Creepy - Day 30 - Brush Strokes & Stitched Eyes

Episode Date: October 30, 2025

Brush Strokes***Written by: Allie Harrison and Narrated by: Megan McDuffee***Stitched Eyes***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Creepy presents the 31 days of horror. Day 30. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make me. Quinting graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Everybody's just kind of hanging out. How did you all do? Are you, you sleep all right? I was sleeping pretty good. Yeah, yeah, I told you. I was pretty good. And how is everyone feeling this morning? Oh, amazing. I had to get it up to P three times.

That's so wonderful to hear. I knew that if you just stayed patient that we would finally get a breakthrough, at some point. I can't remember the last time I slept. It was amazing. I love sleeping so much. I'm kind of mad that I have to be awake for this. And your dreams?

Any issue with those? Not me. I don't even remember my dream last night. I don't think I had one. Me either. Total blank if I did. I really wish you all knew how happy that makes me. I'm so proud of you all.

Megan, you've been quiet. How did you sleep? I, um, I didn't really sleep much last night. You didn't? No. Why didn't you say anything? We were acting so happy about being able to sleep. Because you were all acting so happy to be able to sleep.

I didn't want to spoil it for anyone. That's okay, Megan. I mean, it's kind of weird that all of us were suddenly able to sleep for the first time last night. anyway, so I'm sure that you'll be able to sleep tonight. Just so long as I don't need to have another dream like brush strokes. So I found these really great Halloween-themed makeup brushes. I know most of you don't care one Iyota about makeup brushes, but take it from me. I really care about my looks.

Of course, I'm well aware that beauty doesn't last forever, but I intend to hold on to everything I have for as long as I can. And after all, why shouldn't I? Celebrities get to look good all the time. I can too. And again, why shouldn't I? I mean, if you got it, why not flaunt it, right? I only buy makeup that really enhances me.

None of that cheap crap either. No, sir. I buy from the department store, not the discount store. Then applying it with a brush is even better. So, when I found these awesome brushes that the people, package actually stated they are to enhance one's beauty. I grabbed them. I had to have them, because the application of makeup is as important as the makeup itself. Well, almost. Oh, m.g. I knew it. After putting on my makeup this morning using these brushes, I look.

Well, fabulous. That sounds vain. I know. But hell, truth is truth. And my philosophy has always been. If you're going to go out, either to go to work to celebrate grocery shop or anything where someone else, anyone else will see you, you should look your absolute best. And these brushes work like magic, filling in the lines and flaws of my face. Not that I have that many. I mean it when I tell you I look as if my makeup has been airbrushed on without the airbrushed price, I might add. because, well, these brushes were a steel. I almost can't stop looking at myself. I'm so amazed.

At work, people notice me more than usual. Men take a second look. Of course, if I'm being honest, men looking at me is really nothing new. But even the janitor and the elevator took several glances my way. I gave them my usual smile before stepping off the elevator onto my floor. The women openly stare at me. I smile at them too. My best friend Carly noticed and commented that I'd obviously done something different and asked me what it was.

Even though I absolutely can't help but love all the attention, I say, Stop studying me like I'm some kind of bug. Then I giggle because I'm about as far from looking like a bug as I can get. But Carly is insistent that there is definitely something different about me. Something more. You bet your ass there is. but I don't tell her. I don't see any reason to share my secret.

After all, why should I help the competition? As far as I'm concerned, every woman is competition. Even Carly, my bestie. So I just smile and go about my day with a new sense of confidence I didn't have yesterday. Near the end of the day, Carly steps into my cubicle and informs me that a bunch of office girls are going out tonight for the Margarita special. and am I in for some chips and salsa at the nearby place we frequent? I tell her absolutely. Every time I needed to hit the ladies' room throughout the day, I couldn't help but check myself in the mirror.

