The Final Harvest

Reverend Blackwood was once the town's most revered miracle healer. He claimed his power came from 'The Shepherd of the Fields.' But three years ago, after his young daughter Mary mysteriously 'ran away,' Blackwood boarded up his church and refused to speak to anyone. Last month, the dying started. Townsfolk reported hearing the voices of dead loved ones whispering from the cornfields at night. Those who answered the calls were found the next morning in their beds, wearing wide, peaceful smiles, their throats stuffed with coarse crow feathers. Terrified, a group of us forced our way into the parsonage to beg for help. Blackwood was cowering in the corner, clutching a shotgun he was too afraid to use. 'I can't stop it,' he whispered, his eyes wide with madness. 'The Shepherd... it’s grown too strong. It just needs the Keeper to be complete.' That night, we saw her. Mary walked out of the swaying corn, standing under the flickering porch light. She looked exactly as she did three years ago, but her feet didn't disturb the dust, and she held a limp, broken crow in her hand. 'Daddy,' she croaked, her voice sounding like dry leaves, 'Open the door. I'm home.' The next morning, the house was silent. The front door was wide open. On the kitchen table, we found a shattered wooden cross and a single chalice filled with a thick, black tar-like substance, mixed with a lock of Blackwood's grey hair. Blackwood was gone. But in the center of the cornfield, a new scarecrow had appeared overnight. It was wearing the Reverend's Sunday suit, facing the town.