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The Scarecrow Counts to Twelve
horrorEveryone5 contributors · 4 paragraphs deep
Before Wren can light the match, the wind picks up and snuffs it out. Then the scarecrow's head turns with a slow creak. "Burn me and you take my place," it says. "Someone must point. Someone must count. Choose which one you'll be." Wren freezes, match held in the air.
"Then I'll be the one who counts," Wren says, and snuffs the match for good. The scarecrow's button eyes shine. "Wise," it whispers. From that day Wren walks the field each harvest and counts the rows, and the arm never points at a house again. The eleven families come home by spring.
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