by Michael Bray
“I say we go take a closer look.” Dwayne said, flashing a slick, predatory smile.
“I don’t know.” Kenny mumbled, and Randy could see the uncertainty in his eyes. “I mean, why bother? We have seen what we came here to see.”
“I’m with Kenny. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“No. you pussies can go wait by the car if you want to, I’m going to take a closer look.”
“At what?” Randy snapped “What do you expect to see down there?”
“Well I don’t know until I get over there do I?”
“Look, let’s just go home. Call it a night, okay?”
“Yeah, maybe Randy’s right, Spyder. Let’s go home.” Kenny said, eyeing the scarecrows.
“I don’t wanna go home!” He hissed.
Dwayne’s lip trembled and he turned away so that his friends couldn’t see it.
“I can’t go home. Not yet.” He repeated.
Randy thought he understood. Dwayne wanted to grieve for his mother, but perhaps he didn’t know how, or just wasn’t ready to accept it yet, and so would do whatever he could to delay having to make that decision.
Randy looked at the house, then to Dwayne.
“Okay.” He said. “Let’s go and take a quick look, then we get out of here. Agreed?”
“Yeah, exactly.” Dwayne said, still not quite free of the tremble in his voice.
“Okay, then let’s go, but keep it quiet. This guy has been here alone for a long time, and he might get easily spooked.”
“You afraid, Randy?” Kenny sneered.
“No, all I’m saying is we should be careful.”
“Why?” Kenny pressed.
“He probably has a gun.” Dwayne said, then turned and flashed his alligator smile. “And I doubt he would think too long and hard about shooting at us.”
“Oh!” Was all Kenny could muster, and the trio were silent for a while.
“So, how do you want to do this?” Randy asked.
Dwayne licked his lips.
“The scarecrows will give us cover; we just walk straight up to the house. If we see or hear anything, try to blend in.”
Randy didn’t like it, but he also had a duty to do whatever he could to help his friend through the process of grieving, and so he decided to push away his own uncertainty, and get this little voyeuristic mission over with as quickly as possible.
“Well.” He said with a sigh. “No point standing around and waiting. Let’s get on with it.”
They walked towards the house, weaving around the scarecrows as they neared. Randy saw that some were older than others, the tired plaid shirts they wore were rotten and hanging off the straw sack bodies. He drew a deep breath, and his senses were filled with the scent of moist earth, straw and rot.
“Is anyone else freaked out by these things?” Kenny whispered.
Randy was, but he wasn’t about to admit it, and so remained silent, and Kenny’s question remained unanswered.
They were close now, and crouched behind the last row of scarecrows, beyond which were the farmers crops and then finally the house.
“That’s weird.” Dwayne said, as he looked at Randy with a wide grin.
“What is?”
“Look at his crops.” Dwayne said, finishing his beer and tossing the can over his shoulder.
Randy did. They looked remarkable. Rows of well-kept tomato plants and potatoes. Behind that, rows of cabbages and beets, then by the side of the house a modest size cornfield.
“It all looks normal to me. What are you seeing?” Randy asked.
“My uncle has a farm.” Dwayne whispered. “He had crops like this too, but this whole setup is wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on Randy, think about it. Why would a farmer have a scarecrow?”
“To protect his crops from birds I guess.”
“Exactly, now look again.”
Randy did, and was still unsure what he was looking for. He was about to say as much when it hit him.
“You see it now, right?” Dwayne pressed, and flashed another sick grin.
He did see it. He looked over his shoulder, then back at the crops, and questions began to fill his mind.
The crops were the only place where there were no scarecrows. They were open and exposed, and as Randy looked around him he thought he understood.
“The scarecrows aren’t protecting the crops.” He said as he looked at Dwayne. “They are protecting the house.”
“What the hell would they be protecting the house from?” Kenny asked, now desperate to leave.
“I don’t know Kenny, giant birds? Shut up and let me think.” Dwayne hissed.
Kenny mumbled and lowered his head, as Randy and Dwayne stared at the house.
