Scarecrow (16 page)

“I know he would.”

I frowned as Micah came slowly to the fire, his eyes lowering to the flickering dance of the flames. “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked him, and my hand went out, but he drew back.

“It’s really a matter of faith, isn’t it?” His eyes swept over me, to the window, to the fire. I felt as if he might turn and run at any second, any wrong word or move…

“What…do you mean?”

“Believing when you make it, that it’ll look real. That it can really scare off things that you’re afraid of. Faith. You know.” And his eyes locked with mine.

“I used to know about faith,” I said quietly. “Now…” For a brief instant I felt such an overwhelming sadness that I almost cried.
Brad’s face…Kerry’s smile…
they flashed through my mind like a light, and I took an angry swipe at my burning eyes. “I have to get home, Micah—why hasn’t Dewey come?”

He shook his head slowly, then stiffened as Seth’s and Rachel’s voices reached us from the kitchen.

“Are you going tomorrow?” Rachel was asking. “I really think it’d be good for Pamela to get out. She’s so worried about going home, and when she stays here she only thinks about it—”

Micah gripped my arm so tightly, so unexpectedly, that I bit my lip to keep from crying out. “What’s she talking about?” he murmured.

“Something about a fence needing to be fixed—I don’t know, I told them I didn’t want to go but—” I was trying to keep my voice low, but Micah’s fingers dug into my flesh, and I moaned. “Micah—you’re hurting me.”

“Tonight,” he hissed. “By the barn—”

“What—”

“Wait for me by the barn. Make sure they’re all asleep. I’ll help you.”

“Help me what—Micah? What are you—”

“You gotta get out of here.” His eyes darted frantically to the doorway. I could hear Seth’s footsteps coming along the hall.

“But…Dewey…” I mumbled and the sudden look of desperation on his face chilled me.

“Do you think you’re the first one? Do you?”

My mouth opened but he turned me loose and my hands grazed his arms, beneath the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Tonight!” he whispered again, and as Seth passed the threshold on his way to the front porch, Micah sauntered out as if nothing had happened.

If Seth even noticed me, he gave no sign, and I sat there, staring at the fire as he let himself out of the house.

And I was still sitting there endless minutes later when Girlie came looking for me and Rachel brought me some cookies to sample.

I was sitting there and staring at the fire and trying not to be sick as the feel of Micah’s skin clung to me like a nightmare.

The feel of his thin wrist beneath the frayed flannel of his shirt…

The feel of his wrist…and his one good hand…and his skin…and the thick spongy ridges of the scars that were hidden there.

I
FELT AS IF
I were part of some strange dream.

As I lay in bed listening to the house creak around me, my mind spun so furiously, it made me dizzy. I don’t know how I ever got through the day. I had vague recollections of being with Rachel in the kitchen and playing a halfhearted game of hide-and-seek with Girlie, but supper was a blur of distorted faces swimming around a table full of food I couldn’t eat. Rachel kept saying I looked feverish, and Micah hadn’t shown up at all, and my throat closed tighter and tighter, rebelling against the bits and pieces of food I kept forcing down. And then—at last when I thought I could get away from the table and think things through—then—
then
—the worst had happened.

Rachel and I were at the stove, and Franny was clearing the table when Seth burst in from the backyard, dragging the pathetic thing with him.

Franny knew, of course. Somehow, even before she turned and saw Seth’s face and the livid anger exploding there, I think she knew what had happened. Her face went stark white and she grabbed for the back of a chair, but she didn’t run. She lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye, and even though she was trembling, there was a defiance there that frightened me.

She didn’t bat an eye as Seth flung the scarecrow in a heap on the floor. In slow motion Rachel pulled Girlie up against her, her face a frozen mask of fear as she drew back against the wall, and for several moments we all just stood there, trapped in a dreadful tableau.

It was Seth who finally broke the silence, his words raking Franny with cold, calm fury. “What the hell is this?”

If for one second it ever occurred to Franny to lie, she wisely thought better of it. “You got eyes. What do you think?”

“I
told
you to
burn
it!” His boot sent the scarecrow sprawling across the room, the tattered clothes all askew, all rags and tangles and confusion.

