The village of Kotra was the kind of place where time seemed to stand still. Small mud houses lined the dusty paths, and the scent of firewood smoke lingered in the air. But as the sun dipped behind the horizon, silence crept over the village like a thick fog. Doors were bolted, windows covered, and lanterns dimmed to a flicker.
It had been this way for decades.
Everyone in Kotra knew the legend of the Scarecrow. Once built to guard the golden fields from birds, it had become something else—something cursed. Long ago, after a mysterious fire consumed the original scarecrow, strange events began: dead animals, dried-up wells, and voices in the dark. Some claimed to see the scarecrow standing again in the fields, long after it had turned to ash.
Those who claimed to see it… didn't last long.
Over time, the villagers stopped using scarecrows altogether. It was an unspoken rule. A fear passed down from parent to child, etched into their bones.
But that fragile quiet shattered the day Ramlal arrived.
He came alone, with nothing but a duffel bag and an unreadable expression. He moved into the old Thakur house—a crumbling mansion at the edge of the fields. No one had lived there for over twenty years. Some believed the house was haunted. Others believed worse.
Ramlal wasn't like the others. He walked through the village with confidence, smiled at the children, and spoke boldly. "Ghosts aren't real," he said. "These stories… they're just fear wrapped in tradition."
The villagers avoided him. They whispered behind closed doors, calling him a fool. But he didn't care. In fact, what he did next would send chills down the spine of every soul in Kotra.
He built a scarecrow.
Right in the center of the field.
It was tall, with a wooden frame, ragged clothes, and a sackcloth head stitched with red thread. Its arms stretched wide as if waiting to embrace something.
"You don't know what you've done," old man Raghu said, his voice trembling.
Ramlal only chuckled. "I've protected my field."
That night, the wind howled.
Doors slammed on their own. Dogs whined and refused to leave their corners. And in the fields, something stirred.
Ramlal sat on his porch, sipping tea. The scarecrow swayed gently in the wind—or so he thought.
Then came the sound. A whisper.
At first, it was faint, like the rustling of leaves.
Then clearer.
"I never left…"
Ramlal stood, alert. He looked out into the fields. The scarecrow stood still.
But for a moment—just a moment—he saw its head turn toward him.
He blinked.
It was still again.
Behind him, the lantern flickered. The air turned cold.
And in the distance, from the direction of the well, came the sound of dragging footsteps.
The scarecrow was back.
----
To be continued…...