Ethereal Chronicles

Isolde lived on a farm that was neighbour to an old, whistling field. How strange it seemed, that though the surrounding land grew lush and full of bloom, the field remained barren, untouched by the passing seasons, and utterly devoid of life. A lone figure sat at the field’s edge near the road, as though it drained the land around it to sustain itself.

Each day, the scarecrow tipped his head to the girl as she passed on her way to market, and each day, she returned a timid smile.

Years slipped by, and Isolde blossomed into a woman so beautiful she drew the admiration of every man in town. But it was not only human eyes that followed her. Though battered from the wear of time, the scarecrow, still rooted to his post, seemed to notice it just as clearly, and began to shift in his demeanor. With every passing his gaze lingered longer, his straw-stitched lips shaping words of flattery. Even his button eyes glinted with what must have been a wink.

One summer evening, when the sun sagged low and swollen in the sky, its light bleeding pink and orange across the brittle grass of the dead field, the scarecrow spoke.

“Come a little closer,” he whispered, his voice worn and dusted.

Having known the scarecrow for almost all of her life, Isolde did not hesitate when he beckoned. She stepped onto the barren field, her feet crunching over malformed leaves and scattered stones as the silence of the place pressed in around her.

But when she came before him, she saw only stillness. The scarecrow’s blank eyes stared out beyond her, his hat sagging and torn from years of wind and rain and snow. No smile curved his lips, nor movement in speech. No hint of life escaped him. He was a scarecrow, nothing more and nothing less.

Confusion furrowed Isolde’s brow as she leaned forward, taking his straw hand into her own.

“Where did you go?” She murmured. As the words passed her lips, a sudden jolt of energy surged through her hand and into her body. She gasped, staggering back against the ground, clutching her chest. Above her, the scarecrow loomed in silence, his expression unchanging and unreadable.

Perhaps he had only ever been an imaginary friend, Isolde told herself as she made her way home, though sorrow gnawed at her insides from the loss of something precious.

She was filthy from the work of the day, the dirt of labor clinging to her skin, and she shared supper with her father in weary silence before retreating upstairs to draw a hot bath. Once the tub was filled and steam curled thickly against the rafters, she began to peel her clothes from her body, stretching her arms wide to loosen the ache in her shoulders.

As she lifted one leg to step into the water, Isolde felt something coarse graze the back of her thighs. She snapped upright, heart hammering. It had felt strangely like straw.

Turning towards the mirror, blurred with a film of mist, she noticed her shadow stretching abnormally tall, warped in the haze of the steam. So with a trembling hand, she wiped across the glass.

Her breath caught, horror burning her eyes. Staring back at her was not just her reflection, but the scarecrow, his grin wide, head bent close against her shoulder. His body latched to the back of her like a parasite, but the stitched grin was softer now, more human.

With a shrill cry, Isolde dragged frantic hands across her back and shoulders, but could feel only the warmth of her own skin.

She forced herself to glance into the mirror once more, but it showed only her, pale and trembling in the steam. A hallucination of grief, of exhaustion, she assumed it was, and so took her bath before resting for the night.

The next morning, Isolde set out once more to sell her father’s produce at the market. As always, her path carried her past the silent field. She intended to keep walking, to let the scarecrow’s carcass rot behind her, but something stirred in the silence; an invisible tug by fingers that could not be seen, tempting notes that nobody else could hear. Before Isolde could stop herself, she was standing at the field’s edge for a second time.

But the scarecrow was not as it always had been. It bore no resemblance to the familiarity from before, but stood dressed in her likeness. Long, golden hair spilled over its shoulders, catching the weak morning light in a way that mirrored her own. Its tattered frame was clothed in a purple dress that matched the shade she had decided to wear that day.

Though dread hollowed her chest, Isolde felt her hands rise against her will, reaching towards the scarecrow. The instant her fingers touched it, a terrible stiffness seized her. She could not move her body, nor her head. She could not even blink her eyes.

And before her, standing where she herself had been only moments before, was him. The same creature from the mirror, no longer stitched and stuffed, but a man of flesh. His smile widened wickedly as he slowly flexed his hands, marvelling at the sight. His warm lips parted as he drew in a deep, shuddering breath – a privilege he had not been blessed with in centuries.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “Thank you for freeing me.”