There he hung, all those long painful years. There he hung, planning his revenge and waiting for this Halloween night, this very night to have his sweet revenge.
The scarecrow had been placed in the field years earlier, made of all the things scarecrows normally are: a burlap bag for a head with buttons as eyes and stitching for a mouth, old farm clothes, a rumpled fedora, and straw. He had been assembled by the woman who owned that field, and then tied to the support like he was being crucified.
But this woman was a witch who practiced herb and earth witchery, so she wanted to put a blessing spell on her field and her new scarecrow. But unfortunately for her, she misspoke as she recited the ancient text in that midnight field and actually gave the scarecrow awareness, consciousness, and senses -- senses that knew all too well he was tied to a cross beam in a field for year after long, painful year.
There he hung, watching the seasons slowly change, being driven mad by his mute impotence to change his situation, to express his feelings, to stop the agony of his existence. He watched as the golden fields of autumn turned slowly to the wicked white of winter where the winds ripped into him like a million shards of glass. He watched as the green-kissed fields of early spring turned into the verdant fields of summer with the cruel sun beating down on him. There he hung, tormented by all the seasons had to torture him with and unable to change it.
But he also saw all the people around him, unaware of his agony even as he shrieked to them in his head and begged for help. He saw the witch that was responsible for his pain as she walked the boundaries of her fields, celebrating the eight sabbats, blessing the land and asking for a bountiful harvest. He watched as the witch's daughter would use the field as a convenient place to escape her mother's prying eyes to fuck her numerous boyfriends. He watched, unable to interact with these humans but fully able to feel what they felt.
And as he watched he slowly grew more and more insane, waiting for this very Halloween night.
The spell that the witch unknowingly cast upon the scarecrow had a very specific eventual end. When the beams of a full moon fell unabated upon the scarecrow on a Halloween night he would be animated, a scarecrow humanized, and would have until dawn the next day to walk, to act, to feel, to be. Upon the first light of the new day he would be aware no more and return to nothing but a few scraps of old clothes, stitching, and straw.
The field was cloaked in darkness that night as the scarecrow screamed in his head for the clouds to part. His eyes could see all too well that the full moon, pregnant with the promise of his release, was hidden behind a thin veil of black clouds. Would he be denied his sweet release after all these years, only to have to wait how many more for his revenge? Would even the skies mock and torment him by withholding succor?
Just then, a wind kicked up that slowly parted the clouds, and the moon's bluish-white beams fell uninhibited at last upon the scarecrow. As the first magical light touched him, the scarecrow felt a strange tingling race through his entire body as the spell transformed his straw into flesh, bone, blood, and sinew.
But the spell did not create a perfect human, rather a straw scarecrow in human form; he appeared as if his flesh was infused with straw, strands of it running through and all around his newly formed skin. He coughed as he took the first breath through burlap-nostrils to fill fresh lungs, his breathing a gurgling, choking, belabored sound. Every breath he took was an effort as a result of the straw that permeated every inch of his new respiratory system. The scarecrow felt strength and power course through his newly formed straw-muscles. With one massive lurch he ripped the cords that bound him to the cross beam and leapt to the ground.
He was ready to be avenged.
The scarecrow walked slowly through the corn that now, for the first time in his existence, was taller than he. He walked towards the farm house in which the witch lived with her daughter. As he approached the clearing for the house and out buildings the scarecrow turned towards what he knew was a tool shed; opening the door with a creak he withdrew the item he was looking for: a freshly sharpened sickle knife.
The scarecrow then let himself into the darkened house. He stood there for a moment listening, trying to quiet his heavy, difficult breathing. He heard a television and soft talking in one of the rooms upstairs, recognizing that as the witch's daughter and her boyfriend du jour. He then heard giggling and heavy breathing from the downstairs bedroom, knowing that that is where he would find the witch.
The scarecrow withdrew as quietly as he had entered the house, walking around the back until he came to the window of the witch's bedroom. There he stood and peered into the dark room, lit only as it was by a few candles. He looked more carefully and could perceive two nude forms laying on the witch's bed, embraced and kissing passionately.
The witch was an attractive woman of about 45 or so, still very fit and exceedingly well built. Her body seemed perfect and flawless bathed in the soft orange glow from the half-dozen candles or so. The witch had long, curly black hair which she normally kept up, but now in such a relaxed moment the long curls poured all over her shoulders and down her back. Her face remained lovely, even etched as it was by a few thin wrinkles, and her entire face seemed to beam with light when she smiled. Her body remained tight and hard, with large, soft, firm breasts that were the envy of women twenty years her junior.
