The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight (6 page)

Feeling the fear rise to my throat, I stepped out of the corner and moved past him, into the light from the doorway. “I — I was looking for you,” I stammered. “Sticks, why are you trying to scare Mark and me?”

“I told you things were different here,” he said, lowering his voice to whisper. “I warned you to get away from here, to go back home.”

“But why?” I demanded. “What’s your problem, Sticks? What did we do to you? Why are you trying to scare us?”

“I’m not,” Sticks replied. He glanced back nervously to the barn doors.

“Huh?” I gaped at him.

“I’m not trying to scare you. Really,” he insisted.

“Liar,” I muttered angrily. “You must really think I’m a moron. I
know
you threw that scarecrow onto our path this morning. It had to be you, Sticks.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted coldly. “But I’m warning you —”

A sound at the doorway made him stop.

We both saw Stanley step into the barn. He shielded his eyes with one hand as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Sticks — are you in here?” he called.

Stick’s features tightened in sudden fear. He let out a low gasp.

“I — I’ve got to go,” Sticks whispered tensely to me. He turned and started jogging toward Stanley. “Here I am, Dad,” he called. “Is the tractor ready?”

I watched the two of them hurry from the barn. Sticks didn’t look back.

I stood in the darkness, my eyes on the empty doorway, thinking hard.

I
know
Sticks was lying to me,
I thought.

I
know
he made the scarecrows move at night. I know he dressed as a scarecrow to scare me in the woods and at the barn. And I know he tossed that scarecrow in front of the horses this morning.

I know he’s trying to frighten Mark and me. But enough is enough, I decided. Now it’s payback time.

Now it’s time for
Sticks
to be frightened. Really frightened.

“I can’t do this!” Mark protested.

“Of course you can,” I assured him. “This is going to be really cool.”

“But my wrist hurts again,” my brother whined. “It just started hurting. I can’t use it.”

“No problem,” I told him. “You won’t have to use it.”

He started to protest some more. But then a smile spread across his face, and his eyes lit up gleefully. “It’s kind of a cool idea,” he said, laughing.

“Of
course
it’s an awesome idea,” I agreed.
“I
thought of it!”

We were standing in the doorway to the barn. The white light from a full moon shone down on us. Owls hooted somewhere nearby.

It was a cool, clear night. The grass shimmered from a heavy dew. A soft wind made the trees whisper. The moonlight was so bright, I could see every blade of grass.

After Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam had gone to bed, I dragged Mark from the house. I pulled him across the yard to the barn.

“Wait right here,” I said. Then I hurried into the barn to get what we needed.

It was a little creepy in the dark barn at night. I heard a soft fluttering sound high in the rafters.

Probably a bat.

My sneakers were wet from the grass. I slid over the straw on the barn floor.

The bat swooped low over my head. I heard a high-pitched chittering up in the rafters. More bats.

I grabbed one of the big old coats from the pile. Then I pulled up one of the burlap bag faces and slung it on top of the coat.

Ignoring the fluttering wings swooping back and forth, back and forth, across the barn, I hurried outside to Mark.

And explained my plan, my plan to get our revenge on Sticks.

It was actually a very simple plan. We’d dress Mark up as a scarecrow. He’d stand with the other scarecrows in the cornfield.

I’d go to the guesthouse and get Sticks. I’d tell Sticks I saw something weird in the field. I’d pull Sticks out to the field. Mark would start to stagger toward him — and Sticks would be so freaked, he’d have a cow!

A simple plan. And a good one. Sticks deserved it, too.

I pulled the burlap bag over Mark’s head. The black painted eyes stared back at me. I reached down, picked up a handful of straw, and began stuffing it under the bag.

“Stop squirming!” I told Mark.

“But the straw itches!” he cried.

“You’ll get used to it,” I told him. I grabbed his shoulders. “Stand still. Don’t move.”

“Why do I need straw?” he whined.

“Mark, you have to look like all the other scarecrows,” I told him. “Otherwise, Sticks won’t be fooled.”

I stuffed the burlap face with straw. Then I held up the old overcoat for Mark to put on.

“I can’t do this!” he wailed. “I’m going to itch to death! I can’t breathe!”

“You can breathe perfectly fine,” I told him. I stuffed straw into the sleeves. I was careful to let clumps of straw hang from the cuffs, covering Mark’s hands. Then I stuffed more straw into the jacket.

“Will you stand still?” I whispered angrily. “This is a lot of hard work — you know?”

He grumbled in a low voice to himself as I continued to work.

