The Scarecrow: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom) Page 13
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jett managed to stay straight most of the day. She didn’t like stoning at school, especially alone. She wasn’t close to any of the other kids, and getting totally roped wasn’t as much fun with nobody else in class giggling along. But home had gotten so weird, she couldn’t imagine trying to get through the evenings without sneaking a puff or two.
Gordon must have had an argument with Mom, because she had slept on the couch. When Mom and Dad were together, Dad was always the one who got thrown out of the bedroom and, after he got busted, out of the house. That must mean Gordon had some sort of power over Mom.
When Jett got off the bus and walked the quarter mile up the gravel road, neither Mom nor Gordon were home. That was strange, because Mom had been practically glued to the kitchen for the past couple of weeks and her car was in the drive. But having the house to herself meant she could light up without worrying about getting caught. She went to her room, put her books away, and took a couple of tokes.
Then she put on some tunes—The Smiths, of all things, “The Queen Is Dead” from her mother’s ‘80s collection—and laid back on her bed, grooving to harmonious and jangling guitar pop. At school, she was all about hard-core Goth glam, but secretly she’d decided songs that basically said “Let’s do it and die” could only get you so far. In fact, the whole Goth thing was getting a little old, and she would probably have outgrown it already if they were still in Charlotte. Here in Solom, though, the look was still an aberration that drew sidelong glances condemning her to an eternity in hell. Plus, it really rammed sand up Gordon’s ass, and that was worth a little extra time applying black eyeliner.
She reached over to turn the CD player up a notch when she saw the Scarecrow Man through her window, standing by the barn. He motioned to her, his gloved fingers stiff. The hat shaded his face, but a bulge of burlap showed over the collar of his plaid shirt.
Jett thought the best plan of action was to get in bed and hide her head under the pillows. If Gordon were here, she could point out the scarecrow and say, “See, I told you I wasn’t losing it.” Except part of her was afraid that Gordon, like the kids in her class, wouldn’t be able to see him. That would serve as proof to Gordon that Jett needed a good, long stretch in the nutter wing of Faith Hospital in Boone. Lockdown wouldn’t keep away the Scarecrow Man, though; hallucinations had a way of ignoring bars, doors, and windows.
Jett was about to turn away when the scarecrow tilted his head to look up at the window. Even though the eyeholes burned in the sackcloth were black, she felt a piercing gaze fix on her. The fingers moved again, beckoning. Jett shook her head, involuntarily mouthing “No.”
The Scarecrow Man began walking toward the house, moving with brittle steps. The grass wilted where his shadow fell. When he reached the fence, he didn’t climb over or slow down. Instead, he seemed to pass through the wire, although at no time did he appear transparent.
She grabbed her phone, pointed it at the figure, and snapped a picture. There. Proof that I’m not losing my mind.
But when she checked the photo, there was the barn, there was the garden, and there were the goats in the background. But no scarecrow. Not even a strand of straw.
Jett turned over her racing thoughts, trying to uncover something important. She hadn’t locked the front door. But who was she kidding? If it passed through wire, and wasn’t solid enough to show up in pixels, a door would be no problem. She could dial 9-1-1, but then what would she say? A burlap-faced dude in hillbilly clothes was breaking into the house? And, oh, by the way, it probably doesn’t exist?
She could hide. But where? The house was old and rambling, but it didn’t have any hidden passageways or book cases disguising secret rooms. She could hide in the linen closet, but that would be the first place he would look.
The attic. When they’d moved in, Gordon had asked her to put some of her summer clothes away. She and Mom had sorted them, stuck a few stinky mothballs in the boxes, and tucked them into the dusty space above the linen closet. Jett hadn’t gone into the attic, just set the boxes around the edges of the access hole. But she’d gotten the vague impression of a large, cluttered space, with old furniture and stacks of boxes. If the man went up there and found her, she’d be trapped, but she was trapped now, unless she made a run for the back door. The man moved like an arthritic puppet, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make his boots drum if necessary.
