The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight (7 page)

We both let out short cries as the front door to the house swung open.

Startled, I leaped away from the doorway.

As the door pulled open, it revealed a rectangle of orange light. Stanley stepped into the light.

He held on to the door and peered out. His eyes showed surprise as they landed on Sticks and me. But then he goggled and uttered a choking sound as he spotted the headless scarecrow on the ground.

“N-no!” Stanley sputtered. He pointed a trembling finger at the scarecrow. “It — it walks! The scarecrow walks!”

“No, Dad!” Sticks cried.

But Stanley didn’t hear him. Stanley had already dived back into the house.

Sticks started after him. But Stanley reappeared in the doorway. As he stepped outside, I saw that he was carrying the big superstition book.

“The scarecrows walk!” Stanley screamed. “I must take charge! I must take charge of them all now!”

His eyes were wild. His entire skinny body was trembling. He started toward the cornfields, totally crazy. Sticks tried to calm him down.

“No, Dad!” Sticks cried desperately, hurrying after him. “The scarecrow was dropped here! I dropped it here, Dad! It didn’t walk! It didn’t walk!”

Stanley kept walking, taking long, rapid strides. He didn’t seem to hear Sticks. “I must take charge now!” Stanley declared. “I must be the leader. I will bring the others back to life and take control.”

He turned and glanced at Sticks, who was hurrying to catch up to him. “Stay back!” Stanley shouted. “Stay back — until I read the chant! Then you can follow!”

“Dad — please listen to me!” Sticks cried. “The scarecrows are all asleep! Don’t wake them!”

Stanley finally stopped a few yards from the edge of the cornfields. He turned to Sticks and studied his face. “You’re sure? You’re sure they’re not out of my control? You’re sure they’re not walking?”

Sticks nodded. “Yes. I’m sure, Dad. I’m really sure.”

Stanley’s face filled with confusion. He kept staring hard at Sticks, as if not believing him. “I
don’t have to read the chant?” Stanley asked, confused, his eyes on the swaying cornstalks. “I don’t have to take charge?”

“No, Dad,” Sticks replied softly. “The scarecrows are all still. You can put the book away. The scarecrows are not moving.”

Stanley sighed with relief. He lowered the book to his side. “None of them?” he asked warily.

“None of them,” Sticks replied soothingly.

And that’s when Mark — in full scarecrow costume — decided to come staggering out of the cornfield.

“Where’ve you been?” Mark called.

Stanley’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth in a high shriek of terror.

“Dad, please!” Sticks pleaded.

Too late.

Stanley took off, heading into the cornfields, the big book raised high in front of him. “The scarecrows walk! They walk!” he cried.

Mark tucked at the burlap bag face. “Did we blow it?” he called. “Is the joke over? What’s happening?”

There was no time to answer him.

Sticks turned to me, his features tight with fear. “We’ve got to stop Dad!” he cried. He started running to the swaying cornstalks.

Stanley had already disappeared between the tall rows of corn.

My allergies were really bad. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to clear them. But as I followed
Sticks, everything was a shimmering blur of grays and blacks.

“Ow!” I cried out as I stumbled in a soft hole and fell.

Mark, right behind me, nearly toppled over me.

He reached down and helped pull me up. I had landed hard on both knees, and they were throbbing with pain.

“Which way did they go?” I asked breathlessly, searching the dark, swaying rows of creaking cornstalks.

“I — I’m not sure!” Mark stammered. “What’s going on, Jodie? Tell me!”

“Not now!” I told him. “We have to stop Stanley. We have to —”

Stanley’s voice, high and excited, rose up from somewhere nearby. Mark and I both froze as we listened to the strange words he was chanting.

“Is he reading something from that weird book?” Mark demanded.

Without answering, I headed in the direction of Stanley’s voice. It was easy to follow him. He was chanting the strange words at the top of his lungs.

Where is Sticks?
I wondered.

Why hasn’t Sticks been able to stop his father?

I pushed frantically through the tall stalks. I was moving blindly, my eyes watered over, brushing the stalks out of the way with both hands.

In a small clearing, I found Stanley and Sticks. They were standing in front of two scarecrows on poles.

Stanley held the book up close to his face as he chanted, moving his finger over the words.

Sticks stood frozen, a blank expression on his face, a face of cold terror.

Had the words of the chant somehow frozen him there like that?

The scarecrows stood stiffly on their poles, their painted eyes staring lifelessly out from under their floppy black hats.

Mark and I stepped into the clearing just as Stanley finished his chant. He slammed the big book shut and tucked it under one arm.

“They’re going to walk now!” Stanley cried excitedly. “They’re going to come alive again!”

