For as long as the farmer could remember, the scarecrow had stood out in the field, a straw-stuffed sack as a head and crude stiches for eyes and a mouth. Blankly it stared across the crops at the farmhouse, and it seemed to the farmer, when he was a boy, that the scarecrow actually witnessed all that occurred inside – the screaming matches between his parents, his father’s drunken rages. Not only that, but it seemed like the scarecrow had the power to intervene somehow but refused. As a man the farmer felt the constant gaze of the scarecrow on him, judging his every move. Like his father, the farmer liked to drink. The drink, however, didn’t like him. He was angry all the time and his wife bore the brunt of it. On good days he just yelled and swore; on bad he became violent. Then, on one terrible night, in a mad fury, he placed his hands around her throat and strangled her. Ashamed of what he had done, he determined to hand himself in. But he was a coward at heart and, rather than spend the rest of his life in a jail cell, he dug a shallow grave in the back garden and buried her. Life on the farm was very solitary. Only his sister-in-law would notice his wife’s disappearance. The night before her weekly visit the farmer stayed up late, downing his whiskey and wondering what to do. There was only one thing he could do, he realised before falling into a deep drunken sleep. To keep his wife’s murder hidden he must murder again. The following morning he woke with a pounding headache and when he turned to face his bedside clock he couldn’t believe it had gone midday. How had he slept through his alarm? And his sister-in-law. Hadn’t her knocks on the front door disturbed him? Throwing some clothes on he rushed downstairs to see if there was any sign of her. But on passing the kitchen he froze. Through the window above the sink he looked out onto the back garden and saw his wife’s unmarked grave lying open and entirely empty. He made a beeline for the front door. He had to get out. He had to flee! The bitch had faked it. And now she was going to seek her revenge. He put on his boots, grabbed the keys to his jeep, opened the front door and– And then he saw them. His sister-in-law and two police officers, at the other end of the field. In floods of tears, his sister-in-law was gesturing the officers over to the scarecrow where, at its base, the murdered body of his wife lay for all to see.

“Go, my pet,” the harsh voice instructed. Screeching, the crow spread its black wings and vanished. The Seeker stood on the edge of the shadows, waiting. Most mistook him for a scarecrow wrapped in burlap stitched with coarse black thread. The truth was worse. He wore the skin of those he sought, their souls the thread binding the patches together. Beneath the mask remained little of the man he'd once been. Even his human eyes were gone. He no longer saw hair, eye color, beauty or ugliness. He saw fear. The noose around his neck wasn't how he'd died. It was simply a reminder of what he'd once been. Weak. Riddled with fear. He stared into the fall afternoon sky. The crow found the ones he sought. Not the strongest. Not the cruelest. The afraid. Heights. Drowning. Darkness. Confinement. Something beneath the bed. Whatever terror had already taken root, the Seeker made it real. He stroked a patch of skin on his shoulder. He’d enjoyed this nightmare. Miriam's fear had been drowning. Fear lodged in a real event was the most delicious. Miriam had nearly died in a lake as a child. Since then, water in any form triggered her fear. Even a shower left her trembling. She would spend eternity in a lake where the water climbed to her chest. Her throat. Her mouth. Across the lake, the Seeker watched. Miriam tried to run. Her body wouldn't move. Water closed over her head until her lungs exploded. Then it began again. That was his gift. He didn't kill his victims. He froze them inside their worst fear. The crow cawed, announcing its return. It perched on the Seeker’s shoulder, whispering. When the sun relinquished the last of the light, the Seeker would visit Larry. Larry had a fear of stuffed animals. Larry woke to the smell of dust and cotton stuffing. Stuffed animals sat shoulder to shoulder in endless rows around him. They watched him with black button eyes. Panic surged through him. He tried to stand, but his knees locked the moment a rabbit near his hand tilted its head. No, he told himself. It didn’t move. It couldn’t have moved. But the room answered with a dry whisper as thousands of stitched bodies shifted. Cloth brushed cloth. Plastic eyes clicked. Larry squeezed his eyes shut. Then came the harsh, rasping sound of something dragging. His throat closed. Between two towering piles of stuffed animals stood something… Not a stuffed animal. Tall. Burlap. A noose against its chest. The animals dragged themselves forward with floppy limbs and torn paws, their stitched mouths smiling. He tried to scream, tried to wake, tried to move even one finger. The animals knocked him down. Stuffing spilled from their bodies, filling his mouth and nose. Darkness consumed him. He woke with a start… to the smell of dust and cotton stuffing. Around him, stuffed animals sat shoulder to shoulder in endless rows.

Contrary to popular belief we didn’t burn witches in England, we hanged them, with or without a confession. Most villagers were happy to report their neighbours but none wished to be the one to pull the lever that opened the trap door. It was the dying scream of Annie Black, witch of Hexham, that if anyone known to have hanged a witch would bear the weight of it on their own souls and bring death to the village. The villagers believed it; that they would be cursed, so lots were drawn in secret and the loser did the deed, while wearing a mask of hessian, his identity protected; safe, they believed, from the curse. Despite this mystery, it was always the same hangman in Hexham and the same rope too. John Warden, the verger, always knew, he would approach the unlucky chosen executioner on the morning of the sentence and offer to take their place. He told them it was his penance to take on the sins of others. The women died cleanly, with efficiently snapped necks. No-one dangled or choked on Warden’s watch. With each sentence of death the news spread across the borough, and all the nearby villages turned out for the spectacle. It wasn’t long, however, before people began to suspect John Warden of being the hangman; he was never at an execution, though often at the trial. The priest prayed over the condemned, but Warden could never be seen. One morning the village green got so crowded that the executioner had to push his way through to the gallows and in the struggle to get through someone called out, “John Warden!” Like a fool caught unawares, he turned, in doing so his hood fell, and his mask was ripped away from his face. Now everyone knew that John Warden was the executioner, now the curse would take effect. Unashamed he surged forward, and now he crowd turned nasty. They now knew that Warden had always been the hangman, in defiance of their custom. Even those guilty men in the crowd whose places he had taken, joined in his condemnation. He pulled the lever and the witch fell through the trap door. This time it was slow. She dangled, wriggled and choked. The end finally came when John Warden gripped her knees and yanked hard enough to snap her neck, still caught in the noose. For Warden though it was too late. Now that the hangman was identified the curse would be realised. All the villagers could do to save themselves was gather up the rope and use it one last time. John Warden hanged by the neck. All day and all night he wriggled with none wishing to grant him a quick death for fear of touching him. By the morning, however, he was gone. That following night, a crow showed John Warden the way back, to bring death to Hexham as foretold. Each killing would be clean and efficient, but with the same rope.