The scarecrow became a fixture. Each morning it stood somewhere new, never far from where someone had reported a nightmare the night before. Children once again spoke of a man in their rooms, though now he did not frighten them immediately. He stood still, watching, as if waiting to be recognised.Elaine returned to the archives, digging deeper than before. She found a final, half-burned journal page that spoke of failure. The guardians were never meant to be destroyed, only put back to sleep. Fire, the writer warned, wakes what should rest.
When Elaine confronted the scarecrow, she felt it watching her through the sack. Up close, she saw damp patches spreading through the burlap, soil seeping out as if the thing were sweating earth. The wind carried the faint rustle she remembered, that almost-voice.
"You don’t need them anymore," she whispered, unsure why she spoke at all.
The scarecrow leaned forward.
Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model
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