Sticks suddenly seemed to come back to life. He blinked several times and shook his head hard, as if trying to clear it.

We all stared at the two scarecrows.

They stared back at us, lifeless, unmoving.

The clouds floated away from the moon. The shadow over the cornfields rolled away.

I stared into the eerie, pale light.

A heavy silence descended over us. The only sound I could hear was Stanley’s shallow breathing, tense gasps as he waited for his chant to work, for his scarecrows to come to life.

I don’t know how long we stood there, none of
us moving a muscle, watching the scarecrows. Watching. Watching.

“It didn’t work,” Stanley moaned finally. His voice came out sad and low. “I did something wrong. The chant — it didn’t work.”

A smile grew on Sticks’s face. He gazed at me. “It didn’t work!” Sticks exclaimed happily.

And then I heard the
scratch scratch scratch
of dry straw.

I saw the scarecrows’ shoulders start to twitch. I saw their eyes light up and their heads lean forward.

Scratch scratch scratch.

The dry straw crinkled loudly as they both squirmed off their poles and lowered themselves silently to the ground.

“Go warn your grandparents!” Sticks cried. “Hurry! Go tell them what my dad has done!”

Mark and I hesitated. We stared at the scarecrows as they stretched their arms and rolled their burlap bag heads, as if waking up after a long sleep.

“Jodie — look!” Mark choked out in a hushed whisper. He pointed out to the fields.

I gasped in horror as I saw what Mark was staring at.

All over the field, dark-coated scarecrows were stretching, squirming, lowering themselves from their poles.

More than a dozen of them, silently coming to life.

“Run!” Sticks was screaming. “Go! Tell your grandparents!”

Stanley stood frozen in place, gripping the book in both hands. He stared in amazement, shaking his head, enjoying his triumph.

Sticks’s face was knotted with fear. He gave my shoulders a hard shove. “Run!”

The scarecrows were rolling their heads back and forth, stretching out their straw arms. The dry scratch of straw filled the night air.

I forced myself to take my eyes off them. Mark and I turned and started running through the cornfield. We pushed the tall stalks away with both hands as we ran. We ducked our heads low, running in terrified silence.

We ran across the grass, past the guesthouse. Past the dark, silent barn.

The farmhouse loomed darkly ahead of us. The windows were dark. A dim porch light sent a circle of yellow light over the back porch.

“Hey!” Mark shouted, pointing.

Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam must have heard our shouts back in the cornfields. They were waiting for us in the backyard.

They looked frail and frightened. Grandma Miriam had pulled a flannel bathrobe over her nightdress. She had a scarf tied over her curly red hair.

Grandpa Kurt had pulled his overalls on over his pajamas. He leaned heavily on his cane, shaking his head as Mark and I came running up.

“The scarecrows!” I exclaimed breathlessly.

“They’re walking!” Mark cried. “Stanley — he —”

“Did you get Stanley upset?” Grandpa Kurt
asked, his eyes wide with fear. “Who got Stanley upset? He promised us he wouldn’t do it again! He promised — if we didn’t upset him.”

“It was an accident!” I told him. “We didn’t mean to. Really!”

“We’ve worked so hard to keep Stanley happy,” Grandma Miriam said sadly. She chewed her lower lip. “So hard …”

“I didn’t think he’d do it,” Grandpa Kurt said, his eyes on the cornfields. “I thought we convinced him it was too dangerous.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” Grandma Miriam asked Mark.

I was so frightened and upset, I had completely forgotten that Mark was still dressed scarecrow.

“Mark, did you dress like that to scare Stanley?” Grandma Miriam demanded.

“No!” Mark cried. “It was supposed to be a joke! Just a joke!”

“We were trying to scare Sticks,” I told them. “But when Stanley saw Mark, he …”

My voice trailed off as I saw the dark figures step out of the cornfields.

In the silvery moonlight, I saw Stanley and Sticks. They were running hard, leaning forward as they ran. Stanley held the book in front of him. His shoes slipped and slid over the wet grass.

Behind them came the scarecrows. They were
moving awkwardly, staggering, lurching silently forward.

Their straw arms stretched straight forward, as if reaching to grab Stanley and Sticks. Their round black eyes glowed blankly in the moonlight.

Staggering, tumbling, falling, they came after Stanley and Sticks. A dozen twisted figures in black coats and hats. Leaving clumps of straw as they pulled themselves forward.

Grandma Miriam grabbed my arm and squeezed it in terror. Her hand was as cold as ice.

We watched Stanley fall, then scramble to his feet. Sticks helped pull him up, and the two of them continued to run toward us in terror.

The silent scarecrows lurched and staggered closer. Closer.

“Help us —
please!”
Stanley called to us.

