The pitchfork’s blades glinted ominously in the harsh sunlight, held high as if to challenge the heavens. Seojun’s brow furrowed as a voice, dripping with disdain, whispered into his ears. “You’re not planning on dying that easily, are you?” The voice, though strange, was familiar - it was his own. A surge of injustice coursed through his veins.
The ravenous memories of the Laurens gnawed at Seojun’s mind like starving phantoms, filling him with revulsion that tightened his throat. His hand lashed out instinctively, sending the corn husks scattering across the dirt floor in a frantic flurry.
April brushed off a large rock and sat down, his voice filled with excitement as he began to tell the chilling tale of the murderous scarecrow.
“The legend of the murderous scarecrow has been whispered in our village for generations.”
As Seojun’s eye fell on the falling white corn, he couldn’t tell if the liquid that soaked it was blood or the melted, liquefied remains of rotten flesh. One thing, however, was certain: the Laurens were no longer among the living. A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed hard, the sound too loud in the creepy silence.
“A child?”
Seojun’s gaze drifted down to the mop of brown hair on Tracy’s head, and his heart skipped a beat. The image of the emaciated, mummified child he had found earlier flashed through his mind, jolting him like a lightning bolt. Biting his trembling lower lip, he asked cautiously, “Have you tried calling 911 yet?”
Seojun’s noble determination to save the girl dissipated like a puff of smoke within three minutes of venturing into the cornfield. The towering stalks, which had seemed intimidating from afar, now loomed over him, making him feel as insignificant as an ant. As a man of above-average height, he wasn’t used to feeling this small.
A blue pickup truck barreled down the dusty highway, its exhaust fumes mixing with the sand and dust that clung to the breeze, as if they were permanent residents. Upbeat country music poured from the half-lowered windows, the tarp-covered truck bed pulsing with the twang of guitars and banjos.
“When I got this toolbox, I thought we were going to be secret agents or something like in a spy movie. But things have been pretty quiet lately.”
So, Seojun was discharged. He left the hospital with a temporary eye prosthesis and an eye patch, looking like a teenager who’d just had a run-in with a pesky sty. Instead of the refreshing scent of grass, a strong whiff of city smog greeted him as he stepped outside.
Seojun leaned against the railing of his hospital bed, his arm wrapped up like a mummy’s. His attempt to sit up straighter was almost comical, given the awkward fumble of his bandaged hand.
Christina skidded to a stop before Seojun, gasping for air, her complexion deathly pale and her skin gleaming with sweat—a clear reflection of Seojun’s own bone-deep fatigue. Her hands twitched at her sides, as if she was resisting the urge to cover her mouth, while she gazed at the motionless figure on the ground.
Fred’s gas mask slipped from his grasp and clattered to the ground, leaving a bloody imprint on the earth.
“Sorry? What do you mean by ‘Sorry’, Fred?”