20 - The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight

  Mark was trying to slap the scarecrow a high-five.

  “What does that mean?” I asked Stanley.

  “The book told me how,” Stanley replied, keeping his eyes on the dark-painted face on the burlap bag. “The book told me how to make them walk.”

  “Huh? You mean you make the scarecrows walk?” I asked, very confused.

  Stanley’s dark eyes locked on mine. Once again, he got that very solemn expression on his face. “I know how to do it. The book has all the words.”

  I stared back at him, totally confused. I didn’t know what to say.

  “I made them walk, Jodie,” Stanley continued in a voice just above a whisper. “I made them walk last week. And now I’m the boss.”

  “Huh? The boss of the s-scarecrows?” I stammered. “Do you mean—”

  I stopped when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the scarecrow’s arm move.

  The straw crinkled as the arm slid up.

  Then I felt rough straw brush against my face—as the dry scarecrow arm moved to my throat.

  4

  The prickly straw, poking out of the sleeve of the black coat, scraped against my neck.

  I let out a shrill scream.

  “It’s alive!” I cried in panic, diving to the ground, scrambling away on all fours.

  I turned back to see Mark and Stanley calmly watching me.

  Hadn’t they seen the scarecrow try to choke me?

  Then Stanley’s son, Sticks, stepped out from behind the scarecrow, a gleeful grin on his face.

  “Sticks—! You creep!” I cried angrily. I knew at once that he had moved the scarecrow’s arm.

  “You city kids sure scare easy,” Sticks said, his grin growing wider. He reached down to help me to my feet. “You really thought the scarecrow moved, didn’t you, Jodie?” he said accusingly.

  “I can make the scarecrows move,” Stanley said, pulling the cap down lower on his forehead.

  “I can make them walk. I did it. It’s all in the book.”

  Sticks’ smile faded. The light seemed to dim from his dark eyes. “Yeah, sure, Dad,” he murmured.

  Sticks is sixteen. He is tall and lanky. He has long, skinny arms and legs. That’s how he got the nickname Sticks.

  He tries to look tough. He has long black hair down past his collar, which he seldom washes. He wears tight muscle shirts and dirty jeans, ripped at the knees. He sneers a lot, and his dark eyes always seem to be laughing at you.

  He calls Mark and me “the city kids”. He always says it with a sneer. And he’s always playing stupid jokes on us. I think he’s kind of jealous of Mark and me. I don’t think it’s been easy for Sticks to grow up on the farm, living in the little guest house with his dad.

  I mean, Stanley is more like a kid than a father.

  “I saw you back there,” Mark told Sticks.

  “Well, thanks for warning me!” I snapped at Mark. I turned back angrily to Sticks. “I see you haven’t changed at all.”

  “Great to see you, too, Jodie,” he replied sarcastically. “The city kids are back for another month with the hicks!”

  “Sticks—what’s your problem?” I shot back.

  “Be nice,” Stanley muttered. “The corn has ears, you know.”

  We all stared at Stanley. Had he just made a joke? It was hard to tell with him.

  Stanley’s face remained serious. His big eyes stared out at me through the shade of his cap. “The corn has ears,” he repeated. “There are spirits in the field.”

  Sticks shook his head unhappily. “Dad, you spend too much time with that superstition book,” he muttered.

  “The book is all true,” Stanley replied. “It’s all true.”

  Sticks kicked at the dirt. He raised his eyes to me. His expression seemed very sad. “Things are different here,” he murmured.

  “Huh?” I didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  Sticks turned to his father. Stanley was staring back at him, his eyes narrowed.

  Sticks shrugged and didn’t reply. He grabbed Mark’s arm and squeezed it. “You’re as flabby as ever,” he told Mark. “Want to throw a football around this afternoon?”

  “It’s kind of hot,” Mark replied. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

  Sticks sneered at him. “Still a wimp, huh?”

  “No way!” Mark protested. “I just said it was hot, that’s all.”

  “Hey—you’ve got something on your back,” Sticks told Mark. “Turn around.”

  Mark obediently turned around.

