The Horror in the Meadow

While wandering through the dimly illuminated meadow one night, I sensed an unsettling aura. That evening, the wind was brisk and chaotic, biting at my skin as it tossed the tall grass in wild waves. I had opted for the back route from my friend's house—something I had frequently done before. However, that night brought an ominous feeling in the atmosphere.

The moon was hidden behind thick clouds. No stars shimmered in the sky. Just an all-consuming darkness, as if the meadow had swallowed the whole world.

I recall looking at my phone—it showed 01:03 a.m. My flashlight wavered in my hand, flickering inconsistently. I tapped it in annoyance. Despite the new batteries, the light struggled to brighten the path ahead.

And perhaps... it didn’t want to.

The locals held their stories about that meadow. Tales passed down through time. They claimed it was more than just a simple field. It was believed to trap the souls of those who ventured too far. I had always considered it a fable meant to scare children. Until that specific night.

I was about halfway across when it caught my attention.

A shadow. Just lingering there, roughly thirty feet away. Motionless. Too still.

At first, I thought it was another person—maybe a farmer or a teen playing a prank. But as I drew closer, the flashlight revealed its shape—and my heart sank.

It was towering. Unnaturally tall. Seven or eight feet at the very least. Its limbs looked distorted—excessively long and thin, resembling branches that had been broken and put back together. Its head was tilted—just slightly—as if listening. Not to the breeze. Not to me.

To something beyond.

I stopped in my tracks. My breath caught in my throat. The flashlight flickered once... twice... then went dark.

Total darkness.

I fumbled for my phone, using its light to regain my bearings, but when I looked up again—the figure had disappeared.

I turned slowly, my heart racing, sweat cooling against my neck. Nothing.

That’s when I noticed it.

A faint dragging sound. Not footsteps. Dragging.

Like something was creeping along through the grass.

I felt a presence behind me.

I turned around.

There was still nothing—just the wind, swirling the silence like a looming menace.

Then I spotted the scarecrow.

It was to my left, arms outstretched on its wooden post. I could have sworn it hadn’t been there before. Its head drooped, with straw protruding like desiccated veins. I focused on it, breathing heavily.

And then its head moved.

It didn’t jerk or suddenly shift. It simply tilted, mimicking the figure I had just seen. A deliberate, slow motion—like it was inviting me to understand it was watching me.

I took a step back. And then another.

I forced myself to run.

But my legs wouldn’t respond.

Suddenly, the flashlight I held flickered back on briefly—and I immediately regretted it.

Because in that instant, the scarecrow had vanished. Instead, it stood there.

The illustration.

Now nearer. Moving on all fours, its back bent abnormally, joints contorting in manners that bones shouldn’t. Its eyes were emptiness, dark and gaping. Its mouth was an unsettling, damp opening, far too expansive for its face.

I whirled around and dashed away.

It didn’t matter where to—just as long as it was away. The grass scraped against my legs, the cold air stung my lungs, but I continued running until my chest felt like it was about to explode.

"Now you see me."

My legs finally gave out. I fell heavily, landing near a patch of lifeless earth. Everything went quiet again. No breeze. No animals. Just… void. I stayed there, unmoving.

And then I felt it.

Breath.

Not hot.

Chilling.

It hovered above me.

With a brave effort, I managed to look up.

The creature was crouched over me, its face inches away from mine. Its head turned slowly, like a predator inspecting its prey. Its voice hissed once more—this time more clearly.

“Now you believe.”

I don’t recall screaming.

I don’t even remember making my way back home.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed, clothes stained and torn, hands scraped raw. My phone was still in my pocket—1% battery life. No photos. No calls. Just proof that I had been there.

I told my parents. They suggested that I had been sleepwalking, that I might have drunk too much, or that it was just a bad dream.

But I know what occurred.

Because now, each night at exactly 02:07 a.m., I hear it.

It starts with a tap.

Not loud—just three light knocks on the window. I live on the second floor.

Then, silence.

Sometimes, I hear it whispering my name. Occasionally, I wake up to find dirt on my floor and footprints leading away from my bed.

I tried to ignore it. I attempted to push it from my mind.

However, a week ago, I passed by the field again during the day. To reassure myself that I wasn’t afraid.

That’s when I saw it. The scarecrow. Standing tall on its post. But now... it was wearing my hoodie.