“I don’t want to.” Her head lifted higher, but I heard the quiver in her voice. “He’s mine. I can do with him what I want.”

“You can do with him what
I say!
Seth was seething, and his eyes burned everyplace they fell. “Do you…do you have
any
idea what you’ve done?” he hissed at her, and I could see her chest heaving as she fought for control.

“He’s mine.” It came out then, thin and ineffective, and as Seth gave the scarecrow another kick, the head popped off and rolled grotesquely into the hallway. Franny screamed and flew at Seth, fists raised, and as I saw him swing back one arm, I threw myself between them.

“Stop it!
Stop it!
It’s only a scarecrow, for God’s sake—”

I felt his hands close around me, saw the room spin by as I was flung back into Rachel’s arms. Rachel was staring at the scarecrow with a look of silent horror.

“You don’t understand!” Seth was shouting now, and his face was so furious that I clung to Rachel in mounting fear. “You can’t even
begin
to understand. It’s not
done
like this! It’s
never done
like this!”

And as I huddled there in disbelief he swooped up the headless scarecrow in one hand and stormed out into the night, Franny racing after him, her screams echoing over and over—

“No, Seth,
no!
You can’t do it! He’s mine!
He’s mine!”

I tore from Rachel’s restraining hands and went after them, but as I got to the side of the house, I saw the scarecrow explode into flames…writhe on the ground as if it were in torment…

“I hate you!
I hate you!”
Franny’s shrieks filled the darkness, shrieks of anger, rage, and then, worse, her shrieks of pain as she reached into the fire and tried to save the scarecrow.

“Franny!” I tried to get to her, but Seth was closer and quicker. There was an instant of panic, a flash of skirts and fire, and two bodies rolling on the ground.

And then, blessedly, only the moans…and soft, soft tears.

“Oh, my God…” I stood there helplessly as Seth picked her up, pushed past me for the house. “Franny…Franny…oh, my God…”

The waiting had seemed endless. I’d haunted the hallway outside Franny’s room, not believing—
not believing!
—not even when Rachel came out and told me Franny was asleep…not even when Rachel told me that Girlie had made Franny well again.

She’d stood there, looking so sad and so strained. She’d stood there, looking at me so forgivingly, and said, “Girlie healed her. Girlie took away the burns.” And I kept telling myself I hadn’t actually
seen
those burns—I’d seen clothes burning and Seth’s body smothering them, but I hadn’t actually
seen
Franny’s burns as Seth had run with her into the house.

But I’d heard her screams.

And I’d smelled the unmistakable stench of the searing of flesh.

But no…
I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.

And even now, pressing a hand to my racing heart, I still couldn’t believe what had happened down there, all I’d seen, all I’d heard…all I didn’t understand.

I only understood that I had to get away from here.

Rolling over, I pressed my face into the pillow as if the pressure might quell the hysteria building inside me. Where had Micah been in the midst of all that insanity? Surely he had heard the screams…seen the fire…smelled the stench of burning cloth and scorched flesh…and Rachel just standing back, allowing it to happen…and Girlie dispensing yet another panacea for human self-destruction.

In any other normal situation I would have stayed out of it, played deaf and blind to all these family dramas. They weren’t like me, after all. They had their own ways, their own code, their own rules of survival. But it
wasn’t
normal…it wasn’t even
human
…and the rage and the pain echoed over and over in my head until I was ready to scream.

But it was more. It was all that had happened to me up to this day. It was Micah and his cryptic instructions to me in the parlor this morning.

It was the horrible scars on his wrist.

For as my fingers had come in contact with those misshapen marks, I’d known with certainty what I hadn’t wanted to even think possible.

Those chains in the underground room
had
been used to hold Micah.

And there
was
only one person capable of doing such a thing.

