Chapter 2: The Fork in the Road
The wheels of the cart creaked beneath the weight of half-empty crates as Mr. Cottonbriches pulled out of Grimthorn Hollow, the chill morning air nipping at his whiskers. He tugged his coat tighter around his belly and muttered to himself.
“Too warm, that one,” he grumbled. “Eyes too shiny. Voice like a stage player. No tavern-keeper’s ever that glad to see root vegetables.”
He glanced back once. The gate had already slipped behind the mist. The Hollow was a strange place, always had been. But something about this morning—the quiet, the smoke, the way the ivy trembled even without wind—put a tightness in his chest.
The road forked ahead.
Left led home. Right, just for a moment, toward the lantern post. It stood at the edge of the old fields—a simple iron cage on a hook, meant to burn all through the night so travelers wouldn’t lose their way in the fog.
And more than that.
The Lantern at the Fork was not merely firelight. It was hobgoblin-lit—kindled by the town’s founder long ago and blessed to glow green for safety, red for danger. It was never dark… only in the worst of times.
But now…
The lantern hung cold.
Cottonbriches clicked his tongue. “Damn thing’s out. Strange. Very strange,” he muttered.
He tugged the reins, steering the pony toward the post. The cart jostled and bumped along the grass-choked path.
The lantern swayed. Cold. Unlit.
The old hare climbed down with a grunt, pulled a stub of candle and a striker from his coat, and shuffled forward.
“Let’s have a look.”
The hawthorn trees here grew thick and strange, their trunks blackened, bark split like old wounds. As he reached the base of the lantern pole, he caught sight of something in the field beyond.
A shape.
Taller than any hare. Arms out. Not quite natural. Straw hanging from sleeves. A sack for a head.
Cottonbriches froze.
It was just a scarecrow, surely—left over from the summer festivals, the kind villagers burned for good harvests and old luck. He’d seen them in fields before, garlanded in ribbons, stuffed with fennel and bone ash.
But this one hadn’t been there yesterday.
He squinted. It stood among the dead crops, not twenty paces from the road. No crows. No sound.
Something about the angle of its head made the fur along his spine bristle.
He turned back to the lantern and struck the flint.
Sparks danced, but the candle would not catch.
Behind him, something creaked.
Not the pole. Not the trees.
Cloth, maybe. Or rope, twisting.
He straightened. Looked over his shoulder.
The scarecrow was closer.
Not much—maybe a pace. But closer.
Cottonbriches narrowed his eyes. “Now hold on…”
There were no tracks in the soil. No sign of dragging. Just the thing. Standing. Arms wide.
And then—a pulse of light.
The lantern flared red.
Not candlelight. Not fire. But an old glow, unnatural, crawling across the ground in a shivering circle. The color of danger. The same light it had burned the night the Drow came out of the Hollowpaths.
The same light that warned of unspeakable things.
Cottonbriches dropped the candle. His paw trembled. He turned toward the cart—
A figure blocked his path.
Sackcloth head. Black-ribboned wrists. Limbs too long. Face featureless.
He stumbled back.
And then—a breath behind him.
He spun.
The first scarecrow was there again. Closer.
Something passed between them. A wrongness in the air, like a cold exhale from beneath the ground.
From out of the mist, a sickle swung.
The hare ducked. The scarecrow stepped through the fog, cackling.
“Well, well,” it rasped. “A big fat hare—and vegetables too. Perfect for a stew.”
Cottonbriches screamed. He leapt. He bounced.
“HELL no!” he cried, as he darted back toward town in a blur of fur and panic.
Behind him, the scarecrow upturned the cart, flinging crates and carrots in every direction, then vaulted the stone wall bordering the Hollow—and vanished into the mist.
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Chapter 3: The Town Hall Meeting
The bell atop Town Hall rang three short chimes — the signal for urgent gathering.
Word had spread quick. By the time the benches were pulled out and the lanterns lit, half of Grimthorn Hollow had squeezed into the meeting chamber, boots damp with morning mist, expressions tight with unease.
At the front, Mr. Cottonbriches sat with a wool blanket around his shoulders, cup of boiled tea in hand, his paws still trembling. He’d told the tale twice already — once to the guards, once to the mayor. Now, he told it a third time, his voice steadier but still raw.
The scarecrows. The sickle. The red lantern glow.
A cold silence followed his final words, broken only by the scratch of someone’s quill.
Then Veln the gnome stood up — short, sharp, eyes like pinheads behind his lenses. “It’s true,” he said. “Burdock and I saw the scene ourselves. We went out before sunrise. Cart overturned, every crate smashed. Vegetables scattered like bones. And worse — a trail of straw, leading off into the wilds.”
He paused, brow furrowing.
“And only then — only then — did the lantern turn back from red to green.”
A heavy stillness hung over the room.
“We are doomed,” said Mrs. Stout, the town baker, twisting her apron. “Doomed, I say! The scarecrow’s curse has returned!”
“Guards!” barked one of the Fletchers — molefolk from the old flour mill, dusty and round. “Station them at the gates, both ends. Nobody in, nobody out without answering for it.”
“Seconded!” came a shout from the back. “Sentries through the night!”
The crowd erupted into anxious chatter.
And then — from near the hearth — the new innkeeper rose.
He dusted his coat, cleared his throat, and spoke with warm precision. “Good folk of Grimthorn, I’m as shaken as the rest of you. This isn’t the town I expected when I arrived last night. But community spirit — yes? — it still shines bright.”
A pause. A smile.
“Please — when time allows — stop by the Thorn and Thistle. First drink’s on me. For the sake of fellowship. Especially you, Mr. Cottonbriches. After such a fright, you’ve earned it.”
A murmur of polite laughter. But behind the chuckles, some frowned.
Veln the gnome adjusted his spectacles. “While we’re naming names,” he said sharply, “those two weasels — Mudtoe and Sneazel. I expected better. They vanished like shadows the moment trouble stirred. Eight years ago, I sold them that tavern. My friends, I thought. And now—” He shook his head. “Gone.”
The room sighed.
After more heated debate and some banging of tankards, it was agreed:
— Sentries would be posted at both ends of town. Folk would take turns, with strict rotation through the night. — No one would be allowed entry without answering who they were, where they’d come from, and why. — All homes would hang lanterns. No wandering alone. Especially after dusk.
Finally, Veln stepped forward again and raised a tiny hand.
“We send a bird,” he said. “To the Far Heath.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Call on Evoker Kalo and Lukan Otterpaw,” he continued. “They came sixteen years ago, when the Hollowpaths belched up the Drow and the lantern first bled red. If ever there were a time to ask for help, it’s now.”
Burdock the badger grunted in agreement. “The Kooplings’ Evoker will know what to do.”
A hush fell.
Beyond the stone walls of the hall, mist curled low over the fields. Somewhere, far out in the wilds, something shifted in the straw.
The first night watch was only hours away.
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