The light in the work bathroom isn't the greatest, and definitely isn't anything close to the makeup ringlight I use at home. But it's enough to show me I don't need to touch anything up. When I get home, I can't help but take a look at myself in the bathroom mirror using that ring light. My face looks perfect. My makeup looks as flawless as it did when I brushed it on earlier before work, and all I can think is, wow. I mean, I've never gone an entire day at the office and come home with perfect makeup. Fantastic. By the time I'm halfway through my second margarita, four guys, which is three more than my usual one, have hit on me.

Carly asks if I could save a few for the rest of the peasant. after the fourth hot guy has asked me for my number. I admit, the attention is wonderful, but the three colleagues at my table are starting to treat me like I have a new type of plague or something. My chuckling over their questions of what's different about me no longer suffices. In fact, the jealousy I hear in their voices sounds more critical than wondering. Sue is so bold and to the point. I don't look like I've lost weight, and I'm not wearing new shoes. Charlotte, point, points out that my hair doesn't look different either. There's a lot of contempt in her voice.

As she informs everyone at the table, she sees guy number five eyeing me from not far away. She says he's probably trying to convince himself he has a chance after seeing the previous four dogs sniffing my butt. The fifth guy finally gathered the courage and came over to ask me if I wanted to hang out. I politely told him no, thank you. Charlotte offers to hang out with him.

Her offer hangs in the air for a moment. Then, guy number five turns her down. Charlotte lets out a sigh that's heard over the noise of the place and says she's had enough for one night. She even comments she thinks the salsa is starting to taste sour in her mouth. She's soon gone, and within ten minutes Sue and even my bestie Carly have left me sitting alone with the tab to pay, which I paid before guy number six could get close.

I should have felt wonderful. After all, all these people were noticing me and vying for my attention. Yet, I felt like I was the only girl not asked to the prom. I felt a little better once I got home and saw that my makeup was still just as perfect as it was all day. I used my usual cleansing regimen to take it off, and I, of course, applied moisturizer. I fell asleep on the couch watching some old Western on TV. Despite my usual skincare treatment, I awoke to find the darkest. and biggest bags under my eyes.

And even worse, there was a wrinkle between my eyes on my forehead above the bridge of my nose, as if I'd worn a scowl all night while I slept. The last time I looked this horrific, I'd been in college and it stayed out drinking all night. I stared at my reflection for an entire minute. I mean, it was awful. I looked awful. I couldn't believe it. I used my new brushes to again apply my makeup.

and felt better, knowing the dark circles under my eyes, and the wrinkles were easily concealed beneath a few brushstrokes. In fact, my new brushes did such an awesome job. One would never know the circles and the horrible wrinkles were there. No one at work spoke to me, and when I tried to strike up a conversation with Carly, she told me she was busy working to finish her report before the deadline. When I asked if she wanted to hang out sometime over the weekend, she told me she was busy then, too. Fine. Fucking be that way. I don't. I don't care. I can't help you're jealous. I literally bit my tongue before the words could pop out of my mouth. I considered telling her about the makeup brushes. Perhaps I could even buy Carly her own set to give her something to feel better about herself. The truth was, I did care. Since getting out of college and joining the workforce, not only did I have few friends, but I had little time for the few that I had. I can't help it. I'm so much prettier than everyone else. I tried to be extra nice to everyone throughout the day, but Carly, Charlotte, and Sue pretty much avoided me.

I decided then that, yes, I would get Carly her own set of brushes, and I planned to bring donuts or cookies into the office on Monday for a treat for everyone. I hadn't ever done that. Donuts and cookies were fattening, and I was doing my best to keep my trim perfect body. After all, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who can still wear my college clothes, but maybe something sweet will sweeten everyone's attitude toward me. Keeping a smile on my face and keeping my mouth shut regarding how I really felt with the cold shoulder my colleagues were giving me was exhausting. Rushing through the rain and wind of the storm that landed that afternoon, and lugging an umbrella

while ignoring my wet shoes, seemed to double my fatigue. By the time I stepped into the foyer of my house and dropped my keys and purse onto the small table that waited just inside the door, I felt like I could slide into my bed and sleep the entire weekend away. I heated up a cup of hot tea while still wearing my raincoat, and I took it into the bathroom with me, where I allowed the heat of it to warm my insides as I peeled off my wet clothes. I took a hot shower, and planned to heat a can of soup for supper. Tonight was clearly not anything, like the partying Friday nights I enjoyed a few short years ago,

but I looked forward to cozying up under a blanket on my couch. I stepped out of the shower. The huge mirror over the bathroom sink was steamed up to the point I could barely see the reflection of my silhouette in the glass. And yet, something made me stop. I appeared wrinkled. And I don't mean pruny from the water. Goose bumps covered me instantly as I used a towel to wipe the mirror instead of drying myself or wrapping it around me as usual. and I let out a scream.

