Chapter Text
The first thing Will Graham noticed when he stepped onto the field was the smell. It was rich and earthy, but underneath the scent of hay and freshly turned soil, there was something sharper—something metallic, clinging to the cool air like an unwelcome visitor.
His boots crunched against the frost-kissed ground as he made his way toward the centre of the field where the forensics team was waiting for him. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the rows of corn that had long since been harvested. But in the middle of the barren land, where nothing but the dry remains of crops should have stood, there was something... out of place.
A figure.
It was tall—unnaturally so—and made even more gnarly by the fact that it was hanging from a wooden pole, swaying slightly with the breeze. The figure was dressed in tattered clothes, its face a crude, haunting mask of twisted burlap and straw. But it wasn’t the scarecrow itself that made Will’s stomach tighten. It was the unmistakable trace of blood splattered at the base of the post. A stark contrast against the brown of the earth, a final, grim punctuation to the horror that had unfolded here.
Jack was already there, stood impatiently with his hands crossed, trying and failing to hide his unease. “This isn’t just some ordinary scarecrow, is it?” He questioned.
The answer hung in the air.
Will took in the sight before him, analysing it with the mind of someone who knew what it meant to look closely at violence and the dire consequences that came with it. Of course this was no ordinary scarecrow.
“When was the body discovered?” Graham asked.
“This morning at around 10am, one of the local farmers noticed it while cleaning their shed. “Beverley inquired as she stood up and led him over to the body.
“There was no sign of struggle, no scratch marks, no bruises. No nothing.’’ She pointed out, taking a brief pause to collect her thoughts. “We think that they were drugged before being turned into a kebab stick.” Beverly expressed with no real humour.
The dull eyes stared through Will, prying his eyes to the ground before making himself look again.
“Do we know who the victim is?” He asked.
Beverly’s expression turned grim before answering, “No, the face is barely recognizable. The corpse must’ve been decaying for at least up to 2 weeks.” She explained solemnly.
Will nodded, and Beverly took that as a que to return back to Brian and Jimmy.
He situates himself in front of the grotesque marionette and closes his eyes.
I stand in the dimly lit room, silence surrounding me My fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear—no, it was something colder. I adjust the latex gloves on my hands, smooth and surgical, like preparing for an intricate procedure. I move to reach the object that lays on the workbench: the syringe.
I pick it up and wrap my sly fingers around the plastic, examining it with delight as the liquid glistened under the cracks of moonlight. I know exactly where to inject, the precise dosage, just enough that it will keep them on the edge of consciousness, enough to be pliable but also just enough to be aware of the horror that is about to unfold.
I move gradually, deliberately like predator stalking its prey. I go to the chair where the victim is bound, unconscious but alive. The scent of their fear would be intoxicating when they woke, but I didn’t want them to wake too soon. I prefer the quiet, the calm before the storm.
As I lower the syringe into their arm, I whisper softly, barely audible, “You won’t feel a thing. Not at first.”
I press the plunger, watching the liquid dissipate into their skin, and wait. I can already sense the shift, the subtle change in the room, as their body began to slacken, their eyelids fluttering briefly before the world faded into the drugged haze I had designed.
The next part was always the most satisfying—the transformation. I step back, surveying the room. The scarecrow was almost complete. The victim’s body would be clothed in tattered clothing, their limbs bound stiffly, and the straw would be inserted carefully into the hollow of their chest, the mask of fear permanently etched onto their face.
I pull the rope tight, securing the victim to the cross-shaped frame, allowing myself a small, satisfied smile.
This is my design.
Will’s body jerks as he takes control back of his mind. He shakes his head, desperate to get rid of the image that engraved itself in his head. He takes one brief look over the body again, ensuring that he somehow has not missed anything before making his way back to where Jack is stood.
Trudging through the dead crops, he returns to Jack quite quickly. In Will’s peripheral vision, he could make out a shadow approaching from the edge of the field.
He didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Hannibal Lecter, dressed in his usual tailored dark coat, stepped out of the twilight, his expression unreadable as always, and approached the two men. Will met his gaze, but it was Hannibal’s eyes that held him, unblinking, unperturbed, as if they were simply encountering another puzzle to be solved.
Jack swiftly explained to Hannibal the situation before turning to Will and demanding his inquiry.
“This victim isn’t the first Jack.” He swallowed, his gut churning. “The victim was manipulated to feel a part of something. Our killer gives them a sense of belonging before the slaughter. He drugs them before hollowing their chest and stuffing them with hay.” Will summarized.
“What do you mean this isn’t his first victim, Will?” Jack interrogated, frustration evident in his voice.
Will’s throat tightened, the unease he’d been holding back threatening to spill over. “He’s harvesting them.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “He sells them Jack.”
Jack stayed silent, his lips drawing into a thin line.
“Do you think the killer is trying to make a statement?” Hannibal asked, his voice smooth, almost soothing against the bitter cold. His lips curled slightly at the corners, producing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“No.” Will denied, “They view their design as a transformation. Something beautiful that they find worthy of selling to people.” He murmured, glancing back at the twisted effigy.
Hannibal’s gaze followed his, then flicked back to Will’s. For a fleeting moment, something sparked in Hannibal’s eyes before vanishing just as fast. “And where do you suppose they’re selling these ‘scarecrows’, Will?”
Will didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let the question linger, the chill of the evening air creeping under his skin. The answer, as always, was somewhere between the lines.
After a few more gruelling hours, Jack eventually let Will go home for the day.
The slanting rays of the sun had fully settled underground, replaced by a soiled black sky. The trip back to Wolf Trap was already exhausting for Will on a normal day, let alone one where he was forced into unlawful FBI work that he didn’t even pass the screenings for.
At last, Will graham arrived on his property, the grunting of the car engine coming to an abrupt stop along with the car. He briskly exited the car, the sound of muffled barking greeting his ears and getting louder as he got closer to his front door.
He was welcomed by his pack of dogs, who eagerly swarmed him as he stepped through the door. Despite the exhaustion weighing down on him, he took the time to greet every member of his pack individually before going to feed them.
By the time he was finished, the fatigue had fully caught up to Will graham. He didn’t bother feed himself, instead just changed straight into his boxers and plain grey pyjama shirt.
That night, Will graham fell asleep to the sound of familiar silence and a pit of unexplained dread brewing in his stomach.
Will Graham’s dreams were never so kind. They came to him like old friends, familiar but unsettling.
The muted grey haze blurred the horizon, the thick fog enveloping the isolated field where the land stretches endlessly. The wind whistles an intimate tune making the trees dance, gently swaying from side to side in a breeze that feels more oppressing than refreshing. The air is thick with an eerie stillness, as if the world has paused itself.
Will graham finds himself standing alone, face to face with a familiar friendly visitor facing him with bright eyes.
The scarecrow looks down at him, its body made from thoughtfully picked out straw and lanky sticks, each one carefully and gently intertwined with one another. It contains a colourful long sleeved shirt that looks like it’s been picked out by a child, the denim overalls covering up the graphic design . It smiles at Will innocently, its black triangular eyes covered by strings of straw hanging loosely from its hat.
Relief overcomes Will, but is just as quickly ripped away from him as the scarecrow morphs into a dappled piece of oil panting of horror.
The neatly placed straw and sticks, now appear broken and dishevelled, as though it’s been battered by time and the elements. The arms hang limply, its clothing once colourful is now faded and torn, fluttering loosely in the wind. The scarecrow’s face is a tattered sack, its features barely discernible through the grime and dried up, large splotches of crimson that covers it. It looms above Will, watching will from above, though its eyes are a little more than triangles stitched into the fabric this time.
As Will unwillingly takes a step forward, he notices the ground around the scarecrow is disturbed, the earth torn up, as if something heavy and foreign has been dragged through the dirt. A sense of unease washes over him. The scene is silent, save the occasional rustle of straw that brushes against the hessian bag, but the silence is heavy, suffocating.