“What do you think?” Randy asked.
“I think we go take a closer look.”
“I’m not so sure, I have a bad feeling here.”
“Look, this is just a crazy old man who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Nothing more.” Dwayne said with more than a hint of bravado.
“Then why are you so determined to look into the house?”
Dwayne was about to reply, when he saw a flash of silver in his peripheral vision. The object landed on the dirt between him and Randy, and the two of them looked at it, and then in unison, whipped their heads around to look behind them.
“What?” Kenny said, shrugging his shoulders, but he was ignored. They were looking past Kenny, into the tangle of sticks, straw and old clothes which swayed and creaked in the breeze. Kenny joined them in staring into the dense mass of scarecrows.
The air was still, a thick silence hanging heavy as the trio glared into the darkness from where they crouched.
“You saw me toss that, right, Randy?” Dwayne said, his voice now stripped of bravado.
Randy nodded. He had seen Dwayne throw it over his shoulder when they first arrived here at the edge of the crops. And now, someone had tossed it back.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Will someone tell me what’s going on?” Kenny asked, his voice a little too high and his eyes a little too wide.
“Someone’s out there,” Dwayne said, flashing that sly grin that reminded Randy of the cat from Alice in Wonderland.
“Shut up man, that’s not funny.” Kenny whispered, then he saw that neither of his friends were laughing, and the three of them stared into the dark.
“I think we should get out of here.” Randy whispered.
“Yeah, me too.” Dwayne agreed. “You ready Kenny?”
Kenny didn’t answer; instead he stared into the scarecrows.
“What’s wrong? Dwayne hissed.
“They are moving out there.”
“Who, the people that are screwing with us?”
“No. The scarecrows.”
Dwayne started to laugh, but something in Kenny’s eyes made him stop, and he too stared. They watched, and waited.
“This is bullshit.” Dwayne said, and he scooped up the can and for the second time tossed it deep into the forest of scarecrows. They waited for it to come back, but there was nothing out there but that same heavy silence.
“That’s it, I’m done.” Randy said, standing and brushing the dirt from his knees. “I’m leaving.”
“Yeah, me too.” Kenny added.
Randy was expecting to have to convince Dwayne, and was surprised when he too stood and zipped up his jacket with shaking hands.
“I’m with you; let’s get the hell out of here.”
They moved quickly, crouched over as they criss-crossed their way around the maze of scarecrows. It was hard to see which way they had come and combined with their panic, disorientation set in.
“Which way?” Kenny said, closer than ever to losing it completely.
“Keep going straight, we’ll be out soon enough.”
“It shouldn’t be taking this long.” He shot back. “Screw this.”
Kenny stood, and there framed by the moonlight, b
oth Dwayne and Randy saw it all.
One of the scarecrows moved. It turned its head – a cloth bag stuffed with straw and adorned with a rough hand drawn face. At the same time, it swung towards Kenny, the wooden frame which held its arms at its side hitting him full in the face.
Kenny yelped as the wood smashed into his nose, staggering him backwards. The scarecrows behind him swung aside to accommodate him, and then closed behind him.
Kenny was gone.
“What the fuck was that?” Dwayne croaked as the scarecrows began to sway and move as if rocked by the wind. The way ahead was closed, lost in the movements of the scarecrows.
“Come on, back the way we came.” Randy yelled as he turned and ran back towards the warm yellow glow from the windows of the house.
“What about Kenny?” Dwayne said as he followed.
Randy didn’t answer. If it were a movie, they would surely go back and retrieve their portly friend, but here in real life, Randy didn’t care enough about Kenny to risk his own skin. His only concern was getting free of the scarecrows.
“Hey!” Randy screamed. “Hey, you in the house, open up!”
The pair burst free of the scarecrows, and charged over the crops, giving the cabbages and carrots underfoot little regard. They arrived at the house, and Randy pounded on the door.
“Hey, open up!” He yelled.
“Jesus, look at this.” Dwayne said quietly.
Randy turned and pressed his back to the door and looked at the scarecrows.