She hurried down the hall to the closet, the energetic pop music providing an incongruous soundtrack. She climbed the shelves and tugged the string that led to the access, and a little folded ladder appeared as the small door swung open.
Jett straightened the ladder and scrambled up, closing the ladder behind her as she went. The access door slammed shut with a creak of springs. The attic was dark, with the only light leaking from ventilation slats at each gabled end of the house.
Jett’s heart thudded in her chest, and the marijuana made her aware of the blood pulsing through her body. She paused and listened, wondering if the man had reached the front door yet, and if he was going to enter. All she could hear was the muffled backbeat of the music. She crept deeper into the attic, ducking under the ceiling joists until she came to a cluster of furniture.
There she found a pine box that was nearly the size of a coffin, but was obviously a shipping crate of some kind. She lifted the lid, then scooted it to the side, taking care not to make scraping sounds. Any noise she made would likely be audible to the man if he was on the second floor.
When the gap in the lid was wide enough, she felt through the opening to see if the box was empty. Her hand brushed against coarse cloth. There appeared to be room inside, so she climbed in and slid the lid back into place, hoping the stirred dust didn’t make her sneeze. In the blackness of the crate, she could hear the rasping of her breath. It sounded as if she had emphysema, but that must have been an acoustic trick of the confined space.
She closed her mouth, forcing stale air through her nose. Still the rasping continued. In her bedroom, the CD ended and the house fell quiet. She wondered if the man’s boots would make footsteps, or if he somehow floated over the floor in the same way he drifted through the fence.
Despite her fear, she was still buzzed, and her brain raced frantically. Pot sometimes gave her anxiety, and this would be a real bad time to get claustrophobic. She was wondering how long she would have to hide before the man would give up. He didn’t look like the giving-up kind.
Something wriggled beside her, in the pile of clothes. Probably just the cloth settling.
It wriggled again.
She held her breath, but the rasping went on. A hand touched her arm, or what felt like a hand, though the surface was abrasive. Like a scratchy piece of wool. Her heart jumped against her rib cage and she kicked off the wooden lid.
Jett scrambled out of the crate as the hand grabbed at her leg. She kicked backwards in the darkness, and the rasping changed pitch into a low chuckle. A chest of drawers with a mirror was beside her, reflecting the scant light. In the mirror, she saw a shape rising out of the crate.
She screamed and ran for the access door, banging her shoulder hard against one of the joists. When she reached the access, she climbed onto it, and the door swung open under her weight, pitching her into the closet. Sparks of pain shot up from her ankle, but she rose to her feet and opened the closet door, fully expecting to come face-to-face with the Scarecrow Man. But he couldn’t be as scary as that chuckling creature in the attic.
The hallway was clear, and Jett made a run for it, hobbling on her gimpy leg.
“Jett?”
Mom was downstairs. Jett ran to the head of the stairs. Mom stood below her, a paper grocery bag in her hand.
“What’s going on?” Mom asked.
“Nothing, I was just ...”
Hiding from a hallucination.
“Your face is pale. Are you running a fever?”
Sure, Mom. Boogieman fever. “No, I’m okay.”
I didn’t. HE did. “Sorry.”
“Come on down and help me make dinner. I’ve got a new recipe to try.”
Jett descended the stairs, using the banister to keep the weight off her injured ankle. She checked rooms as she passed, wondering if the Scarecrow Man was going to get two people for the price of one. But he wasn’t in the house. Assuming he’d even existed in the first place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mark Draper clicked through the slideshow of pictures that Jett had emailed.
He had to admit, the farm was beautiful, with its weathered outbuildings, tidy garden, lush cornfield, and a pasture dotted with livestock giving way to forest as the slopes rose into the sky. The goats were odd creatures, and Jett had taken an assortment of their various poses, most of the time eating but occasionally looking at the camera with sinister suspicion. She’d even taken one of the scarecrow hanging in the barn, dubbing it “Gordon’s family secret.” The thing was creepy, all right, with those two holes burned into the burlap face. It looked like it could just climb down off that nail and walk away.
