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For years, I would drive by this sprawling farm exactly halfway between my house and my job.
It was acres and acres of corn and wheat, and at the intersection of a pair of roads that ran by their property, there was always a scarecrow propped up near the fence.
A few times of year, from the weather and rain, they would have to give the ole scarecrow a little revamp. Maybe a new shirt, a little more stuffing, a new post to sit on.
On my drive home, about 3 weeks before Halloween, I noticed that they’d gotten a bit festive with their scarecrow this time, giving him a massive carved pumpkin for a head.
I passed by that scarecrow for 18 days, and for 18 days I didn’t think twice about it.
But on day number 19, everything changed.
I was driving down the road when I noticed a huge flock of crows at the corner where the scarecrow lived.
“Funny,” I said. “I thought scarecrows were supposed to scare crows.”
As I got closer, my chuckle turned into a gasp. I slowed to a crawl as I passed.
The crows had pulled open the shirt of the scarecrow. But where there would normally be hay or leaves, out of the shirt spilled a pile of intestines.
I pushed down the urge to vomit, hoping what I was seeing was a trick of the setting sun.
But I’d get no relief.
Suddenly, a crow landed on my mirror, proudly carrying his prize in his big black beak:
A blue eyeball.
I hit the gas and sped home, leaving behind a trail of dust and flying gravel.
From then on, I took the highway.