  Sticks quickly bent down, picked up the wormy corncob, and stuffed it down the back of Mark’s T-shirt.

  I had to laugh as I watched my brother run screaming all the way back to the farmhouse.

  Dinner was quiet. Grandma Miriam’s fried chicken was as tasty as ever. And she was right about the corn. It was very sweet. Mark and I each ate two ears, dripping with butter.

  I enjoyed the dinner. But it upset me that both of my grandparents seemed so changed. Grandpa Kurt used to talk nonstop. He always had dozens of funny stories about the farmers in the area. And he always had new jokes to tell.

  Tonight he barely said a word.

  Grandma Miriam kept urging Mark and me to eat more. And she kept asking us how we liked everything. But she, too, seemed quieter.

  They both seemed tense. Uncomfortable.

  They both kept glancing down the table at Stanley, who was eating with both hands, butter dripping down his chin.

  Sticks sat glumly across from his father. He seemed even more unfriendly than usual.

  Stanley was the only cheerful person at the table. He chewed his chicken enthusiastically and asked for a third helping of mashed potatoes.

  “Is everything okay, Stanley?” Grandma Miriam kept asking, biting her bottom lip. “Everything okay?”

  Stanley burped and smiled. “Not bad,” was his reply.

  Why do things seem so different? I wondered. Is it just because Grandma and Grandpa are getting old?

  After dinner, we sat around the big, comfortable living room. Grandpa Kurt rocked gently back and forth in the antique wooden rocking chair by the fireplace.

  It was too hot to build a fire. But as he rocked, he stared into the dark fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his white-stubbled face.

  Grandma Miriam sat in her favorite chair, a big, green overstuffed armchair across from Grandpa Kurt. She had an unopened gardening magazine in her lap.

  Sticks, who had barely said two words the whole evening, disappeared. Stanley leaned against the wall, poking his teeth with a toothpick.

  Mark sank down into the long, green couch. I sat down at the other end of it and stared across the room.

  “Yuck. That stuffed bear still gives me the creeps!” I exclaimed.

  At the far end of the room, an enormous stuffed brown bear—about eight feet tall—stood straight up on its hind legs. Grandpa Kurt had shot it many years ago on a hunting trip. The bear’s huge paws were extended, as if ready to pounce.

  “That was a killer bear,” Grandpa Kurt remembered, rocking slowly, his eyes on the angry-looking beast. “He mauled two hunters before I shot him. I saved their lives.”

  I shuddered and turned away from the bear. I really hated it. I don’t know why Grandma Miriam let Grandpa Kurt keep it in the living room!

  “How about a scary story?” I asked Grandpa Kurt.

  He stared back at me, his blue eyes suddenly lifeless and dull.

  “Yeah. We’ve been looking forward to your stories,” Mark chimed in. “Tell us the one about the headless boy in the closet.”

  “No. Tell a new one,” I insisted eagerly.

  Grandpa Kurt rubbed his chin slowly. His eyes went to Stanley across the room. Then he cleared his throat nervously.

  “I’m kind of tired, kids,” he said softly. “Think I’ll just go to bed.”

  “But—no story?” I protested.

  He stared back at me with those dull eyes. “I don’t
really know any stories,” he murmured. He slowly climbed to his feet and headed toward his room.

  What is going on here? I asked myself. What is wrong?

  5

  Upstairs in my bedroom later that night, I changed into a long nightshirt. The bedroom window was open, and a soft breeze invaded the room.

  I stared out the open window. A broad apple tree cast its shadow over the lawn.

  Where the grass ended, the cornfields stretched out under the glow of the full moon. The pale moonlight made the tall stalks shimmer like gold. The stalks cast long blue shadows over the field.

  Across the wide field, the scarecrows poked up stiffly like dark-uniformed soldiers. Their coat sleeves ruffled in the light breeze. Their pale burlap faces seemed to stare back at me.

  I felt a cold chill run down my back.

  So many scarecrows. At least a dozen of them, standing in straight rows. Like an army ready to march.

  “The scarecrow walks at midnight.”

  That’s what Stanley had said in that low, frightening tone I had never heard him use before.