The heat that had warmed me with the shower of hot water evaporated, as I took in my reflection in the mirror. I had cleansed off my makeup under the spray. The tea I'd sipped, churned in my gut. My face was completely wrinkled. In my reflection, the skin of my cheeks was nothing more than crepe paper, a mass of creases that covered my face and spread down my neck. I looked like I was 80 years old.

Don't get me wrong. I know there are plenty of 80-year-old women out there who look years younger. After all, 80 is the new 50, right? Well, I wasn't 50, not even close to it. Nor was I near 80. There had to be something wrong. Something wrong was by far an understatement. I couldn't breathe.

I felt like my chest was caught in a trap. How could something like this happen over the course of a day? How could it happen at all? I had no idea what to even do. I mean, if I went to the ER and told the ER staff I was wrinkled, they'd tell me to put on some cold cream. If I told them I was only 29 years old, they'd laugh and call me a liar.

I put on my regular moisturizing cream and felt a little better. After all, the cream was supposed to be a special combination of wrinkle prevention with all-night moisture. It did replenish some of the crow's feet wrinkles around my eyes. I didn't sleep a wink, and it took all of my willpower to keep from getting out of bed every two minutes to see if I still looked as terrible as I did prior to putting on my night cream. Then the next morning, I did something I'd never done before. I didn't look in the mirror at all. I even closed my eyes, grabbed the basket that held all my makeup, and I took it to the kitchen counter where there was no mirror.

I put on my makeup, using my magic brushes, of course. by simple routine without staring into my own reflection. And only when my war paint was all in the place where I thought it should be, did I slowly sneak into the bathroom and turn on the light. I did not turn on the large ringlight I always used. I let out a sigh of relief at seeing me, the usual me with not a single wrinkle, staring back at me from the mirror.

The cold rain obviously had me seeing things that weren't there last night. I added a few final brushstrokes to my face and went about my day feeling better. No more going without my makeup. Saturday was my usual grocery shopping, errands, and house cleaning day. None of my so-called friends called me to go out. I told myself I didn't care. I also told myself I was really interested in the movie I had on TV too. I fell asleep on the couch, slept for almost 11 hours, and woke up feeling stiff as if I'd

Onged overnight, and my joints were laden with arthritis. Thinking I must be fighting off a bug of some sort, I took it easy all day. But my face and makeup still looked perfect. I didn't wash it off Sunday night, and I needed no makeup touch-up Monday morning before work. However, thanks to the tropical storm swirling inland that was now stalled over my area, the rain was horrendous as I tried to hurry into work. Feeling like a drowned rat and wishing I'd thought to bring a second pair of shoes, I blotted myself off with a tissue once I reached the foyer of our office building.

It did little. What was needed was a beach towel. At Carly's cubicle, I paused and chuckled, noting that we all needed webbed feet today. I wished her good morning. I tried to act like the weekend was just water under the bridge, and maybe our friendship could return to normal after our night of margaritas. Carly muttered a good morning, but when she really looked at me, she let out a half scream, half screeched, and asked who the hell I was. I, of course, told her it was me, Laurel.

Carly stared at me and pointed out that although I sounded like Laurel, I sure didn't look like Laurel. She asked if this was some sort of prank, where I managed to find such a hideous old woman mask like the one I was wearing that looked so real. I didn't tell her I wasn't wearing a mask. My heart suddenly pounded painfully in my chest, and I turned cold all over. I forced a grin on my face and clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. My legs suddenly felt like rubber, and my chest was so tight I couldn't breathe.

