The museum worker glared up at the scarecrow. It was a new piece, donated by an old British family. Bluetree or something.
The curator had harped on and on about getting a defining piece of the English countryside pre-war. He said even though it was plain, it didn't mean it wasn't important to gaining the understanding of the history of England.
The worker didn't care. It just meant more work for him and one less space for the exhibits. Of course, he had to be the one to stay late ensuring its correct placement. Right now, he could be joining the weekly pub crawl with the other workers rather than being stuck at the museum.
All this fuss for a scarecrow.
The worker stared up at the patching forming the shape of the eyes. The black thread crosses stared back down. The gaze was piercing, those stitches conveying more emotion than could be possible for 1913's threading.
A shiver went up the worker's back. There seemed to be something behind those eyes, something old but very, very angry.
That was ridiculous. The only thing there was old fabric and some kind of filler to keep the thing standing. It was only paranoia, telling him this scarecrow was more to meets the eye.
Still, the worker felt all too uneasy turning his back on the scarecrow. The worker shuffled out of the room, being all too careful not to accidently trip over his irrationally shaking feet.
The instant he passed to the other room, an uncontrollable sigh of relief passed through his lips. He turned and moved at an awkwardly fast pace towards the exit. Anyone looking would think he was fleeing. He was not. He would never run away from something just because of a vague sense of unease. At least, that's what he told himself.
It was only a scarecrow. Who would be afraid of a scarecrow?