  I glanced at the clock on the bed table. Just past ten o’clock.

  I’ll be asleep by the time they walk, I thought.

  A crazy thought.

  I sneezed. It seems I’m allergic to the farm air both day and night!

  I stared at the long shadows cast by the scarecrows. A gust of wind bent the stalks, making the shadows roll forward like a dark ocean wave.

  And then I saw the scarecrows start to twitch.

  “Mark!” I screamed. “Mark—come here! Hurry!”

  6

  Under the light of the full moon, I stared in horror as the dark scarecrows started to move.

  Their arms jerked. Their burlap heads lurched forward.

  All of them. In unison.

  All of the scarecrows were jerking, twitching, straining—as if struggling to pull free of their stakes.

  “Mark—hurry!” I screamed.

  I heard footsteps clomping rapidly down the hall. Mark burst breathlessly into my room. “Jodie—what is it?” he cried.

  I motioned frantically for him to come to the window. As he stepped beside me, I pointed to the cornfields. “Look—the scarecrows.”

  He gripped the windowsill and leaned out the window.

  Over his shoulder, I could see the scarecrows twitch in unison. A cold shudder made me wrap my arms around myself.

  “It’s the wind,” Mark said, stepping back from the window. “What’s your problem, Jodie? It’s just the wind blowing them around.”

  “You—you’re wrong, Mark,” I stammered, still hugging myself. “Look again.”

  He rolled his eyes and sighed. But he turned back and leaned out the window. He gazed out at the field for a long time.

  “Don’t you see?” I demanded shrilly. “They’re all moving together. Their arms, their heads—all moving together.”

  When Mark pulled back from the window, his blue eyes were wide and fearful. He stared at me thoughtfully and didn’t say a word.

  Finally, he swallowed hard and his voice came out low and frightened. “We’ve got to tell Grandpa Kurt,” he said.

  We rushed downstairs, but our grandparents had gone to bed. The bedroom door was closed. It was silent on the other side.

  “Maybe we’d better wait till tomorrow morning,” I whispered as Mark and I tiptoed back upstairs to our rooms. “I think we’ll be safe till then.”

  We crept back to our rooms. I pushed the window shut and locked it. Out in the fields, the scarecrows were still twitching, still pulling at their stakes.

  With a shudder, I turned away from the window and plunged into the bed, pulling the old quilt up over my head.

  I slept restlessly, tossing under the heavy quilt. In the morning, I jumped eagerly from bed. I ran a brush through my hair and hurried down to breakfast.

  Mark was right behind me on the stairs. He was wearing the same jeans as yesterday and a red-and-black Nirvana T-shirt. He hadn’t bothered to brush his hair. It stood straight up in back.

  “Pancakes!” he managed to choke out. Mark is only good for one word at a time this early in the morning.

  But the word instantly cheered me up and made me forget for a moment about the creepy scarecrows.

  How could I have forgotten about Grandma Miriam’s amazing chocolate chip pancakes?

  They are so soft, they really do melt in your mouth. And the warm chocolate mixed with the sweet maple syrup makes the most delicious breakfast I’ve ever eaten.

  As we hurried across the living room toward the kitchen, I sniffed the air, hoping to smell that wonderful aroma of pancake batter on the stove.

  But my nose was too stuffed up to smell anything.

  Mark and I burst into the kitchen at the same time. Grandpa Kurt and Stanley were already at the table. A big blue pot of coffee stood steaming in front of them.

  Stanley sipped his coffee. Grandpa Kurt had his face buried behind the morning newspaper. He glanced up and smiled as Mark and I entered.

  Everyone said good morning to everyone.

  Mark and I took our places at the table. We were so eager for the famous pancakes, we were practically rubbing our hands together the way cartoon characters do.

  Imagine our shock when Grandma Miriam set down big bowls of cornflakes in front of us.

  I practically burst into tears.

  I glanced across the table at Mark. He was staring back at me, his face revealing his surprise—and disappointment. “Cornflakes?” he asked in a high-pitched voice.

  Grandma Miriam had gone back to the sink. I turned to her. “Grandma Miriam—no pancakes?” I asked meekly.