I thought I might collapse to the floor at any moment. I lied and said I just thought I'd give her a good scare since Halloween was so close. I was surprised at how cold. all my actually sounded. Terrified she, or anyone else who looked my way, given the way Carly squealed, might ask me to peel off my mask. I rushed off before she could stop me. I considered ducking into the restroom to see how much of my makeup I had blotted off with the rain, but I couldn't take the chance that someone else might be in there or stop me. I rushed back to my car, where I locked myself in and pulled down the sun visor to reveal the mirror there. I let out the same scream

Carly had. I had seen a few old, dead people in my time, and all of them looked better than I did. My face was so wrinkled. Skin actually hung down at my jowls, surrounded by folds and creases. My eyes had a gaunt, hollowed, almost bulging appearance to them, despite the tears that welled up in them. As I parted my lips, my teeth appeared to be too big for my mouth. My skin looked paper thin. I saw veins at my temples and on the sides of my nose. It was those damned brushes, I thought. It had to be. They were the only things in my beauty regimen that I'd changed. My actual beauty was the price for the beauty I thought they gave to me. I needed to get rid of them. They needed to return them. I knew I'd thrown them. I'd thrown them. I'd thrown them. I'd thrown them.

receipt away after that first day of using them. Would the store accept them as a return since they were used and I didn't have the receipt? I had to try at least. By the time I reached home, I felt as old as I thought I looked. The rain soaked me even more as I struggled just getting out of my car. It was as if my joints had stiffened during my short ride home. I wasn't able to move swiftly through the downpour to the door. I actually stumbled on the front step and, and I was in the short ride home. I wasn't able to move swiftly through the downpour to the door. I actually stumbled on the front step and fell forward, catching myself. I scraped the palms of my now wrinkled hands and fiery pain shot through my left wrist, but I managed to keep from face-planting two feet from my own front door. Once inside, I had to sit in a chair for several long minutes to

catch my breath, which I'm scared to admit sounded raspy. My cell chimed with an incoming call. I saw it was Carly. I ignored her. I dropped my phone on the coffee table. With a renewed sense of urgency, I forced myself off the couch and moved to the bathroom to gather up the makeup brushes. I had to figure out a way to reverse whatever kind of hideous curse clouded over me with the purchase of them. With the brushes tucked into my arm and my wrist throbbing,

I rushed outside to go back to my car. At least I felt like I rushed. However, for all the feeling of rushing, I didn't manage to move very fast. The rain beat down on me painfully, and within seconds I had water inside my shoes. Thanks to my obviously injured wrist, when I slipped the second time, I wasn't able to catch myself. I slammed into the pavement. The pain in my face was instant and shocking and felt like it blew a hole out the back of my head. It left me dazed.

my vision was blurry, but not blurry enough to see the brushes vault out of my grasp. Tears filled my eyes and mixed with the rain that poured down on me as I watched all three of the brushes roll out of reach and down a storm drain. Gone. They were gone, just like that. And I couldn't move. I thought I would break into a thousand pieces if I even tried. I shivered, and my shivers mingled with sobs that raked through me. me. I was vaguely aware of EMS responders helping me. Moving me. The first one's question sounded far away. What's an old lady doing out in a storm like this? The second one replied that I probably had to venture out to get my meds. They both agreed that old people can't seem to live one day

without their pills. The blanket they placed over me was blessedly warm, and I could have sung a song when they placed me into the back of what was obviously an ambulance, and the rain no longer stung me, but I couldn't seem to gather enough breath to sing. I couldn't speak, but it was okay. I rested. I thought I'd just close my eyes and take a little nap. I heard the constant, rhythmic beeping of what was obviously the machine that measured my heart beating. Beep, beep, beep. I snuggled into the cozy comfort of the stretcher. As I drifted off to sleep, I was aware that the beeping was slowing down. Yes, I can imagine that would be unsettling to deal with. Now, let's...

