25
“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’ 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 guest house. 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 back yard.
They looked frail and frightened. Grandma Miriam had pulled a flannel bathrobe over her nightdress. She had a scarf tied over her short 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 as a 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.
26
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.
27
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.
28
The scarecrows stopped moving. They stood still as statues as they watched Mark pull off his scarecrow head.
Mark stared back at them, holding the burlap bag between his hands. His hair was matted wetly to his forehead. He was dripping with sweat.
The scarecrows hesitated for a moment more.
A long, silent moment.
I held my breath. My heart was pounding.
Then I let out a happy cry as the scarecrows all reached up with their straw hands—and pulled off their heads!
The dark hats and burlap heads fell silently to the grass.
None of us moved. We were waiting for the scarecrows to fall.
Waiting for the headless scarecrows to collapse and fall.
But they didn’t go down.
Instead, they reached out their arms and moved stiffly, menacingly forward.
“They—they’re coming to get us!” Stanley cried in a high, trembling voice.
“Mark—do something!” I shouted, shoving him forward. “Make them stand on one foot or hop up and down. Stop them!”
The headless figures dragged themselves toward us, arms outstretched.
Mark stepped forward. He raised both hands over his head.
The scarecrows didn’t stop, didn’t copy him.
“Hey—hands up!” Mark shouted desperately. He waved his hands above his head.
The scarecrows edged forward, silently, steadily.
“Th-they’re not doing it!” Mark wailed. “They’re not following me!”
“You don’t look like a scarecrow anymore,” Grandma Miriam added. “They don’t think you’re their leader.”
Closer they came, staggering blindly. Closer.
They formed a tight circle around us.
A scarecrow brushed its straw hand against my cheek.
I uttered a terrified cry. “Noooooo!”
It reached for my throat, the dry straw scratching me, scratching my face, scratching, scratching.
The headless scarecrows swarmed over Mark. He thrashed and kicked. But they were smothering him, forcing him to the ground.
My grandparents cried out helplessly as the dark-coated figures surrounded them. Stanley let out a silent gasp.
“Sticks—help me!” I shrieked as the straw hands wrapped around my neck. “Sticks? Sticks?”
I glanced frantically around.
“Sticks? Help me! Please! Where are you?”
Then I realized to my horror that Sticks was gone.
29
“Sticks?” I let out a final muffled cry.
The straw hands wrapped around my throat. The scarecrow rolled over me. My face was pressed into the dry straw of its chest.
I tried to squirm free. But it held on, surrounded me, choked me.
The straw smelled sour. Decayed. I felt sick. A wave of nausea swept over me.
“Let go! Let go!” I heard Stanley pleading.
The scarecrow was surprisingly strong. It wrapped its arms around me tightly, smothering me in the disgusting straw.
I made one last attempt to pull free. Struggling with all my might, I raised my head.
And saw two balls of fire. Orange streaks of light.
Floating closer.
And in the orange light, I saw Sticks’ face, hard and determined.
I gave another hard tug. And tumbled backwards.
“Sticks!” I cried.
He was carrying two blazing torches. The torches from the barn, I realized.
“I was saving these just in case!” Sticks called.
The scarecrows seemed to sense danger.
They let go of us, tried to scramble away.
But Sticks moved quickly.
He swept the two torches, swinging them like baseball bats.
A scarecrow caught fire. Then another.
Sticks made another wide swing.
The fire crackled, a streak of orange against the darkness.
The dry straw burst into flame. The old coats burned quickly.
The scarecrows twisted and writhed as the bright flames danced over them. They sank to their backs on the ground. Burning. Burning so brightly, so silently, so fast.
I took a step back, staring in horror and fascination.
Grandpa Kurt had his arm around Grandma Miriam. They leaned close together, their faces reflecting the flickering flames.
Stanley stood tensely, his eyes wide. He hugged the book tightly to his chest. He was murmuring to himself, but I couldn’t make out the words.
Mark and I stood beside Sticks, who held a torch in each hand, watching with narrowed eyes as the scarecrows burned.
In seconds, there was nothing left but clumps of dark ashes on the ground.
“It’s over,” Grandma Miriam murmured softly, gratefully.
“Never again,” I heard Stanley mutter.
The house was quiet the next afternoon.
Mark was out on the screen porch, lying in the hammock, reading a stack of comic books. Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam had gone in for their afternoon nap.
Sticks had driven into town to pick up the mail.
Stanley sat at the kitchen table, reading his superstition book. His finger moved over the page as he muttered the words aloud in a low voice.
“Never again,” he had repeated at lunch. “I’ve learned my lesson about this book. I’ll never try to bring any scarecrows to life again. I won’t even read the part about scarecrows!”
We were all glad to hear that.
So now, on this lazy, peaceful afternoon, Stanley sat at the table, quietly reading some chapter of the big book.
And I sat alone on the couch in the living room, hearing Stanley’s gentle murmurings from the kitchen, thinking about the night before.
It felt good to have a quiet afternoon, to be all alone to think about what had happened.
All alone…
The only one in the room…
The only one to hear Stanley’s low mumbling as he read the book.
The only one to see the gigantic stuffed brown bear blink its eyes.
The only one to see the bear lick its lips, step off its platform, snarl and paw the air with its enormous claws.
The only one to hear its stomach growl as it stared down at me.
The only one to see the hungry look on its face as it magically came out of its long hibernation.
“Stanley?” I called in a tiny, high voice. “Stanley? What chapter have you been reading?”
Scanning, formatting and
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R. L. Stine, 20 - The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight
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