In this place, where tales of terror draw forth the most loathsome of emotions, stop for a moment, dear seeker, and reflect. Is there someone that you really and truly hate? Someone who has worsened your life by their influence? A person with whom you can never hope to get even?
Perhaps a former friend, turned to betrayal. An ex-lover, whose wanton heart left yours in pieces. Perchance an employer? A family member? A stranger who inflicted the barest of slights? Think hard, and if you come up with an answer, then know this:
You can have you revenge.
In an isolated field, in a place where civilization has worn thin into the whelming green of nature, you will find the thing you seek. It will not be an easy journey, and there is no guarantee you will emerge from this ordeal unscathed, but if you are truly serious about this hatred, if your heart burns with unslakeable vengeance, then, my child, arise one morning at dawn, and steel your will. You will need every once of determination you can draw from your reservoir of hate.
When you are sufficiently ready, go and procure a vehicle, one you won’t mind taking through rough and open country. Ensure that it is well fueled and well-maintained. You will not have the luxury of pit stops on this trip. Ideally, you should bring with you any vittles you feel you will need to sustain yourself, but if nothing else, bring with you a map or some form of location device. Becoming lost is an integral part of this process, and, presumably, you’ll want to find your way back.
After you have prepared, arise the next morning just before dawn. Enter your vehicle, and begin to drive. The general direction in which you travel is of little consequence, but you can greatly expedite this process by moving away from any urban or civic areas. The more rural your location, the closer you will be. As you drive, you must stay alert. Keep your eyes open for the signs that others do not see.
My child, you must follow the crows. Seek out the roads where they nest upon the powerlines. Turn down streets where you see them fly. You will likely become lost, and doubtless you will find yourself driving in circles, but take heart, as this is only bringing you closer to your goal.
Crows are intelligent creatures, you see. They are capable of recalling faces, using tools, and complex communication. When they see you following them, they will know what it is you seek. After a time, if you are patient, they will begin to lead you. If you happen to lose sight of them, or if, indeed, they do not appear for you at all, then the time is not yet right for your pilgrimage, and you must return home at once. You may attempt the trip again at a later date, so do not worry overmuch. True revenge knows the meaning of patience.
As the day wears on, and the crows lead you forward, you will doubtless begin to notice a shift in your surrounding area. You will find yourself in places you never knew existed, in towns ancient and forgotten, overgrown by the festering wilds. There will be no other cars at this point, no signs of life save for the crows guiding you. At this point, you have crossed over into Its domain. You are a trespasser here, and return to your world is impossible. You must persist now, whatever should come your way.
Very soon after your transition, the crows will begin to take you off the roads themselves. You will have to travel across open fields and treacherous terrain. If you were careful in your selection, your vehicle should be able to navigate most of these challenges, but eventually, there will come a point at which you can drive no further. At times, a rocky outcropping will impede your progress. At others, a roaring stream will prevent passage. Whatever form this impediment takes, you must thereafter proceed on foot.
Exit your vehicle quickly, but make not of its location. Bring nothing with you. You a pilgrim in a sacred space, the luxury of the material is no longer yours to possess. The crows will slow when they see you on foot, but they will, themselves, continue to progress. They are called here just the same as you, so be swift. No matter what, you must return to your vehicle before the sun sets. Night in this place is not hospitable to intruders, and the seething things that skitter and click in the dark places of this world are always hungry.
It may be a short distance, or it may be miles, but eventually, you will come across a thick glade of ancient trees. There will be no mistaking this location. Crows will fill the air, gathering from all directions and converging upon the blighted wood. As you pass through the trees, you will see a greater multitude of the dark fowl than you have ever seen before. They will line every branch, cover every root and patch of land. Yet in spite of their preternatural numbers, there will be a whelming quiet over the area, with the only sounds being the faint rustles of the wings of new arrivals, each eager to take its place in the arboreal auditorium.
As you reach the edge of the wood, you will find it open into a large, rectangular field, surrounded on all sides by the forest. The ground itself will be withered and barren, ringed by the blighted remains of plants that foolishly grew too close to this sanctuary. The air here will be cold and acrid, and you will likely begin to feel weak as the very ground you stand on repels the life burning impiously inside you.
