The Scarecrow: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom) Read online

  Gordon never looked embarrassed, but his cheeks turned a shade rosier. “It’s complicated.”

  “Not really. Either I’m prettier than Rebecca or I’m not. Either you want to screw me or you don’t. Either we’re married or just people who sleep in the same bed. Sounds pretty damned simple to me.”

  “You’re not from Solom.”

  “I am now. I moved here, remember. I said ‘I do’ and I gave up my stable if unspectacular career in Charlotte and yanked my daughter’s roots out of the Piedmont dirt and dragged both of us up here because I thought we had a future with you. Only it turns out I’m second on your ‘honey-do’ list behind your dead wife.”

  Gordon exploded out of the blankets, rising from the bed with an angry squeak of springs. His pajamas were askew, one tail of his shirt dangling across his groin. “Leave Rebecca out of this.”

  “How can I? I thought you wanted me to be her.”

  “You’ll never be Rebecca.”

  Katy stormed out of the room, tears blurring her vision. She slammed the bedroom door as punctuation to her unspoken comeback. Her curled right fist ached, and she looked down to see the silver-handled hair brush with the initials “R.L.S.”

  Rebecca Leigh Smith.

  Katy flung the hair brush down the hall and ran to the top of the stairs. The air coming up from the landing was cool and drafty, moving around her flesh like soft hands. The smell of lilacs wrapped her, carrying a faintly sweet undercurrent of corruption. She leaned against the top post, the landing spread below her like still and dark water.

  Maybe if she died, Gordon would love her as well.

  “Do you love him?”

  The words crawled from the hidden corners of the kitchen, out from the cluttered pantry shelves, beneath the plush leather couch, off the mantel with its dusty pictures and Gordon’s collection of religious relics, up from the dank swell of the crawl space. Katy thought she had imagined the words, that the voice was the whisk of a late autumn wind, or the settling of a centuries-old farmhouse. Better that than to accept she was losing her mind. Because, however briefly and innocently, she had just contemplated suicide.

  The realization brought fresh tears, and behind it, a surge of anger. She had always thought herself strong. After her divorce, she had maintained a household, provided for her daughter, and resisted any temptation to reconcile with Mark, who would occasionally make overtures that seemed more like the pat chatter of a horny male than the sincere revelations of a man suffering regrets. She had moved on, moved up, and although this new marriage hadn’t been the stuff of dreams, she was determined—

  “DO YOU LOVE HIM?”

  This time the breeze was staccato, deep, the sounds rounded off into syllables. The voice was female, as frigid and calm and dead as the lost echo from a forgotten grave.

  “Who’s there?” Katy said, not really thinking anyone was there. The house was locked. Only crazy people heard voices when no one was there. And she wasn’t crazy.

  “Mom?”

  The voice was behind her now. Younger, higher ...

  “Jett?” She turned. Her daughter stood in the shadows of the hall, her silhouette visible against the slice of light leaking from her room. Katy was aware of her exposed body and wrapped her arms around her chest.

  “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “Sure, honey. I was just checking on something in the kitchen.”

  “I thought I heard you talking to somebody.”

  Had Katy spoken aloud? She couldn’t be sure. A horrified part of herself wondered if she had actually answered the Voice’s bare and bald question. But the Voice wasn’t real and the house was quiet and it was always easy to lie to yourself when you didn’t like the truth. What she couldn’t avoid was her daughter’s stare. Katy had never been a prude about nakedness, but there was an unwritten rule that you didn’t go kooky around your kids once they passed the toddler stage.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” Katy said. “Go on back to bed. You have school tomorrow.”

  “It’s not even ten yet, Mom. That’s pretty lame even for Solom.”

  “Well, go read or study or something. Listen to some music.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Jett stepped back into the light of her doorway. Her dyed-black hair was tied back in a ponytail, her face bare of make-up, braces glinting silver. A sweet, round-eyed child. Not a drugged-out potential menace to society, as Gordon saw her, and not a disruption to learning, as her teachers claimed. Just a sweet little girl. Her baby.

