(Flash Fiction)
The wind moved through the barley like a whisper, low and urgent. Mila tightened her shawl and glanced toward the edge of the field, where the Straw Eyes stood.
There were seven of them this year. Seven straw effigies, tall and silent, their twig arms reaching slightly outward, as if in invitation—or warning. They wore cast-off clothes from the villagers. Torn trousers. A wedding dress gone yellow. One had a child’s cap slumped over its head of wheat-blonde thatch.
Mila hated them.
Don’t Look
“Don’t look too long,” Baba had warned her once, when she was still a child. “They remember the ones who watch.”
The others treated it like superstition. The old stories. A leftover fear from a time before roads, before radios, before reason. But Mila had heard the things that still happened. Cows going mad. A girl vanishing near the southern field. The reaper who fell and townsfolk found with his throat full of straw.
Nevertheless, the tradition stood, townsfolk too fearful of the consequences. Locals constructed the Straw Eyes every autumn and placed them on the outskirts of the fields to watch the harvest. On the final night—the villagers burned the Straw Eyes.
This year, the wood was wet. The storm had rolled in unexpectedly, soaking the bundles and drenching the fire pit. “We’ll burn them tomorrow,” the elder said. “Nothing’s going to happen overnight.”
Restless Souls
But that night, Mila couldn’t sleep.
She dreamed of rustling. Of dragging footsteps just outside her door. Of dry, crackling voices that whispered her name, “Milaaa…”
She woke with a start. Her window was open. She hadn’t left it open. She dressed. Stuck a hat on her head and wedged her feet into boots.
The village square was empty when she stepped outside. Mist curled low across the earth like breath. The moon was full, but weak, veiled behind clouds. She turned toward the fields—and stopped.
There were only six Straw Eyes.
Her breath caught. The one in the wedding dress was missing.
A soft sound came from behind her. Straw against stone. She turned.
Nothing.
She walked to the edge of the field, heart thudding like a harvest drum. The remaining figures loomed silently. Then, just beyond them, she saw it—the seventh effigy—standing at the well.
It faced her
Mila’s breath steamed in the cold as she took a step closer. Something about the figure was wrong. The head—too low. Its arms—too long. Straw darker than the others, almost soaked.
No.
Not soaked.
Stained.
“Mila,” it said, with a voice like brittle corn husks rubbing together.
She ran.
Through the mist, past the square, into her grandmother’s cottage.
She slammed the door and locked it, backing into the corner like she had when she was five and afraid of storms. The whispers followed her, scratching at the walls.
In the morning, the villagers found the field untouched, the Straw Eyes unmoved.
But Mila was gone.
In her place, a new figure stood at the edge of the barley. It wore her dress. Her boots and hat. Even her hair. And its eyes were darker than pitch—deep and wet, like they could see everything.
The elder ordered it burned, but the flames refused it. The fire curled away like it feared to touch her.
No one spoke of it again.
Now, every year, there are eight figures.
And the villagers never meet their gaze.
Want more chilling tales like this? Stay tuned for additional Flash Fiction rooted in folklore and fear. And remember, some traditions aren’t meant to be broken. Especially the ones that watch you back.
- Straw Eyes - May 9, 2025
- Folk Horror and the Tale of the Straw Eyes - April 17, 2025
- Icelandic Changelings - March 21, 2025
