And though the townsfolk noway spoke of it, they knew that it was the spirit of the woman who had saved them all those times agone

, watching over them from beyond the grave.

As time passed, the memory of the bad crop faded down, and the people of Ravenwood began to rebuild. They planted new crops, erected new homes, and tried to put the history behind them.

But there was always a sense of apprehension that dallied in the air, a feeling that commodity wasn't relatively right. Some claimed to see strange murk moving in the fields at night, while others heard whispers on the wind that they could not relatively make out.

And every afterlife, as the crop season approached, the people of Ravenwood would hold their breath, wondering if they would formerly again be visited by the horrors of the history. But time after time, the crops grew strong and the crop was bountiful, and the city began to believe that they had eventually put the darkness behind them.

But they were wrong.

One afterlife, numerous times after the bad crop, a planter named Tom went out to check on his fields. As he walked through the rows of sludge, he noticed a strange figure standing in the distance. It was a scarecrow, dressed in tattered clothes and outgunned with a burlap sack for a head.

Tom felt a shiver run down his chine as he approached the scarecrow. But as he drew closer, he realized that there was commodity different about this bone

. Its eyes were glowing red, and its arms hung limp at its sides.

Suddenly, the scarecrow sprang to life, its arms shooting out to snare Tom by the neck. Tom plodded to break free, but the scarecrow's grip was too strong. And as the life drained out of him, Tom realized that the darkness had noway truly left Ravenwood.

The end.