In 1981, Mark and his parents moved into a weather-beaten farmhouse in rural Kentucky. Locals warned them about the field behind it—dead corn watched by a single scarecrow. They said it wasn’t there to frighten birds, but to keep something else from getting out. According to local legend, the scarecrow was made from the remains of Elijah Crow, the farm’s original owner, who vanished after a storm destroyed his crops. Mark called it nonsense. One October night, he grabbed a flashlight and his camera to prove it. As he crossed into the field, the world went silent—no wind, no crickets—only the slow creak of rope. The scarecrow was taller than he’d imagined, its coat damp, a faint smell of decay in the air. He snapped a photo. In the flash, the head tilted toward him. Another flash—and the arm was closer. He ran, dropping everything. At dawn, his parents found the flashlight and the camera near the fence. The last photo showed the scarecrow standing behind him, one gloved hand reaching for his shoulder. Weeks later, neighbors swore the scarecrow looked younger—and that it was wearing a faded denim jacket. Mark’s jacket.
