The Last Carol

The night air was thick with the scent of wet earth and burning wood, carrying the distant bark of a solitary dog. Our group of thirteen, including our teacher, Mr. Alvarado, trudged along the narrow dirt path that snaked through the dark expanse of farmland. Flashlights sliced through the gloom, illuminating the tall, dry stalks of corn that whispered secrets as we passed. We were on the last leg of our caroling route, heading towards the old Acosta farmhouse, a solitary structure that sat at the edge of the village, where the road dissolved into the forest.

At first, the house seemed ordinary enough—a two-story wooden structure with a corrugated iron roof, its windows glowing with a faint, yellowish light. We approached with our usual jolly songs, our voices ringing out into the cold night. The door creaked open, revealing an old woman with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She did not smile, but she gestured for us to come inside, muttering something about the cold. We hesitated, but our teacher, ever polite, accepted her invitation. The warmth inside was a relief, but there was a stillness that made our chatter die down.

We sang ‘Silent Night’ and ‘Joy to the World,’ our voices echoing in the bare room. The only furniture was a long wooden table and a few chairs. The old woman stood by the fireplace, watching us with an unreadable expression. When we finished, she did not offer money but instead brought out a tray of small, golden pastries. ‘Please, have some,’ she said, her voice like dry leaves. We each took one, and it tasted oddly sweet, with a hint of something metallic. After we ate, she spoke softly, ‘Thank you for your songs. Now, you must leave before the moon rises.’

We filed out, but as we stepped into the night, the door slammed shut behind us, and the light inside flickered out. We shrugged it off and started walking back, but we soon realized that the path we came from was not there. Instead, in front of us was a vast field of tall grass that we had not seen before. Our teacher, Mr. Alvarado, pulled out his compass, but the needle spun wildly. Trying to keep calm, he led us into the grass, hoping to find our way back to the main road.

For what felt like hours, we waded through the grass, which was taller than our heads. The ground was uneven, and we stumbled over hidden rocks and roots. The cricket sounds had stopped, replaced by an absolute silence that pressed on our ears. Every so often, we heard a low, resonant hum, like a far-off engine, but we could not pinpoint its source. Our flashlights began to dim, one by one, until we were left in near darkness. Panic started to set in, but we dared not shout, for we felt that something was listening.

Suddenly, we came upon a clearing, and in the center stood a familiar figure—a scarecrow wearing a tattered black coat and a wide-brimmed hat. But it was not just a scarecrow; its face was a burlap sack with stitched eyes and a crooked smile. We had passed this scarecrow earlier on our way to the farmhouse, but now it stood before us again, as if the field had brought us in a circle. But then we noticed the difference: the scarecrow was holding a small, wooden music box in its outstretched arm.

Mr. Alvarado stepped forward and picked up the music box. It began to play a soft, lullaby-like tune, and as it played, we felt an overwhelming drowsiness. Our eyelids grew heavy, and we collapsed to the ground, one by one, sinking into a deep sleep. When we awoke, we were back on the main road, the morning sun warming our faces. We were all unharmed, but we felt a lingering fatigue, and our mouths were dry with the taste of iron.

We stumbled back to the village, and when we recounted our encounter, the villagers grew silent. They revealed that the old woman at the Acosta farmhouse had died years ago, and the house had been abandoned ever since. Moreover, there were no rice fields around it—only a dense forest. But we ignored that, thinking it was a prank. However, each of us noticed small, strange things in the following days: Mr. Alvarado’s compass was broken, my friend Liza found a golden pastry in her coat pocket that she swore she had not kept, and I myself could not shake off the feeling of being watched.

Years later, I returned to the village and asked about the Acosta farmhouse. The road to it was overgrown, and when I reached the spot, I found nothing but a pile of burnt timber and a single scarecrow, still standing, its stitched eyes facing the direction we had come from. And in its arm, it held the same music box, slightly rusted. I did not dare touch it. As I walked away, I heard the faint, tinny melody of the lullaby playing behind me, but when I looked back, the music box was gone, and the scarecrow’s head was turned, as if following my progress. I quickened my pace and left, but I still dream of that night, of the taste of iron and the sound of that lullaby, and I know, deep down, that the carol we sang that night was not for the living.