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Elise approached the cornfield. Her one hand held Teddy, a limp, disinterested bear. Her other, a hefty shotgun. The chorus of husks rustled under the moon. Scarecrow’s foreboding silhouette stood above the stalks.
Father said fears were for facing. That’s why she’d learned to shoot.
She pressed onward, arriving to find Scarecrow’s post abandoned.
With a skip of her heart, she steadied.
He emerged, his sack-sewn eyes wide.
She had him — No. A growl from behind.
A beast leaped overhead, colliding with Scarecrow. With a ripping mouth Scarecrow rasped, “Run!”
Elise aimed at the beast. “No, you run."

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