He tried to picture himself as a country gentleman, returning from the fields after a day driving the tractor around in circles. He even tried out a rural accent. “Well, howdy, June Bug, how’s yer pickled pig’s feet doin’ this year?”
He sounded about as stupid as he felt. In truth, he could no more see himself in a plaid shirt and boots than he could a suit and tie. His uniform of choice was ratty sweatpants and T-shirts that bore the logos of Charlotte’s perennial losers like the Panthers and Hornets. In his line of work—when he had a job, that was—then the holier the better. Of course, as a drug dealer, his uniform had often included sunglasses and baseball caps, stereotypical gear to make the customers comfortable. But those days were done.
They’re done, right?
Mark shook off the selfish introspection and returned to the natural high of sharing his daughter’s life. There was Katy with a basket tucked in the crook of her elbow, wearing an ankle-length dress and looking country fresh, like a model for skin-care products. The sunshine danced off her red hair and her green eyes were bright with the surrounding bounty of nature. He wouldn’t allow himself to wallow in depression. Instead, he forced himself to be happy for her happiness.
But his heart was torn with conflicting emotions when he saw the pictures of Jett. She must have passed her cell phone to Katy because they weren’t selfies. How fast she’s grown. She’s knocking on the door to womanhood.
Here was Jett mugging with one of Gordon’s scraggly goats, standing just beyond the fence while the animal poked its head between the rails. Jett was in her Goth splendor, total black, with nylon hose and a leather bracelet. But her mischievous grin illuminated any darkness she’d tried to project. The girl was still alive and well inside her and would probably always lurk there even into old age.
In the next photo, Jett was standing in the garden, her arms extended and head lolling as if she were dangling like a scarecrow. Mark chuckled at that one. Halloween’s not so far away.
Then he noticed the figure in the background, standing at the edge of the pasture, half hidden in shadows. The figure was dressed in dark clothing, and Mark wouldn’t have noticed it if not for the pale blotch that must have been a face.
Gordon must be rich enough to hire farmhands. Maybe if construction stays slow around here, I’ll hit him up for a job.
That thought made Mark reach for his beer. What a reality show that would make.
Gordon must have taken the photo of Katy and Jett together. Jett was almost as tall as her mother, her body filled out but still sporting a little baby fat. He was struck by how much they resembled one another now that Jett was older. They were acting up, Katy flinging flower petals at Jett, who was grinning and flashing her braces. Katy looked as young as she had when she and Mark had first begun dating, when they were both undergrads at N.C. State.
He looked at his beer. I had it all and I traded it for this.
The phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number, so it was probably from a burner phone. He answered, still looking at his daughter and his ex-wife. “Yo.”
“It’s Johnny Dee. Seeing if you’re down for some.”
“I’m broke.”
“I’ll front ya. I know you’re good for it. I got some sweet stuff.”
He clicked on the next digital image. “Sorry, Johnny. I’m out.”
“You can’t be out, man. Don’t be talking no foolishness.”
“Something’s come up.”
“What’s come up that a little taste can’t fix?”
“Sorry. Can’t help you—”
Mark lowered the phone, staring at the image. It was Jett in medium close-up, smirking at the camera as her green eyes twinkled. Behind her was that figure in dark clothes, and it was closer to her than in the earlier photo. The guy’s face was half hidden by a broad-brimmed black hat, and the visible skin was pocked and pasty.
He could vaguely hear Johnny Divine’s rapid-fire sales pitch and killed the signal. He clicked his keyboard to zoom the image larger and studied the figure in black. He no longer thought it was a farmhand. The man’s suit was of an old-fashioned cut, with wide lapels, and the stained white shirt bore a loose black bow tie with two descending strips of cloth. That was odd enough, but it was the mouth that caused Mark’s ribs to clench around his heart like a fist.