When they had arrived, they were all facing out away from the house, but now as the two boys stood with their backs to the farmhouse door, the scarecrows were facing inwards. They were like sentinels, watching with eyes that were as unreal as the heads they were drawn on. Any sense of a path through them was gone. The house was surrounded. As they waited, the door swung open, and Randy fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor of the farmhouse.
“Hey, what the hell...”
Dwayne’s protests were cut short by the double barreled shotgun which was pointing at his face.
He looked beyond it to its owner, and raised his hands.
“Get the hell in here, boy, and pick your damn friend up off the floor.”
Dwayne did as he was told, and the farmer ushered them in, the gun still trained on them.
“Take a seat.” He said as he closed and locked the door.
Jorell Samsonite looked almost exactly like Randy had envisioned him. He was old and wiry, and peered at them with mistrustful eyes from a face hidden by his dirty white beard and knotted, unkempt hair. Jorell glared at the two intruders, who were pale faced and sitting at the kitchen table in silence.
The farmhouse was minimal, and obviously designed for the single life. Jorell glared at the two intruders, licking his lips as he swayed from side to side.
“What are you doing here? Why did you come?” Asked the manic old man.
“Hey, take it easy.” Randy said. “We had no choice. Your scarecrows…”
“Stopped you, didn’t they?” Jorell cackled. “Stopped you from leaving.”
“Look pal.” Dwayne said, “I don’t know what the hell kinda game you think you are playing here...”
Jorell lowered the gun and began to cry. He sat on the wooden chair by the door and put his head in his hands.
“You don’t get it, do you?” The old man said. “None of this is me. This isn’t my fault.”
“Look, Mr Samsonite, if we could use your phone, we'll be out of here and leave you in peace.” Randy said, keeping a close eye on the shotgun.
“No phone, haven’t had one for years.” The old man muttered.
“You can’t just keep us here.” Dwayne said, his eyes flicking for a split second to the shotgun held in the old man’s hands.
“You don’t get it, do you, son?” Jorell repeated, flashing his toothless grin. “You’re free to go whenever you like as far as I’m concerned. But them.” He said pointing to the closed door. “They won’t allow it. They’ll make you stay.”
“You could call em’ off.” Dwayne said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Call em’ off and let us go, we won’t tell anyone what you’re doing out here.”
The old man grinned, and shook his head.
“You really don’t get it, do you sonny?”
“What do you mean?” Dwayne asked.
“You’re trapped here too, aren’t you Mr Samsonite?” Randy said quietly.
The old man looked at him, and then lowered his gaze.
“Yes, yes I am.” He said, exhaling and relaxing his grip on the gun.
“What do you mean? What are you saying?”
Dwayne was close to losing it, and Randy didn’t like to think what might happen if he did. The old man must have seen it too, because he stood and walked to the fridge and pulled out a jug of cloudy moonshine and grabbed three glasses from the cupboard.
“Relax, son, you’re safe enough here in the house. Drink?”
“What is it?” Randy asked.
“Moonshine. Brew it myself here on the farm. Not bad stuff if I say so myself.”
“I’ll take one.” Dwayne said.
Jorell poured them both a drink, then returned to his chair, propped the shotgun against the wall and lowered himself down with a sigh. They sat in silence in the grimy kitchen, and without warning, Jorell began to speak.
“Thirty seven years ago, I came here to this farm. I was a young man, and back then I thought the world was at my fingertips. My father had bought it, and put it in my name. He wanted me to learn the family business. To earn my way in the world. That first year was a tough one, and the learning curve for those intending to live off the land is a high one. I enjoyed it though, and got to be competent. I grew everything I need right outside my own door, Fruits and vegetables. Out back, I have a coop with chickens and a few cows for milk and cheese. I have my very own little food chain.”
The old man smiled, and began to pick the thick dirt from under his overgrown fingernails.