Wait, you aren't going to tell me what it means? Megan, I already explained that we are very short-staffed, and I just... Boo! Did you all just boo me? Of course we did. We sat here for a month trying to get answers, and now, when you claim we are about to be ready to go home, you just give up on being...

What was it? Oh yeah. Our dream therapist. Fine. Megan. Your dream disguises itself as meditation on beauty. But it's really about erosion. The brushes begin as tools of enhancement, yet quickly invert into instruments of control, consuming your identity until neither you nor those around you can recognize who you are.

The sudden wrinkling and collapse is not just a fear of aging. but the body's punishment for surrendering too much of the self to appearances. What begins as adornment metastasizes into independence, and in that independence, the self is devoured. It was really that bad? Most disturbing of all is the ending. The way you accept the stretcher and the monitor's fading tone as though it were relief, That suggests not only fear of decay, but a deduction by it, a readiness to vanish beneath the mask rather than reclaim your face.

Dreams like this are warnings. When identity externalize, the unconscious will take external measures to remind you what happens when the mask becomes the person. Holy shit. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go. Wait, doctor? What? What did John say? Excuse me?

You said you were going to call John and get some more information about what might be going on. What did he say? Oh, right. He didn't answer his phone. So, everyone agrees that was really weird, right? Which part? All the parts? that we were suddenly able to sleep last night except for Megan,

that Dr. Hall was honestly, and I don't say this lightly, kind of a bitch to Megan about her dream, that she just sort of dismissed us when we asked about John? It would have been weird even if Megan had got some sleep. What are the odds that we all just sort of got better, the exact same night? What do you think is going on here? Beyond the fact that I'm sure they're monitoring all of our

our conversations? I don't know. But it has to have something to do with John. I think Dr. Hall did a pretty good job of explaining that not all of our issues are John's fault. No, not that. Something else. Something that doesn't make sense. Let's go outside. We need to talk about a distraction. Doctor, I think we have a problem with the others. They're starting to realize something's wrong. Took them long enough. It doesn't matter anyway. They can talk and worry all they want. We're almost done.

I just need one more sample. One more piece of data to show that I can repeat our success with the subject before getting approval for the final phase. But what if they... I'm sorry. Is it your job to just continue to ask questions and second guess me? Stop worrying about what they're doing up there. just a bunch of drama nerds with bad dreams. They have no concept of understanding. In the next 24

hours, we are going to change the world. We are going to open up reality itself. So ask yourself, when that happens, which side do you want to be on? Yes, doctor. Now, is the subject ready for the stimulus? He is. We've been able to isolate the shift in his brain waves, and our research is certain that we found the correct frequency to initiate the state. Good. Prepare the system. Still waters run deep, don't they? You know, long before we had words like neurotransmitter or REM cycle, ancient cultures believed lightning itself could rearrange the soul. In the next, 1930s, physicians learned how to capture that lightning in a bottle. Or should I say a wire? They called it electroconvulsive therapy, or ECT, crude, brutal, even by our standards,

even by what you've experienced so far. Patients convulsed violently enough to break their own bones and bite off their own tongues. Yet, afterwards, many awoke changed. The mind shocked into silence. Its storms briefly, occasionally cleared. Don't worry, we've refined the process, anesthesia, careful dosing of the drug you've already felt, and electrodes placed on the temple.

Then the current slips through the brain like a key in a lock. Your lock. your mind. It rattles the machinery, resets it, but it does more than that. It opens doors. Your unintentional gift to us. For you, tonight, the current will not be used to still the storms, but summon them. Each pulse will loosen the barriers between waking and dreaming. The Nightmares you've struggled to recall, the ones that claw only at the edges of your sleep, will be draped into the light, vivid, and undeniable. Think of it not as punishment, but as excavation.

I will harness a century of medicine not to erase, but to reveal, to coax the shadows from the darkness. and set them loose within you. So we might finally see them in their full, perfect shape. And when you wake, if you ever wake again, you will not only remember your nightmares, you will inhabit them. You will unleash them.

