Chapter 20:
Horrid 16. Why the Scarecrow is Facing the House
HG's horrid shorts
In the cornfield behind the manor, the scarecrow always stood with its back to the porch, guarding the stalks. But this morning, it was turned. Its burlap face, stitched into a permanent, jagged grimace, was angled directly at my bedroom window. I moved it back. An hour later, it was facing the house again—but it was ten feet closer.
There is no wind, yet its straw-filled sleeves fluttered as if it were reaching for the siding. I locked the doors, but I could hear the sound of dry hay scratching against the brickwork. It’s not looking for crows. It’s looking for a casing. It knows that straw is fragile, and it wants something with bones to hold it up. I’m upstairs now, and I can see the burlap head rising over the windowsill. It doesn't have eyes, but I can feel it measuring my skin, wondering if I’ll fit inside the twine and the husks.
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