March 2026 – Pen of the Damned

The dried corn stalks rustled in the relentless dry wind, the noise echoing through the neglected field. The harsh sunset coloured the dead vegetation with garish crimson and burnt oranges, blending with the growing shadows that danced off the fading light.
In the middle of the field, something fluttered inside an amorphous shape that was once a scarecrow. A ghost of life, illuminated in scarlet hues, pulsed within the moldy straw and tattered cloth. The bulbous head of the thing lifts, revealing a skeletal face under a rotting hat, as boney fingers twist to unhook itself from the pole on which it hung.
Dropping to the ground with a thud, desiccated foliage cracked and scrunched under its feet. Instinctively, it knew there was a wrongness in the air, abandoned neglect where there should be a bountiful harvest.
How long had it been sleeping?
Long enough for the old ways to be forgotten by most. It sensed that. The soil under its feet reverberated the neglect, the violations. The loss of rite and rejuvenation.
So how was it here?
Lifting its hand, it saw the bones. Mortal bones, newly dead, still with the hint of blood and hovering memories. Violent images full of agony, floating in its consciousness with familiar words of ritual. A man strung up in the lifeless field and sacrificed to summon it back to this world.
Someone still knew the old ways.
Shifting position, it tasted the essence of its host, not enjoying what it experienced. The mortal thing had been a despicable creature, a defiler of the sacred earth, but at least the man died eviscerated and screaming. An offering given, and accepted. The land cried out for restoration. It would oblige.
Yet, it would need more sacrifice to restore the crops, the earth.
It needed more humans.
More bones, ground to healing dust for the wind to scatter. More blood to seep into the dirt and awaken the land. To deliver the abundant harvest. To fulfill the pact.
It moved forward, the dead corn stalks surrounding it crumpling into powder with each step. As it left the field, it saw lights on the horizon.
While the night fell in ribbons of ashy black, it walked down the old dusty road, headed towards the town…

~ A. F. Stewart