Now, bite down on this and try, to breathe and do your best not to die we have ten more subjects upstairs to repeat this with if you do share their world with me share your dream let the veil slip away tell me what you see I see eyes I never believed in ghosts or curses never gave much thought to the old legends of our town Stories that were always whispered at parties or around campfires, dismissed as nonsense by anyone with even a bit of sense. But I didn't have much sense left after what happened, not after the scarecrow appeared. It started one gray morning in late October.

I was walking the back road near my family's farm, heading to the small diner on Main Street. The one with a crack neon sign that seemed to bug, buggy. was a little bit louder in the cold. That's when I saw it. A new scarecrow, standing tall and old man Carver's cornfield. It was weird. Different. I know what you're thinking.

It's the same thing I used to think. Scarecrow's are scarecrows. But this one was different. It was unsettling. The straw spilling out its sleeves was dark, almost blood. It was a black. Its coat was tattered but smelled damp and something else. I couldn't figure out what, but it was familiar to the eyes.

Those damned eyes. They weren't buttons or patches. They looked like they were stitched directly into the fabric, a dull red thread pulling tight and crude X shapes. The thread didn't glint or shine in the sun. but there was something about them that felt alive. Watching. Like those paintings where the eyes seemed to follow you around the room.

At first, I told myself it was just a light playing tricks on me. Carver was old, stubborn, maybe made it himself this year after his scarecrow got stolen. Or maybe you wanted to try something new. Still, the feeling of my gut twisted into this. Something I couldn't shake. That night, I dreamed of those stitched eyes. In the dream, I was back in the cornfield. The stalks towered over me, taller than I'd ever seen them.

More forest and field. The scarecrow stood at the center, silent and unmoving. But the eyes, they glowed faintly red, pulsing like embers. The moment I looked directly at them? Everything went black. When I woke, my forehead was damp with sweat. My room felt like it was a hundred degrees. I kept the window open despite the cold, hoping the fresh air will cool me down and clear my

head. But it didn't. The next morning I saw the scarecrow again. This time, something was wrong. At first, I thought the cornfield was empty, like after the seasonal harvesting. But that wasn't it. The field wasn't completely empty, only part of it. In a circle around the scarecrow that stretched about 100 feet across.

The stocks weren't gone inside the circle, just bent and broken, trampled in a wide circle around it. And I didn't hear or see anything around. No birds, no animals, just silence. and the scarecrow. This was around the same time when crop circles were showing up in the news, so my young mind went toward aliens over something more sinister. Still, aliens were a pretty damn scary thought too. I stepped closer, my heart hammering.

I quickly stopped thinking about the crop circle and focused on the scarecrow again. The red stitches looked newer, tighter, almost less. like someone had re-sown the eyes last night. And then I noticed the footprints. Small, muddy, and scattered. Not human, but something light and quick. No animal I could think of, though. That was the day the disappearances started.

They began quietly at first. Old man Carper's dog vanished without a trace, and a neighbor's cat. even the strayed crows. The very birds the scarecrow is supposed to scare away stopped coming around. Which someone who didn't grow up in the country wouldn't think twice about, but we knew better. Crows are smart, way smarter than most people give them credit for. Scarecrow's only work on him for a little while, then they're back without issue.

Something had actually scared them away. People joked nervously that something. something creepy was going on, and no one could explain the sudden silence in the fields. Standing just outside the circle was like hitting the mute button on the world. I should have ignored it. I told myself it wasn't my problem because it wasn't my problem. But the feeling nod at me, crawling under my skin every time I passed the field. I started watching from my bedroom window with telescope I got for Christmas the year before.

The scarecrow stood like a sentinel, arms outstretched, casting long shadows in the moonlight, and those stitched eyes. Sometimes I swore I could see them twitch. They were straining against the stitches themselves, trying to blink. The first time I saw it actually move, I froze. I started taking the longer walk into town, the one that led past Carver's Field instead of cutting through the woods. The scarecrow's head turned just slightly, just enough to make me see a clint of red thread

unraveling. A wet, sickly sound like tearing burlap. I blinked, and it was still again. That night I was scared to fall asleep. I sat by the window, heart pounding, waiting. Hours passed. Then as my eyes started to droop, there was a rustle in the yard. I snapped to attention, my heart already pounding.