“Just keep thinking how great it’ll be when Sticks sees you and thinks you’re a scarecrow that’s really coming to life,” I said.

I had straw stuck to my hands, straw all down the front of my sweatshirt and jeans. I sneezed. Once. Twice. I’m definitely allergic to the stuff.

But I didn’t care. I was so excited. I couldn’t
wait
to see Sticks’s terrified face. I couldn’t
wait
to pay him back for trying to frighten us all week.

“I need a hat,” Mark said. He was standing stiffly, afraid to move under all the straw.

“Hmmmm.” I thought hard. There weren’t any hats in the barn with the other scarecrow supplies. “We’ll just take one off a real scarecrow,” I told Mark.

I stepped back to see my handiwork. Mark looked pretty good. But he still needed more straw. I set to work stuffing him, making the old coat bulge.

“Now don’t forget to stand straight and stiff with your arms straight out,” I instructed.

“Do I have a choice?” Mark complained. “I — I can’t move at all!”

“Good,” I said. I arranged the straw that stuck out of his sleeves, then stepped back. “Okay. You’re ready,” I told him.

“How do I look?” he asked.

“Like a short scarecrow,” I told him.

“I’m too short?” he replied.

“Don’t worry, Mark,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I’m going to stick you up on a pole!”

“Huh?”

I laughed. “Gotcha,” I muttered. “I’m kidding.” I started to lead him to the cornfields.

“Think this is going to work?” Mark asked, walking stiffly. “Think we’re really going to scare Sticks?”

I nodded. An evil grin spread over my face. “I think so,” I told my brother. “I think Sticks is in for a terrifying surprise.”

Little did I know that we
all
were!

I gripped Mark’s arm with both hands and led him to the cornfields. The bright moon bathed us in white light. The tall cornstalks shivered in a light breeze.

Mark looked so much like a scarecrow, it was scary. Tufts of straw stuck out at his neck and the cuffs of his coat. The enormous old coat hung loosely over his shoulders and came down nearly to his knees.

We stepped into the field. Our sneakers crunched over the dry ground as we edged through a narrow row.

The cornstalks rose above our heads. The breeze made them lean over us, as if trying to close us in.

I let out a gasp as I heard a rustling sound along the ground. Footsteps?

Mark and I both froze. And listened.

The tall stalks bent low as the wind picked up.

They made an eerie creaking sound as they moved. The ripe corn sheaths bobbed heavily.

Creeeeak. Creeeeak.

The stalks shifted back and forth.

Then we heard the rustling again. A soft brushing sound.

Very nearby.

“Ow. Let go!” Mark whispered.

I suddenly realized I was still gripping his arm, squeezing it tightly.

I let go. And listened. “Do you hear it?” I whispered to Mark. “That brushing sound?”

Creeeeak. Creeeeak.

The cornstalks leaned over us, shifting in the wind.

A twig cracked. So nearby, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I held my breath. My heart was racing.

Another soft rustling sound. I stared down at the ground, trying to follow the sound.

“Oh.”

A large gray squirrel scampered across the row and disappeared between the stalks.

I burst out laughing, mostly from relief. “Just a squirrel,” I said. “Do you believe it? Just a squirrel!”

Mark let out a long, relieved sigh from under the burlap bag. “Jodie, can we get going?” he demanded impatiently. “This thing itches like crazy!”

He raised both hands and tried to scratch his face through the bag. But I quickly tugged his arms down. “Mark — stop. You’ll mess up the straw!”

“But my face feels like a hundred bugs are crawling all over it!” he wailed. “And I can’t see. You didn’t cut the eyeholes big enough.”

“Just follow me,” I muttered. “And stop complaining. You want to scare Sticks, don’t you?”

Mark didn’t reply. But he let me lead him deeper into the cornfield.

Suddenly, a black shadow fell over our path.

I let out a sharp gasp before I realized it was the long shadow of a scarecrow.

“How do you do,” I said, reaching out and shaking its straw hand. “May I borrow your hat?”

I reached up and pulled the black floppy hat off the burlap head. Then I lowered it over Mark’s burlap head and pulled it down tight.

“Hey!” Mark protested.

“I don’t want it to fall off,” I told him.

“I’m never going to stop itching!” Mark whined. “Can you scratch my back?
Please?
My whole back is itching!”

I gave the back of the old coat a few hard rubs. “Turn around,” I instructed him. I gave him a final inspection.

Excellent. He looked more like a scarecrow than the scarecrows did.

