“Get the fuck away from me. I’ll use your eyelids as ash trays, you straw-boned freak!” Bridget screeched as she threw her ingredients back into threadworn sack. The battered scarecrow peered at her from dull, black button eyes. A rictus grin stitched onto the bag that served as its head. Bits of hay poked out of it.

It took another halting step towards the girl. She hefted her shovel and thrust at it. It fell back with a muted thump. It continued looking at her. But now it had the pause of a confused child, not some eldritch horror. Bridget hefted the shove above her head and hesitated.

“What are you?” She asked. Shovel still held high, but famished arms weakening. The scarecrow placed a straw stuffed mitten on its chest as if to ask “me?”

“Yes, you. The scarecrow on the ground. Tell me your business or I’ll plant this shovel right down your gut,” her voice hardly wavered. Crane would have been proud, she thought. Finally showing some backbone. The scarecrow lifted its hands in a shrug. Bridget dropped the spade down. It quivered in the dirt. “Just get out of here, would you? Townsfolk get twitchy about the Wyrd.”

The scarecrow cocked its head and looked past Bridget’s shoulder. Small noises from the brambles became louder. Bridget cursed as she scrambled behind a tombstone. No one was supposed to know she’d come to the old Dravax burial grounds. Forbidden, except for the high priest and sworn members of the service.