The Scarecrow That Watches You Under the Harvest Moon

The Scarecrow That Watches You Under the Harvest Moon

Watches You Under the Harvest Moon

The Field That Never Sleeps

You’ve seen scarecrows before, right? Ragged old coats, arms out like they’re trying to fly. Most of the time I barely glance at them they're just props. But the one on Dawson’s farm... you don’t just drive past it. You don’t forget it. Not after dark. When I moved back into this muddy town, people were already whispering. Not normal gossip real whispers, like something didn’t want to hear. “The scarecrow out there,” they said, “keeps an eye.” Not just up close, either. They said it wandered. Look, I rolled my eyes. Ghost stories keep the kids in line, stop them wrecking crops. But out here, you learn quick: the things folks talk about aren’t just bedtime tales.

Strange Things in the Corn

It started small, like it always does. Animals strays, mostly kept vanishing. The way my dog barked and whimpered one night, I’ll never shake that sound. Then it was raccoons, then cats. Just gone, no tracks, no mess, no blood. Just weird scraping sounds outside my window, getting louder and louder and I mean, what do you do? I asked my neighbor, Lott, half joking. He didn’t laugh. He spat in the dirt and said, “Don’t look at it, son. That’s all.” He meant the scarecrow.

Something Dead in the Corn

This scarecrow was infamous even before I moved back. Oiled-up hat, rotten coat, the smell of mold that clung even when the wind changed. Supposed to keep birds away, but they said Dawson used a criminal’s remains stuffed inside, years ago. Just a local rumor, right? Except Dawson used to brag about it after a few whiskeys. Then he went quiet. The story is, they found him one morning, skin on his porch step, everything inside him missing. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t. A late night, almost midnight, I saw the scarecrow in full harvest moon shine. Its hat was tipped toward me. Did someone move it? Whatever next morning the arms seemed closer together. That’s the stuff that gets under your skin.

The Dread Gets Closer

There’s a kind of quiet that you feel in your bones, not just your ears. Suddenly you can hear the blood pounding in your head even when everything else is silent. Every night in October I heard that scraping again, closer and closer. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse out toward the fields. Something hunched, tall, and strange between the rows, looking back. Maybe I imagined gold glints on its face. I wish I was imagining. The harvest moon gets big around here. It’s like it pulls secrets out from the dirt. They call it Watcher’s Moon. That’s when the scarecrow’s reflection started showing up, not just in the yard but in my windows. In my dreams, too. Always still. Always staring.

Nobody Listens

You try telling someone there’s a scarecrow following you. See how fast you get dismissed. Even good friends they half-smile, change the subject. I gave up. Then things got worse. The Fields’ porch light blew out overnight. Their barn reeked of mold and wet hay. People muttered at the usual diner, blaming weather, wild dogs, anything except the truth everyone was dodging: the scarecrow under the harvest moon never guarded our crops. It hunted the living.

The Night Everything Broke

It happened just before Halloween. October 29th, the moon bright as frost. I was half-asleep to the wind, then nothing. Dead quiet. That’s the scariest part. You know something’s wrong. I looked out and the corn was still as stone. And there he was. First just a shadow slumped, arms too long, head crooked. Then the moon caught the hat, and I swear those eyes, those holes, were pointed right at me. Two empty spots where eyes should’ve been. He was close. Thirty feet, maybe less. I froze, stuck between screaming and running and neither worked. Straw twitched in his arms like he wanted to reach out. Then one arm went up, slow as anything, and pointed at me. I heard the ripping sound, burlap torn then nothing.

Aftermath

They pulled me from that mud by Dawson’s field after sunrise. Sheriff said I just slept-walked and passed out. Everyone told me to let it go. I tried. I moved away fast, sold the house for almost nothing. But I still get prickly every fall, every time the moon goes gold and swollen. Sometimes I hear that dragging sound off in the distance, like it’s searching for something for fields, for people. Sometimes, when it gets real quiet, I know he’s still out there. Under the harvest moon, watching. Waiting.