The Harvest Man | A Scary Halloween Story

The wind howled through the fields. The crops had failed again. Everything was withered and dry. Jacob, the farmer, stood there, empty-handed. Fear gnawed at his gut. He couldn’t face another year of loss. The bank was calling. His kids were hungry. He needed a miracle.

Desperate, Jacob found an old book in the attic. It was covered in dust and cobwebs. It had belonged to his great-grandfather. People whispered that the old man had dabbled in strange practices. Jacob never believed it—until now. The book was filled with rituals and symbols. Promises of power. The kind of power Jacob needed. He read it by candlelight. The pages seemed to whisper to him, urging him on. One ritual caught his eye. It promised to bring life to the scarecrow in his field. To turn it into a protector. But there was a price—blood and soil from his ancestors.

Jacob dug through the family plot behind the house. The wind bit at his face. He shoveled out a handful of earth from his grandfather’s grave. The smell of damp soil filled the air. His hands shook as he scooped the dirt. His breath came out in ragged puffs. He mixed the soil with his own blood, smearing it across the scarecrow’s chest. The scarecrow was a crude figure. A burlap sack for a head, straw poking out of old clothes, buttons sewn on for eyes. Jacob whispered the words from the book, binding the scarecrow to his land. The wind suddenly stopped. Everything was still. Unnaturally still.

At first, it worked. The scarecrow—now the Harvest Man—stood straighter. Its button eyes seemed to glint with awareness. Birds fled the fields. Thieves stayed away. The crops that survived seemed to grow stronger. Jacob felt hope. He ignored the unease that settled over the farm at night. The rustling sounds from the fields when there was no wind. The feeling that the Harvest Man was always watching.

One night, Jacob heard a noise. A low groan. Then a muffled cry. His heart lurched. Cold sweat ran down his back. He hesitated, then grabbed his lantern and stepped outside. The light flickered as he walked toward the fields. That’s when he saw it. The Harvest Man, dragging something—someone—into the corn. It was Mr. Thompson, his neighbor. The old man struggled, eyes wide with terror. Before Jacob could shout, could move, the corn swallowed them both. The stalks swayed, though there was no breeze.

The next morning, Mr. Thompson was gone. Jacob tried to convince himself it was a dream. But when he looked at the Harvest Man, he swore he saw a new bulge under the burlap. Like something—someone—was stuffed inside. He looked away, his hands trembling. He tried to focus on his chores. The crops were lush and green under the scarecrow’s gaze.

Days passed. More people went missing. A farmhand. A traveling salesman. Even the sheriff, who came asking questions. Each time, the Harvest Man seemed different. Bulkier. Its button eyes more lifelike. The townsfolk began to whisper. They talked about Jacob’s sudden good fortune. About the strange scarecrow that watched over his fields.

One night, Jacob’s daughter, Emily, woke him up. Her voice trembled. “Papa, there’s something outside my window.” Jacob rushed to her room. His heart sank. The Harvest Man stood beyond the glass. Its head tilted. Button eyes glinting in the moonlight. It was closer than ever before. No longer bound to the field.

Jacob knew what he had to do. His hands shook as he grabbed the old book. He looked at Emily, her wide, terrified eyes urging him on. He ran out to the fields. Fear twisted in his gut, but he couldn’t stop. The scarecrow waited, standing at the edge of the corn. Jacob felt its gaze. He felt its hatred. He opened the book, fumbling through the pages. He needed a reversal, a banishment, anything.

The wind picked up, howling through the corn. The Harvest Man began to move. Slow, deliberate steps. Jacob shouted the words. “Spiritus qui alligavit, nunc solvo!” His voice cracked. The air thickened. The scarecrow paused, its body shuddering. The burlap split at the seams. For a moment, Jacob thought it was working. Then the scarecrow lurched forward. Its arm swung out, knocking the book from his hands.

Jacob fell. The breath knocked out of him. The last thing he saw was the Harvest Man towering over him. Its button eyes glowing. Its burlap mouth twisting into something like a smile.

The next morning, the farm was quiet. Too quiet. The house stood still, windows dark and empty. The fields were alive, though. The corn was taller, greener than ever. The air was thick with silence. The Harvest Man stood in the middle of the field. Bulkier now. Almost bursting at the seams. No one saw Jacob or Emily again. But some said if you looked closely, you could see their faces under the burlap. Eyes staring out. Pleading for release.

The Harvest Man still stands there. Watching. Waiting. Every harvest, the townspeople leave an offering at the edge of the field. A bushel of corn. A doll. Anything to keep the Harvest Man satisfied. Anything to keep it from coming for them next.