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Halloween Short Story

Monday, June 23rd 2025. | Halloween

spooky halloween stories kids short

The Scarecrow’s Secret

The wind, a restless spirit, howled through the hollows of Harrowgate, tearing fallen leaves from skeletal branches and scattering them like ghostly confetti. It was Halloween night, and an unnerving energy crackled in the air, thicker than the fog that clung to the fields like a shroud.

Ten-year-old Maisie, dressed as a miniature witch, shivered, partly from the cold, and partly from the unsettling atmosphere. She and her older brother, Finn, were attempting a late-night trick-or-treating run through the outskirts of town, a dare laid down by Finn’s friends. They’d heard stories, whispered in hushed tones, about old Man Hemlock’s farm – a place said to be haunted by the spirit of a wronged scarecrow.

Finn, sixteen and determined to prove his bravery, scoffed at Maisie’s apprehension. “Don’t be a baby, Maisie. It’s just a story. Besides, think of all the candy!”

They trudged along a muddy lane, the only light coming from the feeble beam of Finn’s flashlight and the eerie glow of the almost-full moon. The silence was broken only by the crunch of gravel under their boots and the distant baying of a dog. As they neared Hemlock’s farm, the air grew colder, and the fog thickened, obscuring everything beyond a few feet.

Then, they saw it. Standing sentinel in the middle of a withered cornfield was a scarecrow. But this wasn’t some jovial, straw-stuffed figure. This was a grotesque parody of a human, its burlap face twisted into a silent scream, its button eyes glinting in the moonlight. One arm was missing, leaving a ragged stump that swayed in the wind like a skeletal finger beckoning them closer.

Maisie tugged on Finn’s sleeve. “Let’s go back, Finn. I don’t like it.”

Finn hesitated. The scarecrow was undeniably unsettling. But the challenge from his friends, and the fear of being branded a coward, kept him rooted to the spot. “Just a quick look,” he muttered, his voice barely audible above the wind. “We’ll grab some candy if he has any, and then we’re out of here.”

They crept closer to the farmhouse, a dilapidated structure with boarded-up windows and a sagging porch. A single flickering light emanated from a downstairs window, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the yard. The air was thick with the smell of decay and something else… something vaguely metallic.

As they reached the porch, a rusty swing creaked ominously. Finn, emboldened by the adrenaline coursing through his veins, knocked tentatively on the door. Silence. He knocked again, louder this time. A raspy voice, like dry leaves being crushed underfoot, answered from within. “Who’s there?”

“Trick or treat,” Finn called out, his voice trembling slightly. The door creaked open, revealing an old man, his face etched with wrinkles that seemed to tell a thousand sorrowful stories. He clutched a gnarled wooden cane, and his eyes, though clouded with age, held a piercing intensity.

“You’re late,” the old man said, his voice barely a whisper. He reached into a tattered sack and pulled out two small, wrapped candies. “Here. Take them and be gone.”

As Finn reached for the candy, Maisie noticed something glinting on the old man’s wrist. It was a tarnished silver locket, intricately carved with a miniature scarecrow. A chilling premonition washed over her.

“Wait,” Maisie said, her voice surprisingly firm. “That locket… where did you get it?”

The old man’s eyes narrowed. “That’s none of your concern, little witch.”

“It is if it belonged to someone,” Maisie persisted, pointing to a barely visible inscription on the back of the locket. “It says ‘Thomas.’ Thomas Hemlock. That’s your son’s name, isn’t it?”

The old man flinched, a flicker of pain crossing his face. He looked at the scarecrow in the field, then back at Maisie. “He… he disappeared years ago. Everyone said he ran away. But I knew… I knew something happened to him.”

Maisie suddenly understood. The scarecrow wasn’t haunted by a vengeful spirit. It was the spirit, trapped and unable to rest.

“The scarecrow,” she whispered. “He’s still here, isn’t he? He’s trying to tell you something.”

Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. He looked at the scarecrow, a desperate plea in his gaze. The wind howled, and the scarecrow’s ragged arm seemed to point towards a patch of freshly turned earth at the edge of the cornfield.

Without a word, Finn grabbed a shovel leaning against the porch. He and the old man began to dig. After what seemed like an eternity, the shovel struck something hard. They unearthed a small wooden chest. Inside, they found the rest of Thomas’ belongings, and a confession from a jealous neighbor admitting to killing him.

As the sun began to rise, painting the sky with hues of orange and purple, the scarecrow seemed to relax. Its burlap face no longer screamed in silent torment. The wind died down, and the fog began to dissipate. Thomas Hemlock could finally rest in peace.

Maisie, Finn, and the old man stood in silence, a shared understanding passing between them. The horror of Halloween night had turned into something else entirely: a resolution, a closure, and a quiet promise to never forget the scarecrow’s secret.