“Two years went by, and I was doing fine. My wife was with our child, and I loved my job. First time I thought something might be wrong was the summer of '57. I was out front there, ploughing the earth. I had this idea to grow wheat, and thought it was just about the perfect place. I was out there digging, and the sun was fierce on my back. That’s when it happened.”
“What happened Mr Samsonite?”
“Well, sonny, I don’t rightly know for sure. All I know is that there was something in the dirt. Something foul and evil and forgotten, and I was unlucky enough to find it. I don’t know what it was, and I ain’t about to speculate, but whatever it was, I had a desire, a compulsion to protect it. Built my first scarecrow out there later that week. Called it George after my father.
My wife asked me what the hell I intended to frighten away from an empty field, and I told her to leave me to my work.
Well, it turns out whatever was in the dirt was a powerful thing, and I took to going out there as often as I could. I would sit all day at that damn scarecrows feet, and these ideas of what I had to do came to me. That week I built two more crows, planted em’ right out there next to George. By now of course, my wife was startin’ to think I needed to see a doctor, and so I took fists to her and put her in her place.”
Randy and Dwayne shared a quick glance, and Jorell smiled. “You boys don’t have to judge me; I have punished myself enough for that and more over the years. I don’t want to get distracted if I can help it.”
Randy and Dwayne nodded, and the old man licked his lips and continued.
“So, it went on like that for weeks. I didn’t sleep, I barely ate. All I did was sit out there in that damn field and soak up whatever was down in the dirt, and do as it told me. By that winter, the field that was intended for my wheat held just short of sixty five crows. A little after Christmas of that year, I came back to the house to find a doctor waiting for me, wanting to examine me. Well, I chased him out of the door, and told him not t
o come back. My wife threatened to leave me if I didn’t explain, so I dragged her out there to the field, and showed her.”
His smile faded, and he swallowed as he recalled the memory.
“Crows took her that night. Part of me knew it was gonna happen, and yet I dragged her up there anyway. There was a lot of blood, and I knew they liked that, they liked the blood soaking through the dirt. Later, where that blood had flowed, smaller crows started to push through the dirt. You probably saw some of the juveniles when you snuck in.”
Randy nodded, and the old man shrugged his narrow shoulders.
“Well, that’s how they grow. Come up fully shaped like that. Don’t ask me how or why, because I don’t know. They just did. You gotta remember, I was just a young fella back then, and scared of what would happen to me if I told the police. Without my wife to keep me in check, things got worse. I stopped looking after the farm; I stopped even really spending time in the house. I would either be sitting there, cross-legged in the dirt, or I'd be building crows and planting them. By June of '59 I had planted over three hundred of them all around the perimeter of the house. Another hundred and a half had sprouted out of the ground of their own accord. I think even then, on some level, I knew what they were doing, and what they were making me do, but I was scared, and so I did as I was told. Took me a further year to fence myself in, by then I was lost anyway. I was a slave to whatever it is that lives in the dirt out there. They forced me to get off my ass, and make the farm self-sustaining. They…”
The old man grimaced, and ran a dirty hand through his hair.
“They feed on things, living things. I lost count of how many corpses I found out there in the fields. Always drained of blood, always at the feet of one of the crows. At first, I used to burn the corpses, then they told me it was safe to eat them, and being a man who likes meat as much as anyone, I did. Mice, rabbits, foxes, badgers. Anything that the crows killed and drained, I finished off. We helped each other.”
“Why didn’t you try to leave?” Randy asked as he sipped his drink.
“I did try, once. It was back in '63. I don’t know what triggered it, but I decided one day that I had had enough, and that I would leave the crows and whatever lived down in the dirt to its own devices. I set out from here, and made for the main road, the same one I suspect you came from. I didn’t make it even half way through the field before they stopped me. Blocked me in, stopped me in my tracks. Seems they needed me after all, to tend to them when they were blown over in winter, or one of the straw bags that I used for the heads and bodies split and needed to be repaired, or if they needed fresh clothes when the others had rotted off them. And of course, to dispose of the corpses. They told me then that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave, and even though I cried and begged and screamed, they didn’t listen.”
