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The Scarecrow Counts to Twelve
horrorEveryone5 contributors · 4 paragraphs deep
The straw arm finishes bending and points down at the dirt between them. Wren kneels and digs with their hands. A few inches down, their fingers hit something hard and smooth. It's a small wooden box, old and damp. Wren pries it open and finds eleven tiny carved figures inside, each one shaped like a little person.
Wren lifts the eleven figures out and presses them back into the dirt, but this time in a ring, each one facing outward instead of in. It just feels right, like undoing a knot. The ground warms under their hands. One by one, lights flicker on in the eleven empty houses across the valley, like people are coming home.
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