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Halloween had always been Finn’s favorite night. But this year, the old house on Miller’s Lane seemed different. The scarecrow on the porch, a silent sentinel for years, now appeared to watch the trick-or-treaters with its stitched-on smile. "Let's go closer," Finn dared his friends. They crept up the driveway, their candy bags rustling. As they reached the gate, a gust of wind made the scarecrow’s burlap head turn slowly towards them. The straw rustled ominously. His friends shrieked and ran, but Finn stood his ground, a thrill racing through him. He was a collector of scares, and this was the best he'd ever seen. He wanted to remember the exact chill, the precise feeling of fear. He reached into his pocket for his recorder to capture the sound of the wind and the scarecrow's creak. But as he pressed the button, the scarecrow didn't just turn its head. It raised a twig-like arm, pointing a tattered finger directly at Finn. A rasping, dry voice whispered from its empty mouth: "You've been collecting. Now I will." Finn dropped his recorder and ran, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the scarecrow's feet following him, a beat now permanently recorded in his memory. ID:Mondi1904

Mondi1904

Mondi1904

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