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The Scarecrow Counts to Twelve
horrorEveryone5 contributors · 4 paragraphs deep
Instead of pointing, the arm grabs Wren's wrist. The grip is strong for a thing made of straw. "Stay," a dry whisper comes from the stitched mouth. "The others ran. Runners get pointed at. Counters get to choose." Wren stops struggling and listens.
"Then I'll count for you," Wren says. "But I count to thirteen, not twelve. And the thirteenth house is yours." The button eyes widen. The whole field shudders. Wren has found the one rule the scarecrow can't break: it must obey its own counter.
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