荒野之中，最尋常之物往往暗藏異象，人心一動，恐懼便在無形之中滋長蔓延。
In the quiet countryside, the ordinary often hides the uncanny, where fear grows silently from within the human mind.
中文版本
鄉人張德，務農為生，性情樸實。其家近野，四周多荒地與草垛。每至秋收之後，田間堆積乾草如丘，夜間常有怪聲自其中傳出，似獸非獸，似人非人。村人多疑為精怪，皆不敢近。
張德初不以為意，認為不過鼠狐作祟。然一夕月黑風高，他歸家稍晚，經過草垛時，忽聞低語聲自內傳出，似有人窃窃私語。他止步細聽，聲音忽止。四周寂然，唯風掠草動。
他心中生疑，持燈靠近，掀開草束，卻見其中空空如也。正欲離去，忽覺背後寒氣逼人。回首之際，一道灰影自草中竄出，形似人而面目模糊，雙手枯長，直撲而來。
張德驚呼後退，手中燈火幾乎熄滅。那怪影貼地滑行，速度奇快，轉瞬逼近。他慌亂之中，抓起木杖亂擊，卻似擊於虛空。怪影忽隱忽現，似有似無，發出低沉笑聲。
他拼命奔逃，直至村口，方覺身後氣息漸遠。回家後驚魂未定，將所見告知鄰里。眾人聞之色變，老者言：「草垛久積陰氣，易生怪物，夜間不可近。」
然數日之後，村中接連有人遇異。有牧童稱見草中有人影招手，有婦人夜聞哭聲，皆驚恐不已。張德心中不安，決意與數人共往探查。
一夜，眾人持火把圍草而立。張德壯膽，率先掀開草垛。忽然間，草堆震動，一道黑影破草而出，形體扭曲，似由無數草束纏繞而成，雙目幽暗。
眾人驚散，有人跌倒，有人呼喊。張德強忍恐懼，將火把擲入草垛。火勢迅速蔓延，怪影在火光中掙扎扭曲，發出刺耳尖叫。隨火焰升騰，其形漸散，最終化為灰燼。
火熄之後，草垛盡毀，村中自此再無異聲。然張德夜間仍時有驚夢，夢見那草中之影，似仍潛伏於黑暗。
老者歎曰：「怪非草生，乃人心所感。陰氣積久，則幻成形。」張德聞之，若有所悟。
自此，他不再輕視荒野之靜。因他明白，最可怖之處，不在草垛之中，而在人心未察之暗。
English Version
Zhang De was a humble farmer living near the edge of a wide, untamed field. After each harvest, tall stacks of dried hay would rise like silent sentinels across the land. Villagers often spoke of strange sounds emerging from them at night—whispers, cries, or something in between.
Most avoided the area after sunset.
Zhang De, practical and grounded, dismissed such tales as exaggerations. To him, the noises were likely caused by animals hiding within the hay. But one night, returning home late beneath a moonless sky, he passed by one of the larger stacks and heard something unmistakable.
A murmur.
It sounded like two voices speaking in hushed tones. He froze, straining to listen. The moment he focused, the sound stopped completely.
He stepped closer, lifting his lantern. The hay rustled slightly, though no wind blew. Slowly, he pulled aside a bundle of straw.
Nothing.
Relieved yet uneasy, he turned to leave. That was when a sudden chill swept across his back.
Before he could react, something lunged from the darkness—a twisted shape, vaguely human but disturbingly incomplete. Its limbs stretched unnaturally, its face obscured as if unfinished.
Zhang stumbled backward, nearly dropping his lantern. The thing glided across the ground, closing the distance in seconds. He swung his stick wildly, but his strikes met only empty air.
The creature flickered—solid one moment, gone the next—accompanied by a low, mocking laugh.
Panicked, Zhang ran without looking back. Only when he reached the safety of the village did the oppressive presence fade.
The next day, he shared his experience. The villagers grew pale. An elder spoke gravely, “When hay gathers too long, it absorbs the damp and the dark. Sometimes… things form.”
Soon, others reported encounters. A shepherd claimed to see a figure beckoning from within the stacks. A woman heard sobbing late at night. Fear spread quietly.
Determined to end the terror, Zhang and several villagers returned together one evening, armed with torches.
As they circled the haystack, the air felt heavy, charged. Zhang stepped forward and pulled at the straw.
The entire stack trembled.
Suddenly, a monstrous shape burst forth—a tangled mass of straw and shadow, writhing as if alive. Its hollow gaze seemed to fix on them all at once.
The group scattered in chaos.
Summoning his courage, Zhang hurled his torch into the base of the hay. Flames erupted instantly, climbing the dry mass with terrifying speed. The creature twisted within the fire, its form unraveling as it let out a piercing, unnatural scream.
Then it was gone.
Only ash remained.
After that night, no more sounds came from the fields. The villagers returned to their routines, but Zhang was never quite the same.
Sometimes, in his dreams, he still saw the shifting figure in the hay—waiting.
The elder’s words lingered in his mind: such things are not born from the earth alone, but from what lingers unseen—fear, time, and silence.
And Zhang understood at last: the most frightening presence is not what hides in the dark, but what the mind creates when facing it.
