Onion
They say that on Halloween night, when the moon hangs low and the fields reek of earth and rot, the Onion-Head Man rises from the patch. His head is a pale bulb, his grin carved deep beneath layers of papery skin. He waits among the rows, silent and patient, for children who wander too close—drawn by whispers that sound like their own names. By dawn, the patch is still again… but the scarecrow’s grin looks a little wider than before.
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