Chapter 125
I didn't know.
How vast and overwhelming the talk show set would look from the perspective of a palm-sized stuffed doll.
How everything could appear unnaturally massive, and what kind of pressure it would bring to be unable to blink or even struggle. Especially.
If the eerie host, with a television in place of a head, loomed over me, casting a massive shadow.
And when that voice, so vividly real, echoed— Now then, let us welcome today's guest!
'~~!'
The vibrations rattled through my stuffing like an earthquake. But no matter what state I was in, the talk show continued.
'Guest...'
The vintage stage lights flickered as the door swung open. A grotesque ghost story—one I had personally suggested in a meeting, calling it 'a fantastic idea'—stepped onto the stage and took its seat. Or rather, the staff carried it in and propped it up in the guest's seat. Because it was merely a vaguely human-shaped figure made of wooden sticks.
The Crimson Scarecrow!
Its head was wrapped in cloth, crudely scrawled with facial features in red marker—eyes, nose, and mouth, drawn with careless, slashing strokes. The rain had smudged the markings, making it appear even more nightmarish.
A monster said to lurk in a cornfield the size of a city, luring people in until they lost their way—then, once night fell, hunting them down one by one until they vanished.