I sat up in bed and massaged my forehead, willing away the pain that pounded behind my eyelids. I had no idea how late it was, but I hadn’t heard anyone moving around now for quite some time. I was afraid to go out into the hall, afraid Seth would be waiting for me. I was afraid to stay here in my room…afraid to think…afraid to know…

Taking a deep breath I tiptoed cautiously to the door, pressing my ear flat against the wood, my fingers poised lightly on the knob. My hands were sweating so badly, I was even afraid to try and open the door, afraid my fingers would slide uselessly off, rattling the door loud enough to wake the dead.
And all because of a scarecrow…
I leaned my forehead against the cool wood, shuddering as I fought back the visions of fire and panic and pain. Even if I could manage to get the door open, how was I going to make it past all the bedrooms and down the stairs and out of the house without anyone hearing? For the first time I was actually glad for the privy in the back—if someone
did
wake up and question me, they’d never think a thing about my having to use the bathroom. I’d give my excuses and be amused at myself and they’d go straight back to bed without another thought about it. And then—in the morning—when I didn’t appear for breakfast, they’d finally come and check on me, but it would be too late. I would already be miles away.

My fingers closed over the doorknob. I gave it a slow, slow turn, bracing myself for the squeak, for the groan of the door swinging inward. But nothing happened. The knob turned obediently in my hand, the door opened without the slightest sound. I stepped out into the hallway, clutching my quilt around me. I’d thrown on my nightgown over my clothes, and I felt thick and awkward. I stood there in the hallway straining my ears, peering uncertainly into the shadows along the walls. All the doors were probably closed, I told myself, there was nothing to worry about. I couldn’t hear a thing from downstairs. Only the clock ticking loudly in the parlor. Ticking in time with my thudding heart.

I took one step. Then another. And another. I couldn’t risk any sort of light, and so I groped the air as I moved along, terrified I would make a wrong move, turn too sharply, run into something that would give me away. I saw Girlie’s door, tightly closed. I shut my eyes and slipped past, as if I could somehow make myself invisible. The next door went by me. The next. The next. The stairwell yawned like an open grave. I lowered one foot. Then the other. My fingertips brushed the walls with a whisper. I tried to remember which stairs were loose and given to creaking—amazingly I felt my feet touch bottom without a sound.

It never occurred to me how miraculous it all was, how easy. Much later, thinking back on it all, I’d always remember the house being so cooperative…

I crept through the kitchen, fresh doubt assailing me as I got to the back door. There was no way I’d ever get the screen open without its usual accompaniment of rusty groans. I hesitated, my heart racing faster. I could feel the fear, rising metallic in my throat…the sweat pouring from my body…I wiped my hands on the quilt and tested the door just a little.

The squeak of old hinges seemed ten times louder in the dead of night. I froze and thought I might faint. At any second I expected to hear doors bursting open, voices calling out, feet pounding on the stairs.

But again there was nothing.

The house was absolutely silent, except for the clock…ticking away my precious moments one by one as I stood there too frightened to move.

A distant roll of thunder boomed across the hills, rattling the house to its foundations. I gritted my teeth and pushed…steadily…steadily…and when the thunder ended I was standing outside in the yard.

I began to run. With pale flashes of lightning to guide me, I gathered the blanket high around my legs and raced in the direction of the barn, swinging around the corner as rain began to fall.

There was nobody there.

I hesitated, listening, eyes searching the darkness. “Micah?” I whispered at last. But there was no answer.

“Damn!” I sucked in my breath, bit my lip to try and stop its quivering. “Micah?” I tried again, but the darkness deepened around me and the rain fell on. “Micah, are you here?”

It occurred to me then that Micah had probably anticipated the storm and taken refuge in the barn. I looked nervously back over my shoulder and tugged at the latch, relieved when it finally gave and I fell into the dry, pungent darkness.

And yet it wasn’t totally black.

There was a lantern burning in the corner.

I flattened myself against the door and scanned the interior from wall to wall. There was a restless fluttering in the rafters overhead…the nervous stamp of hoofs in the stalls…

“Micah?” I whispered.

No answer. The rain fell harder, wrapping the barn in a muffled roar.

Steady, Pant, steady…there’s a logical explanation.
Of course there was. Micah had been detained…he wasn’t sure when I’d be coming…he’d just gone out to look for me…he’d left the light for me to see by, as a sign that he would be here, that we would go, that everything would be all right…