  “Whatever,” Jett said. “It’s not like we get through problems together or anything. That’s just a line we use for the counselors, right?”

  Jett was about to close the door, but then stuck her head back out and said, “By the way, what’s that smell? Like somebody farted flowers or something.”

  The door closed with a click and the hallway went black and Katy slid down the newel post and sat on the top stair until her tears had dried.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Students weren’t supposed to use their cell phones during the school day, but it was another of those dumb rules that Jett figured were all about control instead of practicality.

  During lunch, she slipped outside to the boiler room, not daring to go inside it, but instead hiding behind the big fuel tank. Here in town she got a great signal, full bars. But she’d have to hurry. Plenty of kids were eager to take her down and rat her out.

  As she dialed, she wondered if Dad was at home. “Call any time,” he’d said. Actually, he probably didn’t mean any time, since he’d started dating the blonde librarian. Mandy, Mindy, Bambi, something like that. Lots of checking out going on, probably.

  Noise leaked from the lunch room windows, typical teen jokes, flirting, the rattle of silverware on hard vinyl trays. She pressed her ear to the phone and he picked up on the second ring. So he probably wasn’t with the Stacked Librarian or at work.

  “What’s up, pumpkin?” Mark said. At least his words weren’t slurred. “Aren’t you in school?”

  “Yeah. It’s lunch time. I have five minutes before the bell rings.”

  “How’s it going? Did you get my letter?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the money. It really saved my sanity.”

  “I’ll send some more soon.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “Are you liking Solom any better now that you’ve had some time to get settled?”

  “It’s all right. A little slow, but you get used to it.”

  “Made any friends?”

  She thought of her drug connection, the goats, the Scarecrow Man, the kids on the bus, and creepy old Betsy Ward. “Yeah. I’m fitting right in.”

  Her dad’s tone turned serious. “And your mom? Is she okay?”

  “Actually, that’s what I called about.”

  “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  “I’m afraid she’s starting to lose it.” God, I can’t believe I’m telling Dad all of this. But he’s an expert on losing it.

  “Lose it?”

  “Yeah. She’s, like, not Mom. Like some alien came down and took over her brain. She’s changed so much in the last few weeks. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s the same person who once told me that life sends messages in invisible balloons.”

  “She’s going through an adjustment period. She’ll be fine once—”

  “Don’t give me that counselor babble horseshit, Dad.”

  “Jett.”

  “Sorry. It just blurted out.”

  “I can tell you’re upset. Calm down and tell me what she’s up to.”

  “She stares off into space. I’ll walk into a room and it’s like she’s forgotten what she was doing, or like she’d been in the middle of a daydream and I woke her up. She’s totally changed her wardrobe and—this might be weirdest of all—she’s started cooking. And I don’t mean beanie weenies and frozen waffles. I’m talking honest-to-God recipes.”

  “Well, i
f you’ll forgive the counselor babble, I’d guess she’s trying hard to make things work with her new husband.”

  “You sound sad about it, Dad.”

  “We had our chance and blew it. Things just didn’t work out. But—”

  “I know, I know, it’s not my fault and it had nothing to do with me.”

  “I know it’s tough on you, honey. Getting along with Gordon okay?”

  She didn’t know whether to lie or not. Dad shouldn’t have asked, or maybe it was his way of showing he cared about her. It was an uncomfortable subject. Gordon had wanted her to take the Smith name, but she’d balked. Mom had sided with her, of course, but not too vocally. “He’s been a hard case but Mom says he just wants what’s best for me. But I don’t think him and Mom are getting along too well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She could tell he wasn’t. She didn’t understand much about boy-girl stuff, except she was smart enough to know that when you fell in love, you thought it was forever. She’d certainly never be so stupid. “He’s not mean or anything, just cold. Not to get too mushy and gross, but he never kisses her.”