“What can we do?” I heard Grandpa Kurt mutter sadly.

The four of us huddled close together, staring in helpless horror as the scarecrows made their way, chasing Stanley and Sticks across the moonlit lawn.

Grandma Miriam held on to my arm. Grandpa Kurt leaned heavily, squeezing the handle of his cane.

“They won’t obey me!” Stanley screamed breathlessly. He stopped in front of us, holding the book in one hand.

His chest was heaving up and down as he struggled to catch his breath. Despite the coolness of the night, sweat poured down his forehead.

“They won’t obey me! They
must
obey me! The book says so!” Stanley cried, frantically waving the book in the air.

Sticks stopped beside his father. He turned to watch the scarecrows approach. “What are you going to do?” he asked his father. “You
have
to do something!”

“They’re alive!” Stanley shrieked. “Alive!” “What does the book say?” Grandpa Kurt demanded.

“They’re alive! They’re all alive!” Stanley repeated, his eyes wild with fright.

“Stanley — listen to me!” Grandpa Kurt yelled. He grabbed Stanley by the shoulders and spun him around to face him. “Stanley — what does the book say to do? How do you get them in control?”

“Alive,” Stanley murmured, his eyes rolling in his head. “They’re all alive.”

“Stanley — what does the book say to do?” Grandpa Kurt demanded once again.

“I — I don’t know,” Stanley replied.

We turned back to the scarecrows. They were moving closer. Spreading out. Forming a line as they staggered toward us. Their arms reached forward menacingly, as if preparing to grab us.

Clumps of straw fell from their sleeves. Straw spilled from their coats.

But they continued to lurch toward us. Closer. Closer.

The black painted eyes stared straight ahead. They leered at us with their ugly painted mouths.

“Stop!” Stanley screamed, raising the book high over his head. “I command you to stop!”

The scarecrows lurched slowly, steadily forward.

“Stop!” Stanley shrieked in a high, frightened voice. “I brought you to life! You are mine! Mine! I command you! I command you to stop!”

The blank eyes stared straight at us. The arms reached stiffly forward. The scarecrows pulled themselves closer. Closer.

“Stop! I said
stop!”
Stanley screeched.

Mark edged closer to me. Behind his burlap mask I could see his eyes. Terrified eyes.

Ignoring Stanley’s frightened pleas, the scarecrows dragged themselves closer. Closer.

And then I did something that changed the whole night.

I sneezed.

Mark was so startled by my sudden, loud sneeze that he let out a short cry and jumped away from me.

To my amazement, the scarecrows all stopped moving forward — and jumped back, too.

“Whoa!” I cried. “What’s going on here?”

The scarecrows all seemed to have trained their painted eyes on Mark.

“Mark — quick — raise your right hand!” I cried.

Mark gazed at me through the burlap bag. I could see confusion in his eyes.

But he obediently raised his right hand high over his head.

And the scarecrows all raised
their
right hands!

“Mark — they’re imitating you!” Grandma Miriam cried. Mark raised
both
hands in the air.

The scarecrows copied him again. I heard the scratch of straw as they lifted both arms.

Mark tilted his head to the left. The scarecrows tilted their heads to the left.

Mark dropped to his knees. The scarecrows sank in their straw, slaves to my brother’s every move.

“They — they think you’re one of them,” Grandpa Kurt whispered.

“They think you’re their
leader!”
Stanley cried, staring wide-eyed at the scarecrows slumped on the ground.

“But how do I make them go back to their poles?” Mark demanded excitedly. “How do I make them go back to being scarecrows?”

“Dad — find the right chant!” Sticks yelled. “Find the right words! Make them sleep again!”

Stanley scratched his short dark hair. “I — I’m too scared!” he confessed sadly.

And then I had an idea.

“Mark —” I whispered, leaning close to him. “Pull off your head.”

“Huh?” He gazed at me through the burlap mask.

“Pull off your scarecrow head,” I urged him, still whispering.

“But why?” Mark demanded. He waved his hands in the air. The scarecrows obediently waved their straw hands in the air.

Everyone was staring at me, eager to hear my explanation.

“If you pull off your scarecrow head,” I told Mark, “then they will pull off
their
heads. And they’ll die.”

Mark hesitated. “Huh? You think so?”

“It’s worth a try,” Grandpa Kurt urged.

“Go ahead, Mark. Hurry!” Sticks cried.

Mark hesitated for a second. Then he stepped forward, just inches from the dark-coated scarecrows.

“Hurry!” Sticks urged him.

Mark gripped the top of the burlap bag with both hands. “I sure hope this works,” he murmured. Then he gave the bag a hard tug and pulled it off.