  I saw her glance at Stanley. “I’ve stopped making them, Jodie,” she replied, her eyes still on Stanley. “Pancakes are too fattening.”

  “Nothing like a good bowl of cornflakes in the morning,” Stanley said with a big smile. He reached for the cornflakes box in the center of the table and filled his bowl up with a second helping.

  Grandpa Kurt grunted behind his newspaper.

  “Go ahead—eat them before they get soggy,” Grandma Miriam urged from the sink.

  Mark and I just stared at each other. Last summer, Grandma Miriam had made us a big stack of chocolate chip pancakes almost every morning!

  What is going on here? I wondered once again.

  I suddenly remembered Sticks out in the cornfields the day before, whispering to me, “Things are different here.”

  They sure were different. And not for the better, I decided.

  My stomach grumbled. I picked up the spoon and started to eat my cornflakes. I saw Mark glumly spooning his. And then I suddenly remembered the twitching scarecrows.

  “Grandpa Kurt—” I started. “Last night, Mark and I—we were looking out at the cornfields and we saw the scarecrows. They were moving. We—”

  I heard Grandma Miriam utter a low gasp from behind me.

  Grandpa Kurt lowered his newspaper. He narrowed his eyes at me, but didn’t say a word.

  “The scarecrows were moving!” Mark chimed in.

  Stanley chuckled. “It was the wind,” he said, his eyes on Grandpa Kurt. “It had to be the wind blowing them around.”

  Grandpa Kurt glared at Stanley. “You sure?” he demanded.

  “Yeah. It was the wind,” Stanley replied tensely.

  “But they were trying to get off their poles!” I cried. “We saw them!”

  Grandpa Kurt stared hard at Stanley.

  Stanley’s ears turned bright red. He lowered his eyes. “It was a breezy night,” he said. “They move in the wind.”

  “It’s going to be a sunny day,” Grandma Miriam said brightly from the sink.

  “But the scarecrows—” Mark insisted.

  “Yep. Looks like a real pretty day,” Grandpa Kurt mumbled, ignoring Mark.

  He doesn’t want to talk about the scarecrows, I realized.

  Is it because he doesn’t believe us?

  Gran
dpa Kurt turned to Stanley. “After you take the cows to pasture, maybe you and Jodie and Mark can do some fishing at the creek.”

  “Maybe,” Stanley replied, studying the cornflakes box. “Maybe we could just do that.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Mark said. Mark likes fishing. It’s one of his favorite sports because you don’t have to move too much.

  There’s a really pretty creek behind the cow pasture at the far end of Grandpa Kurt’s property. It’s very woodsy back there, and the narrow creek trickles softly beneath the old shade trees and is usually filled with fish.

  Finishing my cereal, I turned to Grandma Miriam at the sink. “And what are you doing today?” I asked her. “Maybe you and I could spend some time together and—”

  I stopped as she turned toward me and her hand came into view.

  “Ohhhh.” I let out a frightened moan when I saw her hand. It—it was made of straw!

  7

  “Jodie—what’s the matter?” Grandma Miriam asked.

  I started to point to her hand.

  Then it came into sharp focus, and I saw that her hand wasn’t straw—she was holding a broom.

  She had gripped it by the handle and was pulling lint off the ends of the straw.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I told her, feeling like a total jerk. I rubbed my eyes. “I’ve got to take my allergy medicine,” I told her. “My eyes are so watery. I keep seeing things!”

  I was seeing scarecrows everywhere I looked!

  I scolded myself for acting so crazy.

  Stop thinking about scarecrows, I told myself. Stanley was right. The scarecrows had moved in the wind last night.

  It was just the wind.

  * * *

  Stanley took us fishing later that morning. As we started off for the creek, he seemed in a really cheerful mood.

  He smiled as he swung the big picnic basket Grandma Miriam had packed for our lunch. “She put in all my favorites,” Stanley said happily.

  He patted the basket with childish satisfaction.

  He had three bamboo fishing poles tucked under his left arm. He carried the big straw basket in his right hand. He refused to let Mark and me carry anything.