Chapter 3: The Fire

The nightmares weren't just dreams anymore.

They were *memories*.

I didn't know how I knew that—I just *felt* it. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back inside that house, surrounded by walls covered in whispers, standing in the footsteps of the people who had lived there before.

No. Not *lived*.

*Disappeared.*

And I was next.

Amy was waiting for me outside my house the next morning.

I hadn't told her about the dreams, but one look at me and she knew.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She sighed. "Jack, we have to do something."

I stared past her, toward the distant outline of the cornfield.

"You were right," I said.

Amy blinked. "About what?"

I swallowed hard. "We need to go back."

Mike and Danny thought we were insane.

"You wanna go *back*?" Mike asked, gaping at us. "Are you out of your damn minds?"

Danny scoffed. "Dude, you barely made it out the first time."

I clenched my jaw. "I don't think I *did* make it out."

That shut them up.

I pulled up my sleeve, showing them my wrist. The mark had darkened even more, spreading tendrils up my arm. It wasn't just a scar—it was *alive*.

"This thing's not going away," I said. "And the whispers… the dreams… it's not stopping."

Mike shook his head. "So what? You think going back is gonna fix it?"

I took a deep breath. "I think it's the only way to stop it."

Amy nodded. "We need to destroy that field."

Danny laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?"

Amy's eyes darkened. "We burn it."

That night, we stole gasoline from my dad's shed.

It felt insane—like some kind of fever dream I wasn't fully awake for. But the weight of the gas can in my hands was real. The cold air biting at my skin was real. The fear twisting in my stomach was *real*.

We met at the edge of the field.

Amy carried a box of matches. Mike and Danny had brought more gas. No one spoke.

Because deep down, I think we all knew.

*This wasn't going to work.*

But we had to try.

We moved fast.

Pouring gasoline over the dry stalks, drenching the roots, soaking the scarecrow in the middle of the field.

The air smelled sharp and chemical, stinging my nose. My hands were shaking. The whispers had grown louder.

They *knew* what we were doing.

I could feel them pressing in, warning, *threatening*.

*"Stop."*

*"Turn back."*

*"You're making a mistake."*

But I didn't stop.

Because this wasn't just about me anymore.

It was about *all* of us.

Amy struck the match.

The fire spread fast.

Too fast.

The moment the flames touched the field, they *exploded*, racing through the stalks like a living thing, like it had been *waiting* for this.

The whispers became *screams*.

Not just in my head—*everywhere*.

The air was thick with something heavy and wrong, pressing down on my lungs, making it hard to breathe. The fire wasn't just burning the field. It was *waking something up*.

And then—

The ground shook.

Danny cursed. "What the hell—"

The scarecrow *moved*.

Its head snapped up, burlap skin splitting open, revealing *something else* beneath.

Something *not human*.

And it was *looking at me*.

I ran.

We all did.

Crashing through the flames, through the smoke, through the twisting, writhing field that no longer felt like just plants but something *alive*.

The fire roared, but the whispers didn't stop.

*"You can't escape."*

*"You belong to him."*

I stumbled, falling to my knees. The ground was burning, but it didn't feel like fire—it felt like *hands*, clawing at me, dragging me *down*.

Amy grabbed me, yanking me up. "Jack, MOVE!"

I forced my legs to work, sprinting toward the road, toward safety, toward *anything* but here—

And then the field *died*.

The fire went out.

Just like that.

One second, it was an inferno. The next, it was *gone*.

Smoke curled into the sky. The corn stood untouched.

Like nothing had ever happened.

Danny was gasping for breath beside me. "What the *hell* was that?"

Amy's hands were shaking. "I—I don't know—"

But I did.

I turned slowly, staring back at the scarecrow.

It was standing again, its grin *wider than ever*.

And I knew.

We hadn't destroyed anything.

We had only made it *angrier*.

We didn't talk as we left.

What was there to say?

We had tried. We had failed. And now, something *worse* was coming.

When I got home, my mom barely looked at me. "You smell like smoke," she said.

I just nodded and went upstairs.

The moment I stepped into my room, I felt it.

The cold. The weight of something unseen. The knowledge that I was *not alone*.

I turned slowly.

The Watcher was standing in the corner of my room.

Not outside. Not in my dreams.

*Here.*

*With me.*

My heart stopped. My throat locked up.

It tilted its head, hollow eyes watching, grin stretching impossibly wide.

And then, in a voice that was *both inside my head and outside of it*, it whispered—

*"You can't run, Jack."*

The light flickered.

And the room went black.

---

Last Chapter Next Chapter