Will tries to look away, but physically can’t as his gaze fixates on the effigy, drawn in by his corrupt mind. It’s disfigured shape seems to shift in his peripheral vision, and when he directly looks at it, vacant eyes stared back, mouth open with a grin too wide to be natural
While the rays of down broke through the curtains, Will awoke with a gasp and his hand clutching as his heart, feeling the sped up, uneven, pounding rhythm of his heart. Sweat tricked down his forehead, the remnants of the nightmare clung to his mind like cobwebs, the image of the horrific transformation swirling in his head.
Disoriented, Will felt around for his phone he seemed to carelessly toss onto his bed last night. He ended up finding it tangled in his bedsheets. He tried to open his phone to check the time, only to find discover it was dead.
Great.
Agitated barking detached Will from his still slightly panicked state, seeming to come from the front door. He stilled for a moment , glancing at his shabby alarm clock that did not serve its purpose anymore on his bedside table that read 10:20AM.
Suddenly, the barking got deafened by the sound of knocks rapping at his front door.
Irritated, he let out a string of curses as he got out of bed and hastily grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants that sprawled out on his floor and shimmied into them.
He stumbled through his narrow doorway into his living room to see all the dogs curled up in their designated spaces, before making his way over to the front door where the knocking got more persistent.
“Jesus, Jack! I'm here! Stop-“ Will swung the door open, stopping mid sentence. He was expecting an angry Jack on the other side.
Instead he was greeted face to face with his psychiatrist.
“Sorry to disappoint, Will.” Hannibal humoured.
“Hannibal? What are you doing here?” Will frowned.
“There was another murder, another victim turned into a scarecrow.” Hannibal bluntly informed him. “Jack was getting impatient seeming as you weren’t answering his calls or texts.”
“Shit, sorry. My phone died.” Will said apologetically.
“It’s ok. I was already on my way to your house before Jack called me and asked if I can could come and get you.” He revealed, holding up a plastic container containing his protein scramble.
Will raised an eyebrow but gladly accepted the plastic container into his hold.
“I appreciate it.” He said, grateful.
Hannibal hummed in response.
“Would you like to come inside?” Will offered, “I will freshen myself up and we can be straight out of the door.”
“Who am I to deny such an offer?” Hannibal answered, making his way inside.
“Don’t mind the dog hair!” Will’s voice echoed from his bedroom into the living room. Hannibal huffed, letting out something close to a laugh as he sat down on Will’s couch.
The drive to the farm was less exhausting as Hannibal was the one driving. Will had insisted that he can just take his own car, but Hannibal argued that he was already there anyways and that’d it’d be pointless.
He had a point.
The car ride there was silent, no music, no conversation, just each others presence. Will was glad for it, he didn’t like being sociable.
Will knew that they had finally arrived when the smooth asphalt transformed into a rough, unstable ground and jostled the Bentley as it carefully approached the other cars. When the car finally came to a halt, Will got out of the car immediately, wanting the pit of dread in his stomach to dissipate.
Hannibal followed suit, approaching the black FBI SUV that Jack was currently propped up against. As they approached, the look of disappointment began to become more clear on Jack’s face.
“Look who decided to finally show up.” Jack announced, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Sorry, Jack. My phone died.” He bluntly stated, he didn’t feel the need to explain himself to his ‘boss’
Crawford ignored the statement, launching into an explanation about the newest crime scene.
Will listened or at least tried to. He was trying his hardest to look at Jack while he was speaking to him, but instead all he could focus on was the eyes devoid of any life staring right through him. When Jack finished speaking, he nodded, pretending that he was intently paying attention and made his way over to the scarecrow.
Examining it, he swiftly noticed that everything about it was practically identical to the last victim. The dried up blood, the positioning, the way they were killed.
Yet, there was something slightly different to this one.
It wasn’t just one victim, it was two intertwined together.