The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight (4 page)

“Who — who’s there?” I choked out, my voice a hushed whisper. No reply.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

The soft, scratchy footsteps came closer.

“Who
is
it?” I cried shrilly.

No reply.

I stared into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing.

Scrape. Scrape.

Whoever — or whatever — was moving steadily toward me.

I took a step back. Then another.

I tried to cry out, but my throat was choked with fear.

I let out a terrified gasp as I backed into something. In my panic, it took me a few seconds to realize that it was only a wooden ladder. The ladder that led up to the hayloft.

The footsteps crunched closer. Closer.

“Please —” I uttered in a tiny, choked voice. “Please — don’t —”

Closer. Closer. Scraping toward me through the heavy darkness.

I gripped the sides of the ladder. “Please — leave me alone!”

Before I realized what I was doing, I was pulling myself up the ladder. My arms trembled, and my legs felt as if they each weighed a thousand pounds.

But I scrambled rung by rung toward the hayloft, away from the frightening, scraping footsteps down below.

When I reached the top, I lay flat on the hayloft floor. I struggled to listen, to hear the footsteps over the loud pounding of my heart.

Was I being followed? Was the thing chasing me up the ladder?

I held my breath. I listened.

Scrabbling sounds. Scraping footsteps.

“Go away!” I screamed frantically. “Whoever you are — go away!”

But the sounds continued, dry and scratchy. Like straw brushing against straw.

Scrambling to my knees, I turned to the small square hayloft window. Sunlight filtered in through the window. The light made the hay strewn over the floor gleam like slender strands of gold.

My heart still pounding, I crawled to the window.

Yes! The heavy rope was still tied to the side. The rope that Mark and I always used to swing down to the ground.

I can get out of here!
I told myself happily.

I can grab the rope and swing out of the hayloft. I can escape!

Eagerly, I grabbed the rope with both hands.

Then I poked my head out the window and gazed down to the ground.

And let out a scream of surprise and horror.

Gazing down, I saw a black hat. Beneath it, a black coat.

A scarecrow. Perched outside the barn door. As if standing guard.

It jerked its arms and legs at the sound of my scream.

And as I stared in disbelief, it hurried around the side of the barn, hobbling on its straw legs, its arms flapping at its sides.

I blinked several times.

Was I
seeing
things?

My hands were cold and wet. I gripped the rope more tightly. Taking a deep breath, I plunged out of the small square window.

The heavy rope swung out over the front of the barn.

Down, down, I hit the ground hard, landing on my feet.

“Ow!” I cried out as the rope cut my hands. I let go and ran around to the side of the barn.

I wanted to catch up to that scarecrow. I wanted to see if it really was a scarecrow, a scarecrow that could run.

Ignoring my fear, I ran as fast as I could.

No sign of him on this side of the barn.

My chest began to ache. My temples throbbed.

I turned the corner and headed around the back of the barn, searching for the fleeing scarecrow.

And ran right into Sticks!

“Hey!” We both shouted in surprise as we collided.

I frantically untangled myself from him. Staring past him, I saw that the scarecrow had vanished.

“What’s the hurry?” Sticks demanded. “You practically ran me over!”

He was wearing faded denim jeans, slashed at both knees, and a faded purple muscle shirt that only showed off how skinny he was. His black hair was tied back in a short ponytail.

“A — a scarecrow!” I stammered.

And then — that instant — I knew.

In that instant, I solved the whole mystery of the scarecrows.

It hadn’t been a scarecrow. It was Sticks.

In the woods down by the creek. And now outside the barn.

Sticks. Playing another one of his mean tricks.

And I was suddenly certain that Sticks had somehow made the scarecrows twitch and pull on their stakes last night.

Sticks just loved fooling “the city kids.” Ever since Mark and I had been little, he’d played the scariest, meanest practical jokes on us.

Sometimes Sticks could be a nice guy. But he had a real cruel streak.

“I thought you were fishing,” he said casually.

“Well, I’m not,” I snapped. “Sticks, why do you keep trying to scare us?”

“Huh?” He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Sticks, give me a break,” I muttered. “I know you were the scarecrow just now. I’m not stupid!”

