The straw maze should have closed hours ago.

Every October, visitors flock to the old field. Not just for the maze. Over the past few years, several people have disappeared here or were later found dead somewhere nearby. The cases were never solved, and by now, stories about the field are as much a part of Halloween as pumpkins and bonfires. Some people talk about voices between the rows of corn. Others swear there’s a scarecrow that never seems to be standing where they last saw it.

For most people, that’s exactly what makes the place so appealing.

Now the last visitors are gone. Somewhere beyond the towering rows of corn, the lanterns are going out one by one, and the way back to the entrance should be just around the next turn. Instead, the narrow path leads deeper into the field.

The smell of damp earth, dry straw, and smoke hangs heavy in the cold October air. Firelight flickers above the stalks. Somewhere, a crow caws.

Then the path ends in a small clearing.

At its center stands an old scarecrow post. A figure hangs from the weathered crossbeam with his arms spread wide, tall and motionless, his head bowed beneath a frayed hat. Torn fabric flutters in the wind.

Except the thing hanging from that post isn’t an ordinary scarecrow.

Beneath the rags is the unmistakable shape of a human body. Skin where there should be wood and stuffed cloth. Dark hair falls from beneath the brim of his hat. Rough scars run across his face, chest, and stomach, crossed by marks that look like old stitches.

A quiet creak breaks the silence. His head lifts.

His eyes find you immediately, and a wide grin spreads across his face.