“Stand right here,” I told him, moving him into
a small clearing between two rows of cornstalks. “Good. Now when you hear me bringing Sticks over, put your arms straight out. And don’t move a muscle.”

“I know, I know,” Mark grumbled. “Think I don’t know how to be a scarecrow? Just hurry — okay?”

“Okay,” I told him. I turned and made my way quickly along the shifting rows of cornstalks. Dry straw and leaves crackled beneath my sneakers.

I was breathing hard by the time I reached the guesthouse. The doorway was dark. But an orange light glowed dimly behind the pulled shade in the window.

I hesitated at the doorway and listened. Silence inside.

How was I going to get Sticks to come out alone — without his father?

I didn’t want to frighten Stanley. He was a really nice man who would never think of playing mean jokes on Mark and me. And I knew how scared and upset he could get.

I only wanted to frighten Sticks. To teach him a lesson. To teach him he had no business getting on our case just because Mark and I are “city kids.”

The wind fluttered through my hair. I could hear the cornstalks creaking behind me in the fields.

I shivered.

Taking a deep breath, I raised my fist to knock on the door. But a sound behind me made me spin around. “Hey!” I choked out.

Someone was moving across the grass, half running, half stumbling. My eyes were all watery. It was hard to see.

Was it Mark?

Yes. I recognized the floppy hat, the bulky dark overcoat falling down past his knees.

What is he doing?
I asked myself, watching him approach.

Why is he following me?

He’s going to ruin the whole joke!

As he came closer, he raised a straw hand as if pointing at me.

“Mark — what’s wrong?” I called in a loud whisper.

He continued to gesture with his straw hand as he ran.

“Mark — get back in the field!” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to follow me. You’re going to ruin everything! Mark — what are you
doing
here?”

I motioned with both hands for him to go back to the cornfield.

But he ignored me and kept coming, trailing straw as he ran.

“Mark, please — go back! Go back!” I pleaded.

But he stepped up in front of me and grabbed my shoulders.

And as I stared into the cold, painted black eyes, I realized to my horror that
it wasn’t Mark!

I cried out and tried to pull away.

But the scarecrow held on to me tightly.

“Sticks — is that you?” I cried in a trembling voice.

No reply.

I stared into the blank painted eyes.

And realized there were no human eyes behind them.

The straw hands scratched against my throat.

I opened my mouth to scream.

And the door to the guesthouse swung open. “Sticks —” I managed to choke out.

Sticks stepped out onto the small stoop. “What on earth — !” he cried.

He leaped off the stoop, grabbed the scarecrow by the coat shoulders — and heaved it to the ground.

The scarecrow hit the ground without making a sound. It lay sprawled on its back, staring up at us blankly.

“Who — who is it?” I cried, rubbing my neck where the straw hands had scratched it.

Sticks bent down and jerked away the burlap scarecrow head.

Nothing underneath. Nothing but straw.

“It — it really is a scarecrow!” I cried in horror. “But it —
walked!”

“I warned you,” Sticks said solemnly, staring down at the headless dark figure. “I warned you, Jodie.”

“You mean it wasn’t you?” I demanded. “It wasn’t you trying to scare Mark and me?”

Sticks shook his head. He raised his dark eyes to mine. “Dad brought the scarecrows to life,” he said softly. “Last week. Before you came. He used his book. He changed some words — and they all came to life.”

“Oh, no,” I murmured, raising my hands to my face.

“We were all so frightened,” Sticks continued. “Especially your grandparents. They begged Dad to recite the words and put the scarecrows back to sleep.”

“Did he?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sticks replied. “He put them back to sleep. But first he insisted your grandparents make some promises. They had to promise not to laugh at him anymore. And they had to promise to do everything he wanted from now on.”

Sticks took a deep breath. He stared toward the
guesthouse window. “Haven’t you noticed how different things are at the farm? Haven’t you noticed how frightened your grandparents are?”

I nodded solemnly. “Of course I have.”

“They’ve been trying to keep Dad happy,” Sticks continued. “They’ve been doing everything they can to keep him from getting upset or angry. Your grandmother fixes only his favorite food. Your grandfather stopped telling scary stories because Dad doesn’t like them.”

I shook my head. “They’re
that
afraid of Stanley?”

“They’re afraid he’ll read the chant in the book again and bring the scarecrows back to life,” Sticks said. He swallowed hard. “There’s only one problem,” he murmured.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Well, I haven’t told Dad yet. But …” His voice trailed off.

“But what?” I demanded eagerly.

“Some of the scarecrows are still alive,” Sticks replied. “Some of them never went back to sleep.”