“Scarecrow? What scarecrow?” he asked, giving me a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

“You were dressed as a scarecrow,” I accused him. “Or else you carried one here and pulled it on a string or something.”

“You’re totally crazy,” Sticks replied angrily. “Have you been out in the sun too long?”

“Sticks — give up,” I said. “Why are you doing this? Why do you keep trying to scare Mark and me? You scared your dad, too.”

“Jodie, you’re nuts!” he exclaimed. “I really don’t have time to be dressing up in costumes just to amuse you and your brother.”

“Sticks — you’re not fooling me,” I insisted. “You —”

I stopped short when I saw Sticks’s expression change. “Dad!” he cried, suddenly frightened. “Dad! You say he was scared?”

I nodded.

“I’ve got to find him!” Sticks exclaimed frantically. “He — he could do something
terrible!”

“Sticks, your joke has gone far enough!” I cried. “Just
stop
it!”

But he was already running toward the front of the barn, calling for his father, his voice shrill and frantic.

Sticks didn’t find his dad until dinnertime. That’s the next time I saw him, too —just before dinner. He was carrying his big superstition book, holding it tightly under his arm.

“Jodie,” he whispered, motioning for me to come close. His face was red. His dark eyes revealed his excitement.

“Hi, Stanley,” I whispered back uncertainly.

“Don’t tell Grandpa Kurt about the scarecrow,” Stanley whispered.

“Huh?” Stanley’s request caught me off guard.

“Don’t tell your grandpa,” Stanley repeated. “It will only upset him. We don’t want to frighten him, do we?”

“But, Stanley —” I started to protest.

Stanley raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell, Jodie. Your grandpa doesn’t like to be upset. I’ll take care of the scarecrow. I have the book.” He tapped the big book with his finger.

I started to tell Stanley that the scarecrow was only Sticks playing a mean joke. But Grandma Miriam called us to the table before I could get the words out.

Stanley carried his superstition book to the table. Every few bites, he would pick up the big black book and read a few paragraphs.

He moved his lips as he read. But I was sitting down at the other end of the table and couldn’t make out any of the words.

Sticks kept his eyes down on his plate and hardly said a word. I think he was really embarrassed that his father was reading the superstition book at the dinner table.

But Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam didn’t act the least bit surprised. They talked cheerfully to Mark and me and kept passing us more food — as if they didn’t even notice Stanley’s behavior.

I really wanted to tell Grandpa Kurt about how Sticks was trying to scare Mark and me. But I decided to listen to Stanley and not upset my grandfather.

Besides, I could deal with Sticks if I had to. He thought he was so tough. But I wasn’t the least bit afraid of him.

Stanley was still reading, jabbering away as he read, when Grandma Miriam cleared the dinner dishes. Mark and I helped. Then we took our seats as Grandma Miriam carried a big cherry pie to the table.

“Weird,” Mark whispered to me, staring at the pie.

He was right. “Doesn’t Grandpa Kurt like
apple
pie?” I blurted out.

Grandma Miriam gave me a tense smile. “Too early in the year for apples,” she murmured.

“But isn’t Grandpa Kurt allergic to cherries?” Mark asked.

Grandma Miriam started cutting the pie with
a silver pie cutter. “Everyone loves cherry pie,” she replied, concentrating on her work. Then she raised her eyes to Stanley. “Isn’t that right, Stanley?”

Stanley grinned over his book. “It’s my favorite,” he said. “Grandma Miriam always serves my favorite.”

After dinner, Grandpa Kurt once again refused to tell Mark and me a scary story.

We were sitting around the fireplace, staring at the crackling yellow flames. Even though it had been so hot, the air had grown cool this evening, cool enough to build a nice, toasty fire.

Grandpa Kurt was in his rocking chair at the side of the hearth. The old wooden chair creaked as he rocked slowly back and forth.

He had always loved to gaze at the fire and tell us one of his frightening stories. You could see the leaping flames reflected in his blue eyes. And his voice would go lower and lower as the story got scarier.

But tonight he shrugged when I asked him for a story. He stared dully at the huge stuffed bear on its platform against the wall. Then he glanced across the room at Stanley.

