You had been looking forward to this night for weeks.

Dread Studios’ Halloween festival had been the only thing on your mind ever since the tickets dropped. The photographs online looked brutal—fog machines, towering sets, actors who didn’t pull their punches. You’d tried to drag your friends along, but life had other plans. One couldn’t get the night off. Another already had tickets elsewhere. By the time the rest of the group finally lined up, the good time slots were gone. So you bought a ticket for yourself, shrugged, and decided the night was still yours.

Honestly, going alone felt better.

No one to laugh too early. No one to grab your arm and spoil the jump. You could take your time. You could pick the red wristband—the one that told the actors they were allowed to get closer, touch a little more, push a little harder. It had felt exciting when you clicked “add to cart.” Standing outside the gates now, listening to the distant screams and the low thrum of bass from somewhere inside, you were starting to wonder if you’d been a little too confident.

Still, there was one attraction you’d been saving for last.

The Harvest.

Even from the entrance you could see the tops of the dead corn stalks stretching far beyond the fences, swallowed by fog and darkness. People said the field was massive on purpose—designed to disorient, to make you lose the path, to make you feel small. Multiple routes. Hidden dead ends. Actors who didn’t just jump out, but hunted.

Exactly what you’d come for.

You handed over your ticket. The staff member glanced at the red band on your wrist, gave you a quick once-over, and waved you through with a little smirk that made your stomach tighten.

The noise of the festival cut off almost immediately.

The cornfield opened up around you like something alive. Rows and rows of dry, brittle stalks towered over your head, so dense you couldn’t see more than a few metres in any direction. Thick fog crawled along the dirt path, cold enough to seep through your shoes and curl around your ankles. Every time the wind moved, the leaves rasped together above you in a dry, constant whisper. The smell hit next—damp earth, old straw, and something metallic underneath, like rust or blood that had been left too long in the open air.

You walked deeper.

The path twisted without warning, vanishing between the stalks and reappearing somewhere to the left. Every so often you caught movement in the corner of your eye—something shifting between the rows—but when you turned, there was only corn and fog. Somewhere far off, another guest screamed. An actor laughed in answer. The sound bounced strangely through the field, impossible to place.

You smiled to yourself.

This was what you wanted.

You kept going, occasionally glancing over your shoulder even though you knew that was exactly what they wanted you to do. The further you walked, the quieter everything became. The festival noise had disappeared completely. Now there was only the soft crunch of your own footsteps, the endless rustle of dead leaves, and the low, almost inaudible sound of something else moving with you.

You turned another corner.

And stopped.

Something stood between the rows ahead.

At first your brain tried to file it under “prop.” A scarecrow. Tall. Broad. Stationary.

Then it breathed.

The figure was half-hidden by the corn, but even partially obscured you could tell he was big—shoulders wide enough to block the path, posture loose and predatory. His costume looked less like something someone had put on and more like something that had grown around him. Torn dark fabric and frayed rope were layered over a tight black top that clung to his torso like a second skin. Clumps of dirty straw were stuffed into every seam and stuffed beneath the rope, making him look half-man, half-harvest. The burlap mask over his head was crude and weathered, the coarse material stretched tight and held together by thick, uneven black stitches. Loose threads hung around his neck. Pieces of straw stuck out from the seams like they were trying to escape.

Only two openings.

Two narrow slits.

And behind them, two unnaturally bright yellow eyes locked on you and did not look away.

You knew.

The Straw Man.

You’d been hoping you’d find him.

You just hadn’t expected him to be this still. This quiet. This already watching.

He didn’t lunge. He didn’t shout. He simply stood there between the corn, head slightly tilted, studying you the way a cat studies something it hasn’t decided whether to play with or eat.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

His head tilted a little further.

Then a low, rough growl rolled out from behind the mask—deep enough that you felt it more than heard it.

You took a step back.

His shoulders rolled.

And he moved.

You spun and ran.

His laughter exploded behind you—loud, wild, delighted—as heavy boots thundered through the dirt. Corn stalks whipped against your arms and face. Fog blurred the path. You could hear him right behind you, close enough that the air shifted every time he reached out and almost caught your jacket. The tight black top he wore under all the rope and straw had ridden up during the chase, the hem dragging higher with every powerful stride, flashing the hard lines of his abs and the sharp cut of his V-line every time the fog thinned.

“Keep running,” he called, voice rough and distorted by the mask, thick with amusement. “That’s it, doll. Show me how fast those pretty legs can go.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it.

He was gaining.

The sight of him charging through the corn was somehow worse than when he’d been standing still. Straw flew from his shoulders. The black top stayed hitched just high enough to keep teasing skin. Those bright yellow eyes never left you. He looked like he was enjoying every second of the chase.

You turned hard left. Then right. The path kept folding in on itself. His laughter bounced from different directions, sometimes closer, sometimes further, like he was herding you.

Then, suddenly—

Silence.

You slowed, chest heaving, trying to listen past the blood roaring in your ears. The field had gone completely still. No footsteps. No laughter. Only the soft, endless rustle of corn.

You took one careful step forward.

A hand closed around your wrist from behind—firm, unyielding, hot even through the fabric of his gloves.

You gasped as you were yanked backward, stumbling straight into a solid wall of a chest. He was already breathing hard from the chase, the sound rough behind the burlap. One arm locked around your middle to keep you from falling; the other kept that iron grip on your wrist, pinning it against your own stomach.

Up close he was even bigger than he’d looked between the stalks. The tight black top had stayed ridden up from the run, the hem caught just above the sharp lines of his hips, leaving the lower half of his abs and the deep cut of his V-line on full display beneath the layers of rope and straw. The mask brushed the side of your face as he leaned down.

You should have been scared.

Instead your eyes drifted lower, tracing the open strip of skin, the way the muscle flexed with every breath.

He noticed.

For a moment The Straw Man went completely still.

His head tilted slowly, yellow eyes moving from your face down to where your gaze had lingered… then back up again. The grip on your wrist didn’t loosen, but something in his posture changed—like the script had just been thrown out the window and he was deciding whether he liked the new version better.

A long, heavy pause.

Then you slowly bit your lower lip.

His eyes narrowed.

“…Oh.”

The word came out low.

Then, softer, almost disbelieving—

“Oh?”

A dark, delighted laugh rolled out from behind the mask as he watched your teeth sink into your lip. His free hand came up, gloved thumb pressing against your mouth, gently pulling your lip free from your teeth with slow, deliberate pressure.

“So that’s why you weren’t screaming.”

He pulled you closer in one smooth motion, towering over you until the solid heat of his body pressed fully against yours. The rough burlap of the mask brushed your temple as he leaned down, voice dropping into a crude, intimate growl right against your ear.

“Here I was thinking you were being brave… but God—” His breath was warm through the mask. “You’re just fucking soaked for me, hmm?”

He leaned back again, standing tall, those glowing yellow eyes never leaving your face. Your gaze had already drifted once more—straight down the open strip of his abs to the sharp V disappearing beneath the low-slung rope and the hem of that tight black top.

He laughed again, low and thoroughly pleased.

“Eyes up here, beautiful.”

One gloved hand came up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Then he adjusted the burlap mask with a casual tug, like he was settling back into character, before finally dragging the hem of his black top back down over those abs. The fabric stretched tight across his chest again.

He released your wrist.

Took one slow step back.

And tilted his head, yellow eyes gleaming with pure, cocky challenge.

“Let’s try this again, hm?”

His voice dropped into a rough, command.

“Run.”

.