The Harvestman’s Due

The old Thornewood place had been a legend in our town for as long as anyone could remember. A gothic Victorian mansion, it sat at the end of a long, winding dirt road, swallowed by overgrown oaks and weeping willows. The locals whispered about the family who vanished there in the 1930s, and about the strange noises that emanated from its rotting walls on certain nights. I, Lila, had always been drawn to such places, a thrill-seeker with a camera and a blog. My brother Marcus, skeptical but loyal, agreed to accompany me on the eve of All Hallows’ Eve itself, a dare we had made months ago.

We arrived just as the last light bled from the sky, leaving a bruised purple horizon. The house loomed before us, its windows like vacant eyes, its porch sagging like a tired jaw. I felt a familiar tingle of excitement, but also something else, a weight in the air that pressed against my skin. Marcus laughed nervously. ‘You sure about this, Lila?’ He jingled his keys, ready to bolt. I just smiled and pushed open the creaking front door.

We stepped into a grand foyer, dust thick as a blanket. A grand staircase spiraled upward, and doors led off into darkness. I turned on my flashlight, casting long, dancing shadows. Marcus held his phone up, the light trembling. ‘Smells like death,’ he said, half-joking. But it was true, a musty, sweet odor, like rotting flowers. I ignored him and began to explore, snapping photos of peeling wallpaper and a chandelier draped in cobwebs.

Then I heard it, a sound that pierced the silence: a baby’s cry. It was faint, but unmistakable, coming from upstairs. Marcus gripped my arm. ‘Please tell me you left a baby in the car.’ I shook my head. We looked at each other, and despite our bravado, we both knew we had to check. We crept up the stairs, the cries growing louder, more desperate. They led us to a room at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. I pushed it open, and the crying stopped.

The room was a nursery, frozen in time. A crib sat in the corner, its linens yellowed. The wallpaper had faded horses and clowns. But the place was clearly abandoned, no one there. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘We should go,’ Marcus whispered. But I was rooted, a strange compulsion washing over me. I walked to the crib and looked in. Inside was a doll, not a baby, but a china-faced doll with cracked lips. I reached in to pick it up, and that’s when I felt the cold hands brush the back of my neck.

I spun around, but there was nothing. The cry started again, from the hallway, this time lower, more guttural. I left the doll and ran out. The cry led me down the hall, around corners, until I found myself in front of a closed door. I flung it open, but it was just an empty closet. I laughed, a nervous, forced sound. ‘I’m not afraid of you!’ I shouted into the darkness. The cry turned into a chortle, a deep, rasping laugh that wasn’t a baby’s. The door slammed shut behind me, plunging me into blackness.

I threw my weight against it, but it wouldn’t budge. I called for Marcus, but my voice echoed strangely. Panic began to set in. My flashlight flickered and died. I was trapped. Then I felt a presence, a cold compression of air. Something wrapped around me, icy tendrils, and I was lifted and thrown backwards. I crashed into a table, knocking the wind out of me, and slid across the floor, ending up in the center of a large dining room. Above me, a shadowy figure materialized, a tall, gaunt man in a fedora, his face a void of darkness. He leaned over me, and I felt his hands, like dead fish, pressing on my chest.

A voice, dry as autumn leaves, whispered, ‘You should be.’ I heard Marcus shouting my name, distant and frantic. But I couldn’t move, pinned by an unseen weight. The figure’s face came closer, and I saw in the depths of his void eyes a swirling of harvest moons and withered cornfields. He was not a thing of the house, but of the land itself, an old spirit who had claimed this place. He spoke again, ‘You took from my garden. The harvest must be reaped.’ I realized then, the doll, the peeling wallpaper, the cries, all were lures. He was a scarecrow, a bringer of final autumns.

I gasped, forcing air into my lungs, and managed to choke out, ‘I didn’t take anything.’ He laughed, a sound like dry bones snapping. ‘Your brother took the doll.’ As if on cue, I heard Marcus’s footsteps, and then the slam of a door. The spirit’s grip loosened, and he turned his head towards the sound. In that moment, I scrambled to my feet and ran. I found Marcus in the foyer, holding the china doll, his face pale. ‘I couldn’t leave it,’ he said. ‘It’s just a doll.’ But I knew better.

We ran out of the house, the laughter of the spirit chasing us down the lane. We didn’t stop until we reached my car. We threw ourselves inside, slammed the doors, and sped off. Marcus was shaking, holding the doll. ‘What the hell was that?’ he demanded. I looked at the doll in his hands. Its cracked lips seemed to smile. ‘I think we’ve brought it with us,’ I said. We drove in silence, but behind us, the house faded into the trees, and yet, I felt a presence, a warmth that wasn’t friendly.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The doll sat on my nightstand, its empty eyes seeming to watch me. I heard a faint cry, and the scent of dried corn filled my room. I knew then that we had not escaped. The harvest was not over. The scarecrow had marked us, and he would return for what was owed. As I lay in the dark, I saw the outline of a man in the corner, a dark figure with a hat, waiting for me to close my eyes. And when I finally did, I dreamt of a field, withered and gray, and a voice whispering, ‘You should be afraid. You should be so very afraid.’