The Scarecrow

The Scarecrow
Chapter I
The making of a Monster
By Karenann M. Wortmann

Only on a night like this, so hollow and bleak do all the made-up things come alive. Only on a night like this can the dead walk the barren roads. Only on a night like this can the pale white moon be plucked from the sky . . . and devoured, torn and shredded by those razor teeth of the “Scarecrow.”

An eerie melody hovered above the cornfield, the scorched and decaying leaves of dry stalks crumpled upon each other and lifted like the soft notes of a violin. The field’s melody only faded when the hissing wind encompassed it and drew it away in a silent death struggle. But, something else was among the cornfield, weaving its way effortlessly through the maze of decrepit vegetation. Almost like a ghost, a blur of yellowy-tan and black flickered through the gapped rows and then disappeared. The only visible sign of its presence were those unnatural yellow eyes staring from the depths. Chaos inflicted pain pulsates from the core of those uncanny hues, a madness that can never be cured, a disease that can only be quarantined, never killed. Then, in a flash the eyes are gone, everything goes dark – everything is black.

          The clickity clack of Scarecrow’s claws hitting stone became ever rhythmic with his heart beat, those beastly things that latched coercively to his fleshy paws curved over like a Reaper’s scythe, more deadly in their intent than could ever be imagined. For a moment he paused, letting the corn leaves tickle his side before he pushed through them, breaking into a clearing – or what freaks might believe to be crop circles. Yeah, if intelligent life was going to land on earth, why the fuck would they land in the smack-dab of nowhere? Bumble fuck mid-west U. S. A. Scarecrow chuckled at the thought and retreated to the center of the circle to let his paws mull over the torn down corn stalks. Something was here buried beneath the debris. How did he know it? Because, he put it there!

          After a few moments of tilling at the earth he was suddenly surprised to see that a middle finger had sprouted  from the dirt. He didn’t remember putting him there! Oh well, it is true the dead like to wander. He sniffed hardily at that thing taking shape like a weed, green and blue in composition; the blood had not flown through that flesh in quite sometime, but it did not put him off. Those claws sunk themselves deeply into this ex-cadavers grave, tearing at it’s earthen casket, ripping its cover from its face.

          It wasn’t long before Scarecrow stumbled upon the squishy and bloated body of a man. Though one could more easily call it a thing, it was just barely recognizable to be human. Rotting skin hung loosely from protruding bones that were caked in mud and leaves, the clothes upon him-it, were torn and blood stained and would have done little next to nothing to protect him had he still been alive in the current temperature. Fall was here and soon winter would push it away, and then all the corn stalks would die - or so you would think.

          The dead man stared eyeless up at his maker, those hollow sockets revealing nothing more than dead hope, and a few maggots. Scarecrow did not hesitate, looking down into the grave he paced, thinking and shouting at the same time. “Where is it, Dad!?” His temper grew with every word. “I know you have it, don’t hide it from me - don’t play dead I know you can hear me!” He was talking to an inanimate corpse, who was just sitting there, his mouth a gape and full of broken teeth, lacking a tongue (that too, like his eyes had already been devoured by the earth dwellers.) Even if he could speak, after the way he died I think he would be pretty perturbed with his son.  

          “That’s it.” With one giant leap Scarecrow thrust his wolfish body into the grave, his lumbering paws crushing the corpse, pushing it deeper into the moist earth as he searched the body. Patting him down like a police officer would do to a common criminal he began to wonder how smart his father was - and if he had hidden this prize, knowing he could not stop his son from taking his life, but could stop him from getting his hands, or paws on the relic of their family. To no avail he searched and turned around briskly in a circle before confronting his father once more.

“You bastard.” Those yellow eyes bore hysterically into the black sockets, trying to search, to find the answer. He snuffed, thinking of alternatives and just when he was going to turn around a spark of green, a fiery ball of electric light shimmered into the once lifeless eyes of his father. Scarecrow, taken a back slightly by the magick growled violently. However, he showed much more disdain when the earth beneath his paws began to rattle, as his father’s decomposing arm lifted to reveal his hand, and still supporting the middle finger. The corpse laughed manically enjoying the rage running through Scarecrow’s veins. Scarecrow tensed and prepared to leap, but before he could act out his wrath against his father the magick was gone, the life had once more been sucked out of him, and he lay as nothing more than a pile of bones and rubbery old flesh.

Surprisingly Scarecrow was calm, starring at the troublesome pest only sighing lightly before he whispered to himself. “Damn it all. . .” and then he took flight, leaping out of the grave to cover it up once more. Paw fulls of dirt were thrown in the hole carelessly and as he worked he noticed he was accompanied by some friends - a few flighty crows and ravens had landed a yard or two away from him, starring quizzically into his eyes. He spoke to them and they appeared to understand. “Soon, soon enough I will find it. Now off with you, begone!” and with that they were gone, their inky forms fading into the horizon and finally disappearing. “It sure as hell is going to be a long night.”