I grabbed a baseball bat by my bed trying to steady my breath. Outside, near the fence line, I saw it. A figure, small and hunched, moving fast on all fours, but not like an animal with four legs, like something hunched over, running on its hands and feet. For reasons I'll never be able to explain or even understand. I ran outside. shouting into the darkness. But the figure vanished before I could reach it.

All I found was a scrap of cloth caught down a thornbush. Gray fabric stained red, almost black in the moonlight. The next morning I didn't tell anyone. I didn't want to be labeled crazy. That's the thing about small towns. Even when we go through things together, there's still talk, still gossip. I think when something seems impossible. people will try and pin an answer on anything they can point their fingers at, as long as it's

away from them. But I knew. I knew something was hunting on the outskirts of town. Something connected with the scarecrow's stitched eyes somehow. A few days later, one of the local kids didn't come home from school. His mother went toward a door around town, desperate, pleading for help. I felt sick. I wanted to tell her I'd seen the thing in the young.

yard, but what good would that do? Instead, as she stood in our doorway, talking to my parents, all I said was that I told her I'd keep an eye out. But it was already too late. That night, the nightmares came back with a vengeance. I was in the cornfield again. The scarecrow stood before me. It stitched eyes, pulsed brighter, red embers glowing bright in the darkness.

It whispered my name. Not in words, but in rasps like wind through dead leaves. I tried to run, but it was a dream, so my legs churned slowly, barely moving even a foot as the stalks closed in, trapping me. From the shadows emerged small figures, not quite human, covered in patchwork clothing, with faces stitched in thread, crooked slashes for mouths and exes for eyes. They reached out. Their hands cold and skeletal. I woke screaming. My own fingers clawing at my face.

Or a faint red mark traced along my jawline. I think I've been marked. I don't know how much time I have left. I locked myself in my room telling my parents that I was sick and just wanted to sleep, but I didn't sleep. I just sat at the window, telescope to my eye, watching the scarecrow that was still out there. Its eyes watched me from the field like burning coals. I knew it was watching me. I could feel it as my fingers traced along the red mark that wouldn't fade.

It felt more raised as the days passed until it felt like a vein bulging under the skin. Sometimes, just out of focus, I see those small stitched faces waiting in the dark corners of my room. They want me to join them. to become one of the stitched, to replace my eyes with threat. I don't remember when I stopped trusting my own senses. Days bled into nights. The line disappeared entirely. The stitched eyes followed me everywhere.

In reflections and shadows, and in the corner of my bedroom ceiling, I stopped leaving the house. Food and water is left in my door. I don't know if my parents believed that I was sick, that they just saw what was going on around them. More children were going missing. I think they were just happy that I was staying in the house safe from whatever was happening. Then I had another dream.

I was in the cornfield. Scarecrow stitched eyes burned bright red, stitching themselves tighter with every breath I took, pulling its face top. Then the patchwork figures came. dozens of them crawling out of the earth like weeds their stitched faces twisted in silent smiles he reached out hands like brittle branches and they didn't stop one grabbed my arm cold heavy and i saw the truth the stitches weren't just sewn on the scarecrow and that wasn't a vein on my jaw

It was thread. It was sewn into me. I woke up in my bed with my hands trembling. I looked down and saw faint red threads snaking from my wrists, disappearing under my sleeves. I ripped off my shirt. The skin there was marred, tiny holes like needle pricks. I tried to burn the threads with a lighter.

The flame flickered and died, as if something was choking the fire. I tried to cut them, tried to slide a knife under them, but it was like they refused to the skin. I can't even begin to explain the sheer claustrophobic feeling that gripped me. I think it's too late. The scarecrow is coming.

I hear it scraping at the windows, draking its claws across the glass. I'm waiting for the moment it steps through. When it does, I won't fight because I know the stitched eyes aren't just watching they're waiting

to stitch me in to make me a part of the field forever at least I know I won't be alone That's right That's right

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