The Hayworth farm had been in the family for three generations. Merle was the last of the line. He was murdered earlier today in his cornfield.

Two thieves had snuck up on old Merle while he harvested corn. The first called out to Merle, just past the tattered scarecrow, “I’m lost, sir. I’m in need of directions.”

Merle put down his basket of corn to help, but quickly became aware of the roose when he felt a dagger enter his back.

One strike wasn’t enough. Thirteen did the trick. Merle’s blood spilled and soaked into the dirt.

The first told the second that he was going to bury the body, and sent him to go loot the home.

The moon rose, and the second hadn’t heard from the first. He opened the back door that led to the cornfield, and there, where the tattered scarecrow had hung, was the first impaled on the stake.

The second slammed the door and forced his back against it. Across the interior of the home, there in the front porch window, a tattered scarecrow stared at him with a scythe in his hands.