The Hay Wraith

I’m sorry I’ve been quiet. It’s hard to write when every time I close my eyes, I see that stage. But I need to get it out before it festers.

It started three weeks ago, the night of the autumn festival at the old mill. I was cast in the town’s historical pageant, a reenactment of the founding of our little valley. My friend Dale was playing the miller’s assistant, a character known for always wearing a wide-brimmed hat. They had built a replica of the original mill, complete with a creaking waterwheel and a cart laden with hay to be thrown at the audience as a gimmick. The whole thing was staged in the barn, lit only by flickering lanterns and a single spotlight from above.

In the dream, I was helping Dale to his mark near the cart. The audience was a blur of indistinct faces, murmuring in the dark. As we walked, I noticed our shadows thrown grotesquely on the weathered barn wall. Dale’s shadow, with its broad hat, loomed large. Then, beside it, another shadow appeared—a perfect match, but it didn’t belong to anyone. The real Dale froze, his eyes wide, and I saw his shadow’s hat tip, as if greeting the other. Then the other shadow raised a hand, and Dale’s shadow did the same, mirroring it. I tried to scream, but no sound came. The hay on the cart rustled, and I saw a pale, withered face peering out from beneath it, grinning. I woke up drenched in sweat.

That was bad enough. But then it started happening when I was awake. I’d see my own shadow on the wall of my apartment, and sometimes it would be slightly out of sync—a half-second behind. One evening, I caught it scratching its head, though I was still. I told my sister, Clara, about it, hoping she’d laugh it off. Instead, she grew pale and whispered that she’d felt a cold breath on her neck in the barn during the rehearsal, and she saw a shadow of a man wearing a hat standing by the hay, even though no one was there.

Last night, I stayed late at the mill to retrieve a prop I’d forgotten. The barn was dark, lit only by the ghost of a moon through the slats. I heard a rustling from the hay cart. I turned, and there it was—a figure made of pure darkness, but not flat like a shadow. It had depth, and it wore a wide-brimmed hat, just like the one in my dream. It stood by the cart, and the hay seemed to reach out toward it, as if drawn by an unseen wind. I backed away, but my shadow didn’t follow. It stayed on the wall, separate, and slowly, it turned its head to look at me. The figure in the barn spoke, its voice like dry leaves skittering on stone: ‘You’ve come to take my place.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached my car and locked the doors. But as I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror, and there was a dark shape in the back seat, wearing a hat. I slammed on the brakes, but when I turned, nothing was there. Yet my shadow—my own shadow—stayed in the driver’s seat, even as I got out and ran to Clara’s house. She answered the door, and I saw her face go white. She pointed at my feet. I looked down. I had no shadow. The one I had left behind was now standing in the middle of the road, waving at me.

That was last night. I haven’t slept. I’m writing this in Clara’s basement, where the lights are all on, and I’m standing in the corner, away from any walls. But I know it’s only a matter of time. The hay in the mill has been missing a piece since the festival. And every time I close my eyes, I see a cart full of hay, and a shadow with a hat, waiting for me to climb in. I don’t think I’ll be able to submit another update after this. If you see a shadow that moves on its own, run. Don’t look at the hay. And never, ever let it take your place.