The corn maze is rippling behind me as I walk through it.

My right hand lazily grazes over the top of the stalks, my breath barely visible in the chilly morning air.

“Don’t you love the fall?” I ask over my shoulder. The person behind me doesn’t answer, but I can hear him. I know he likes the fall.

“Don’t you love the fall?” I ask again, looking up into the sky. The day is sunny, out of place with the chilly air whipping through the maze. It’s the perfect weather for today.

“I need to put my scarecrow up.”

The bag slung over my right shoulder has straw, a blue plaid shirt, and two black buttons. Perfect for a makeshift scarecrow to put right at the center of the maze. The man behind me still doesn’t answer. I sigh, stopping for a moment. This is so tiring.

“The scarecrow will have the blackest buttons. Blacker than the night was.”

A storm had whipped through, snuffing out the stars with a blanket of rain and wind.

Even this morning, the corn is still slightly wet, the ground beneath us squelching with each step.

“His shirt is bluer than the sky.”

I wait for a response. None comes. I resume walking.

After a couple of minutes, I am tired again. I stop walking, sinking down onto the muddy ground. Behind me, the man stops moving too.

“I am sorry you had to come out here with me,” I say, sucking in deep breaths.

He still doesn’t answer. I turn around, peering at his face.

“I am sorry I didn’t realize you weren’t a ghost.”

The gaping hole in his skull, oozing with brain matter and blood peers back at me.

“I heard a noise and I was afraid. You have to understand.”

He doesn’t answer. I suppose it would be hard to answer when your mouth is full of blood and broken teeth.

“I thought you were a ghost,” I whisper.

I’m sure he will understand. If he can still hear me.

I stand back up, my right hand resuming its tracing of the stalks of corn, my left hand dragging the man behind me.

“I didn’t realize you came home from work so early,” I explain, my smile returning to my face. “It was a completely rational response. Anyone would have thought you were a ghost.”

The hole in his head peers back at me.

We finally reach the center of the maze. I pull out my straw. The plaid shirt. The black buttons. The shirt goes on first, then the straw, the yellow pieces turning red as they mix with the blood in the hole I shove the straw into.

Then I pull out my needle and sew the black eyes on. He twitches slightly, almost as if in protest. I ignore it.

“You’ll make the best scarecrow,” I whisper. “You’ll do so well. You’ll do so well.”

The crows circling above us don’t seem scared yet.