The cottonfields at Ginger’s grandparents’ house in Texas seemed to go on forever. In late summer, the plants stood almost as high as Ginger’s waist, their branches tangled together beneath the hot Texas sun. When the cotton bolls opened, little bursts of white covered the fields as far as she could see. Ginger thought it looked as though someone had dropped pieces of cloud all over the ground.

She had been told not to wander into the fields by herself. There were snakes, holes hidden beneath the plants, and plenty of ways for a six-year-old girl to get turned around. Ginger knew all of this. She also knew that grown-ups had a remarkable number of rules about places that looked interesting.

One afternoon, Ginger was walking along the edge of the field when she heard something moving among the cotton plants. Rustle. Rustle. Crunch. Ginger stopped. The sound stopped too. She took another step. Rustle. Crunch. Ginger stared into the rows. She couldn’t see anything except cotton leaves trembling in the breeze. “Hello?” she called.

Something groaned.

Ginger’s eyes grew wide. Everyone knew monsters liked dark caves and closets and places underneath beds. But nobody had ever told Ginger they couldn’t live in cottonfields. She should have gone back to the house. Instead, she stepped between the rows.

The cotton plants closed around her almost immediately. Their dry branches scratched against her arms, and the white bolls brushed her dress as she walked. Ginger followed the sound deeper into the field. Rustle. Rustle. Then she saw something enormous rise above the cotton.

Ginger froze.

It had a round head, long crooked arms, and a body that seemed to be made of old clothes. Its face was pale and strange, with dark holes where its eyes should have been. One arm stretched toward her while the other hung at an impossible angle.

Ginger screamed and turned and ran. Branches slapped against her legs. Cotton caught in her hair. She raced between the rows until suddenly she realized she had no idea which direction led home. Ginger stopped. The field was completely quiet.

Then came the sound again.

Crunch.

Closer this time.

Ginger spun around. The monster was following her. Its arms waved wildly above the cotton as it lurched toward her. Ginger backed away, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it.

Then the monster’s head fell off.

Ginger stared. A faded cloth sack landed between two cotton plants. A few feet behind it stood the monster’s body, still waving one crooked arm. Ginger took a cautious step closer. The monster didn’t move toward her. She took another step, and then she saw the wooden post sticking out beneath its shirt.

“A scarecrow?”

She marched toward it, suddenly more annoyed than frightened. The old scarecrow had broken loose from its post. Every time the wind blew, it tipped forward and dragged through the plants. One sleeve had caught on a cotton branch, making the arm jerk up and down. “You scared me half to death!” Ginger told it.

The scarecrow said nothing.

Ginger picked up its head. Someone had painted a crooked mouth on the sack, but rain and sun had nearly washed it away. One button eye was missing. The other hung by a thread.

Then something moved behind her.

Ginger slowly turned. The cotton plants parted. This time there was no wind. Something low and dark slipped between the rows. Ginger couldn’t see its face. She couldn’t even tell exactly what it was. She saw only the plants bending as something moved steadily through them.

Toward her.

Ginger dropped the scarecrow’s head and ran. She didn’t care which direction she was going anymore. She pushed through the cotton until she burst from the field into the bright afternoon sunshine. Her grandparents’ house stood in the distance, and Ginger ran all the way to the back porch without stopping.

She never told anyone about the scarecrow. She certainly didn’t tell them about the other thing.

That evening, Ginger sat on the porch while the sun disappeared behind the fields. The cotton plants moved gently in the evening breeze. Then, far out among the rows, something dark rose above them.

Ginger sat very still.

It wasn’t the scarecrow.

And this time, Ginger didn’t go looking.