  “They’ll work it out. The change has been hard on all of us. I’m more worried about you. I hate to ask, but how are things going with the drugs?”

  “Fine.” She realized she’d snapped at him, and that was the worst possible thing to do, because it would make him suspicious. “They haven’t even invented drugs up here yet. It’s like the 1800s. Plowing with mules, no electricity, a church down every dirt road. Nothing but clean air and sunshine. And goats. Miles and miles of goats.”

  “Good for you, pumpkin. I don’t mean to pry, but I’m your dad. It’s still my job, even if we’re a hundred miles apart.”

  I could ask you the same question. But you’re an even better liar than I am. Like father, like daughter.

  The bell rang, its brittle metallic echo bouncing off the concrete block walls. The traffic in the hall picked up, a few of the guys giving her the eye, no doubt because of her black lipstick. “Got to go to math,” she said. “I’ll email you some pictures. Show you what we’re up to here in the sticks.”

  “Love you. Keep in touch, and tell your mom I said hello.”

  For a moment, Jett almost told about the Scarecrow Man, but Dad would either think she was cracking up or in serious need of some counselor babble horseshit. Ditto with the menacing goats. Just thinking of them made her a little light-headed, as if such things were never real unless you spoke of them. Better to just ignore them, pen them up behind the gates of Stoner City. “I love you, too, Dad. Bye.”

  She wiped her eyes, careful not to smudge the liner, and waded into the hallway crowd.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Katy’s back ached. She’d ended up sleeping on the couch, unable to face Gordon, much less lie in the same bed. She’d cooked oatmeal for Jett, then walked to the end of the road and waited for the bus with her. Gordon must have arrived late and headed out early. He hadn’t even made his usual pot of coffee.

  After Jett rode away on the bus, sitting at a rear window and refusing to wave, Katy went back up the gravel drive. As she passed the neighbor’s house, she hurried, afraid that Betsy Ward would come out on the porch and try to engage her in conversation. She’d always picked up on a distinct coldness emanating from the woman, as if Katy’s big-city accent were somehow alien and even infectious.

  Plus the Smiths appeared to have a bit of a bad reputation, and Gordon’s distant and antisocial manner certainly didn’t help. Gordon had warned her that Solom was a little clannish, at least among the families that had owned land here for generations. He assured her attitudes were changing as more outsiders moved in, but she sensed that resentment rather than acceptance was the more common response.

  No one seemed home at the Wards’, so she continued up the long gravel road to the Smith house. As she mounted the steps, she realized with alarm that she still thought of it as the “Smith house,” even though by legal rights it was half hers. She put away the blankets from the couch, cleaned the bedroom, and then found herself in the kitchen.

  It was only ten o’clock, too early for lunch. With no one else to cook for, she often resorted to an alfalfa-sprout-and-cheese sandwich or a can of vegetable soup. She was digging for a can opener in one of the drawers when she found a handwritten recipe on a dog-eared index card. She recognized the writing; it was done in the same elegant penmanship of the other recipes she’d found tucked in books, on the pantry shelves, or amid stacks of dishes. Rebecca’s recipe for sweet potato pie.

  It sounded like a nice treat to draw the family together over the dinner table. She checked off the items she would need. She had cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, and even whipped cream, but she had no evaporated milk. She could call Gordon at his office and ask him to stop by the grocery store, but she wasn’t in the mood to ask a favor, even if the favor was for his benefit too. She would pick it up herself at the general store. That meant she had a four-mile round trip.

  Might be a nice day to walk, because the weather was clear and fortyish, with the barest whisper of wind. Besides, the house had started to become oppressive. She thought she’d get used to being a housewife again, the way she had the first two years of Jett’s life. But back then, she’d been busy with an infant. With the house to herself all day, she’d become increasingly bored, despite her newly discovered culinary adventures.