“Wish I knew some good stories,” Grandpa Kurt replied with a sigh. “But I’ve clean run out.”

A short while later, Mark and I trudged upstairs to our bedrooms. “What is his problem?” Mark whispered as we climbed.

I shook my head. “Beats me.”

“He seems so … different,” Mark said.

“Everyone here does,” I agreed. “Except for Sticks. He’s still trying to scare us city kids.”

“Let’s just ignore him,” Mark suggested. “Let’s just pretend we don’t see him running around in his stupid scarecrow costume.”

I agreed. Then I said good night and headed into my room.

Ignore the scarecrows,
I thought as I arranged the blankets on the bed.

Just ignore them.

I’m not going to think about scarecrows again,
I told myself.

Sticks can go jump in the creek.

Climbing into bed, I pulled the quilt up to my chin. I lay on my back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to figure out what kind of picture they formed. There were three jagged cracks. I decided they looked like bolts of lightning.

If I squinted, I could make them look like an old man with a beard.

I yawned. I felt really sleepy, but I couldn’t get to sleep.

It was only my second night here at the farm. It always takes me a while to adjust to being in a new place and sleeping in a different bed.

I closed my eyes. Through the open window, I could hear the soft mooing of the cows from the barn. And I could hear the whisper of the wind as it brushed through the tall cornstalks.

My nose was totally stuffed up.
Bet I snore tonight,
I thought.

That is, if I ever get to sleep!

I tried counting sheep. It didn’t seem to be working, so I tried counting cows. Big, bulky, bouncing, sloooooow-moooooving cows.

I counted to a hundred and twelve before I decided that wasn’t working, either.

I turned onto my side. Then, after a few minutes, I tried my other side.

I found myself thinking about my best friend, Shawna. I wondered if Shawna was having a good time at camp.

I thought about some of my other friends. Most of them were just hanging around this summer, not doing much of anything.

When I glanced at the clock, I was surprised to see it was nearly twelve.
I’ve
got
to get to sleep,
I told myself.
I’ll be
wrecked
tomorrow if I don’t get some sleep.

I settled onto my back, pulling the soft quilt up to my chin again. I closed my eyes and tried to picture nothing. Just empty black space. Endless, empty space.

The next thing I knew, I was hearing scratching sounds.

I ignored them at first. I thought the curtains were flapping against the open window.

Got to get to sleep,
I urged myself.
Got to get to sleep.

The scratching grew louder. Closer. I heard a scraping sound. From outside the window? I opened my eyes. Shadows danced on the ceiling. I realized I was holding my breath. Listening hard.

Another scrape. More scratching. Dry scratching. I heard a low groan.

“Huh?” A startled gasp escaped my lips.

I pulled myself up against the headboard. I tugged the quilt up to my chin, gripping it tightly with both hands.

I heard more dry scraping.
Like sandpaper,
I thought.

Suddenly, the room grew darker.

I saw something pull itself up to the window. A dark figure. Blocking the moonlight.

“Who — who’s there?” I tried to call. But my voice came out a choked whisper.

I could see a shadowy head, black against the purple sky.

It rose up in the window. Dark shoulders. Followed by a darker chest. Black against black. A silent shadow slipping into my room.

“H-help!” Another stammered whisper.

My heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

It slid over the windowsill. Brushed away the curtains as it lowered itself into my room.

Its feet scraped over the bare floorboards.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

It moved slowly, steadily toward my bed.

I struggled to get up.

Too late.

My feet tangled in the quilt.

I fell to the floor, landing hard on my elbows.

I raised my eyes to see it move closer.

I opened my mouth to scream as it emerged from the shadows.

And then I recognized him. Recognized his face.

“Grandpa Kurt!” I cried. “Grandpa Kurt — what are you doing here? Why did you climb in the window?”

He didn’t reply. His cold blue eyes glared down at me. His whole face twisted into an ugly frown.

And then he raised both arms above me. And I saw that he had no hands. Clumps of straw poked out from his jacket sleeves. Only straw.

“Grandpa —
no!”
I shrieked.