It is here, in the center of this place, that you will find the Lord of Scarecrows. It will be erected on an iron cross, Its form made of hide and bone, stitched with sinew and decorated with the limbs and adornments of the local fauna. Amidst this twisting aberration, you will, however, be able to make out the distinct form of a human body, rising up in mock crucifixion, Its flesh all rotted out and dried. Over Its head, It will wear a hood made of stitched-together skin, and Its face will be completely obscured to you.
This is an ancient and sacred thing, an altar and effigy to a thing older than the ground upon which you stand. It will not do to dwell upon its nature, as this is something far beyond mortal comprehension, and to glimpse upon It would be to see into the very primordial ether of creation itself.
Steel your nerve, and approach, but be reverent. This is a church of greater magnitude than the grandest of basilica, and you will not wish to anger this idol. In Its right hand, you will see, clutched tight, a knife of blackest obsidian, wickedly sharp, with a handle carved from bone. In the other, It will bear a roll of coarse cloth. Take both, gently and humbly. It will yield them to you.
Kneel before it, and state that you wish to make an offering of a sinner, then, using the knife, make an incision somewhere upon your body. The bite of the blade will be sharp and swift, and you will bleed quite profusely. Be careful not to wound yourself fatally, lest all this effort be wasted. Gathering the blood pouring from your rent flesh, scrawl the name of your intended target upon the cloth. As you write, think upon the sins this person has committed. Every act of cruelty, ever bitterly unfair word or deed. It does not matter how trivial, all that matters now is the hate that burns in you.
It will likely surprise you with how much blood it takes to write the full name of your sacrifice, but you must persevere. When you have finished, roll the cloth tightly up, and, carefully, peel the hood up just far enough to reveal the skeletal mouth of the effigy. Insert the cloth between its parted teeth, then return the hood to its original position.
Now, slather the knife with your blood, so that the blade is completely coated. Once it drips with crimson life, plunge it into the heart of the idol, and speak these words: “My sacrifice is made.”
You are free to go, but make haste. Doubtless you will have little time left before the dying sun sets beyond the horizon. As you make your way back out through the forest, you will no longer hear the tranquil silence. The air will be filled with whispers, with the recitations of sins and wicked deeds. Do not linger here.
When you return to your vehicle, begin driving until you reach the road, then go as fast as you can toward the direction of the setting sun. The shadows of this place will begin to grow and shift, but if you have followed these directions perfectly, just as the sun sinks down, a blinding flash should consume the horizon, and when it fades, you should be back in the world of the living, your car idling on an empty, but otherwise normal street. Find your way back home, and rest. You have earned your reward.
Over the next year, the victim whose name you offered will begin to wither. All goodness and fortune will quit their lives, and every endeavor will bring to them only bitter tragedy. When, at last, they finally die, one year from the moment you completed the ritual, they will be broken thoroughly, in mind, body, and spirit. At last, your vengeance will be satisfied.
From that day forward, however, you will always be unsettled by the sight of crows, and the hushed whispers they bring beneath their ebony wings. You will feel as if they watch you, keeping track of every vice, of every sin and misstep, and not just of you, of everyone, of everything. Almost as if they existed only to observe, and to relay the wickedness of man to It that waits, with silent anticipation, to serve as its ultimate executioner.
Credit To – brahesTheorem
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7 thoughts on “The Lord of the Scarecrows”
Pretty nice ritual pasta. But the wording was some really violent thesaurus rape. A lot of the big, fancy words seemed forced and out of place.
“the primordial ether of creation itself” seems a little overkill.
I actually rolled my eyes when I read that part lol
Sorry you three can’t appreciate a truly well written story. I guess I have to excuse those who believe being willfully ignorant I. E . About as intelligent as a box of bricks makes you look so cool. Oh well enjoy working at Micky As asshole.
I liked this story a lot. I’ve actually not read anything like this on here before and really enjoyed it! However, there were some grammar errors such as things being capitilized when they shouldn’t have been. Other than that, great story!
I wanted to like this because I love evil scarecrows so much, but the ornate writing was distracting and uneven. Word choices that were completely out of place with the overall tone and personality of the narrator (such as ‘vittles’ which would have been much stronger as ‘provisions’) weaken the presentation of an otherwise intriguing idea.
I really enjoyed this pasta. While ritual pastas, in my own personal opinion, are never really that creepy, I feel like this pasta was able to play on the fact that everyone wonders if they would really be willing to do something like this to someone they hate. Also, I like how you never actually say what the creatures will do at night, but you imply that it isn’t pleasant. All in all, this was a very well prepared pasta.