  She changed into stone-washed jeans, blouse, jacket, and tennis shoes. At the last minute, she decided on a scarf in case the weather changed suddenly, and rummaged around upstairs until she found a green silk scarf that happened to match her eyes. She couldn’t remember buying it; perhaps someone had given it to her as a gift and it had been packed away and forgotten. Outside, she made a cursory check of the hen’s nests, spying several eggs she would collect for the pie when she got back, assuming she were brave enough. The goats weren’t around the barn. They must have been up in the forest, working the underbrush.

  She passed the Wards’ house again, and this time Arvel’s pick-up truck was in the driveway. The man himself was checking the fluids in his tractor, which was parked by the barn up behind the house. She waved in what she considered a neighborly fashion. Arvel flipped a grease rag at her, and then motioned for her to come to him.

  He met her in the driveway. “How ya doing, Mrs. Smith?”

  “It’s Logan. Katy Logan.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. They do that in the big city. Don’t take a husband’s name.” He gave her a one-eyed squint. “Things going good?”

  “Fine. A lovely day.”

  “Sure enough. Taking a walk, are you?”

  “Yes. I’m going to the general store.”

  Arvel rubbed his hands on the grease rag. “Shame Gordon won’t keep your gas tank full. Him being a professor and all, he’s bound to have the money.”

  “We decided we’d save up for a while and wait for things to settle down a little. But I like the exercise.” She didn’t want to tell her neighbor that Gordon was turning out to be a control freak. She’d always kept her personal life to herself, which might have contributed to the failure of her first marriage. Katy recognized the irony of requiring Jett to undergo drug counseling while she and Mark had never sought marriage counseling. “How’s Mrs. Ward?”

  “She’s in the hospital.”

  From his tone, he could have been talking about a leaky radiator. “What’s wrong?” Katy asked, hoping she didn’t sound snoopy.

  “Slipped in the kitchen yesterday and busted her skull. Had a few stitches and a concussion, but the doc said she ought to be home in a few days.” He gave an uneven grin. “I always said she was a hard-headed woman.”

  “I didn’t hear any sirens.”

  “You’re a good piece up the road, and there’s a stand of pines between our houses. Most neighbors in these parts are kind of on their own.”

  “I’ll have some flowers sent to her room.”

  “She’d
like that. Except no Queen Anne’s lace. Betsy’s allergic to that.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Nothing can mend her but time. And I’ll get along fine myself. I learned to cook on camping trips, and the laundry will keep until she’s back on her feet.”

  “Okay. But come knocking if you need anything.”

  “I’ll do that. Say, I’m driving the tractor up the river road. I have a job tilling up an old burley tobacco field. Want to catch a ride?”

  She smiled despite herself. “It might be faster to walk.”

  “No, really, just climb up here and straddle the P.T.O. box. If you’re going to be a mountain woman, you might as well learn the basics. Plus the goats are riled.”

  “Riled?”

  Arvel hesitated and looked out across the pastures that ran alongside the gravel road. “Uppity. They usually rut in the spring, but for some reason they’re tangling here on the front door to winter. They get mighty strange when they’re in the fever.”

  Katy started to chuckle, but something about the man’s expression stopped her. She remembered her own encounter with Gordon’s goat. “Mighty strange” seemed like a good catch-all phrase for the odd occurrences that had plagued her over the past few weeks. “Maybe a ride wouldn’t be so bad after all,” she said. “Thanks.”

  As she settled onto the tractor, careful not to get oil or dirt on her clothes, Arvel said, “Has Gordon put up his scarecrow yet?”

  “I believe so.”

  “It’s due. If the scarecrows ain’t put up for the winter, the Horseback Preacher might just come around and check up on them.”

  “Oh, Gordon’s ancestor, the old Circuit Rider who comes around ‘reaping his unholy harvest’? I don’t believe in fairy tales and legends. Mr. Ward.”

  “If I was you, I’d start believing.”

  He said something else, but Katy couldn’t hear him over the roar of the engine. Katy hung on for dear life as the tractor lurched into motion with a clank of gears. Solom seemed determined to kill her one way or another.