'Imp"

'Imp'

Recovered From: Raybury Family Farm Pumpkin Patch, 1977 

The teens called it a prank, but folks still say it was something else. Seven boys slipped into the Raybury farm’s sprawling pumpkin patch one October night in 1977, the moon hidden behind heavy clouds. They laughed as they smashed the prize pumpkins, daring one another deeper into the vines, their flashlights flickering like candles. 

But the laughter didn’t last. The vines seemed to twist higher, catching at their legs. The wind carried a sound - half giggle, half screech. By dawn, only three of the boys stumbled back, wild-eyed, covered in dirt, too shaken to explain what happened. 

When the farmhands walked the field that morning, they found more than broken pumpkins. Among the scattered shells sat a doll, no larger than a child’s arms could hold. Its grin was sly, the eyes sharp and knowing. Its body was dotted with pumpkin seeds, and its hands were sticky as though it had reached inside the gourds itself. 

The doll didn't belong to anyone. No family claimed it - no store had ever sold one like it. They named it Imp, for the way it seemed to leer, with an aura of mischief. 

Some say the boys who never returned can still be heard if you stand at the edge of the field on a moonless night - their whispers carried in the vines, warning you not to laugh too loud, not to break what was never yours. And Imp… Imp is always watching, waiting for the next 'prank'!

The Raybury Family Farm Collection

The Raybury Family Farm has endured since 1889, its autumn fields beckoning families with corn mazes, hayrides, and a pumpkin patch that seems to grow larger each year. But the Raybury family knew a secret the townsfolk ignored: the patch was no mere field. It was a threshold - its tangled vines and roots twisting into places not meant for human eyes. And the dolls…they were always there.

Cloth, wood, porcelain, or vinyl - no matter the form, dolls appear season after season, carrying with them a fragment of the farm’s mystery. Visitors tell of laughter in the corn stalks, of names whispered in the vines, of lights flickering in the distant oak trees surrounding the fields.

The dolls are always watching. And the patch is always full!

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