The grub-worm lips parted to reveal a toothless maw that seemed to sing of ancient lamentations. Most horrible was that neither Katy nor Jett seemed aware of the man. The person taking the picture—presumably Gordon—must have seen the sinister figure.
So it’s one of Gordon’s friends or farmhands. No big deal.
But the creepy guy looked way too thin to even lift a turnip. Mark had seen hardcore meth addicts healthier than this cheese-faced dude in the black hat.
Mark clicked over to the next and final image. His eye was drawn immediately to the man in the black hat, who now seemed to be the main subject of the picture. The brim of the hat was fully lifted, and those two piercing eyes were like miniature volcanoes, a hellish red glow boiling out from bottomless black depths. Katy and Jett were still mugging playfully for the camera, their heads touching, but the creepy guy dominated the frame like an eclipse throwing darkness over a bucolic summer day. He couldn’t have been more than twenty feet from them, yet they seemed oblivious. Worst of all, the corners of the man’s maggoty lips turned up in a smile, creasing the waxen skin.
He couldn’t shrug off the sense of impending threat, even though he had little rational reason to feel Jett and Katy were in danger. Gordon was there, after all. And they were now his responsibility, right? Mark had only met him once, the uncomfortable but necessary dog-and-pony show to fool Jett into thinking they were all adults who would handle The Change gracefully.
The beer curdled in his gut and the last of the morning’s high evaporated in a cool rush, like corrupt air rising from an opened crypt. He picked up the phone again and dialed. When the voice on the other end answered, Mark said. “Dick? It’s me, Mark. I had a slip.”
“Okay. Glad you called. You in jail or home?”
“Home.”
“Good.”
Mark had expected his sponsor to chew him a new asshole over the relapse, but Dick sounded almost cheerful. Maybe he was much wiser than Mark and wasn’t surprised that Mark had the willpower of a fat kid in a candy store. Or maybe Dick was delighted that Mark had actually acknowledged a mistake for once. “I screwed up bad. I’ve screwed up bad for a long, long time.”
“Don’t worry about that stuff, Mark. Worry about what you can do right now.”
Mark nodded, looked at the image of the cheese-faced creep, and then said. “Yeah. I’ve got to get my head straight and deal with some shit.”
“You wasted?”
“Not really.”
“Okay, I’ll swing by and pick you up and we�
��ll go out for coffee.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank God. See you in a few.” Click.
Thank God? What do I have to be grateful for?
He looked at the image again.
Jett.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jett wasn’t hungry, despite the lingering effect of the munchies that pot usually caused. Mom had laid out quite a spread, with a casserole, roast beef, butternut squash, and a sweet potato pie for dessert. Mom had never made a pie in Jett’s whole life, if you didn’t count those that came out of a Sara Lee package. Gordon ate with hardly a word, stuffing his face and washing the food down with goblets of red wine.
“How was your day?” Mom finally asked him, like a zombie mom out of some dippy sitcom.
“Departmental meeting,” Gordon said. “The dean’s pressuring us to get more articles published.”
“Isn’t your book good enough to satisfy him?”
Gordon set down his wine glass hard enough to clink. “Nobody cares about Appalachian religion anymore. The old churches are dying out. Foot washings, tent revivals, creek baptisms, it just seems like a bunch of superstitious nonsense to my peers. But why should they think any differently? The faculty is from Boston, Berkeley, Tallahassee, and Detroit. They know more about the thousand Hindu gods than they know about their own back yard.”
“Now, dear, I’m sure your work is appreciated.”
Jett was freaking. Mom had never called her dad “Dear.” Jett had to shove some pie in her mouth to keep from gasping in disbelief. She had to admit, the pie was pretty awesome.
“They don’t understand the importance of the church in Solom’s history.” Gordon pushed away his dinner plate and started on the pie. He raised one eyebrow in pleasure. “I’m impressed.”
“Just an old family recipe,” Mom said.
“I didn’t know we had any old family recipes,” Jett said.
“The Smith family, honey. It’s about time you started taking on a bigger share of the kitchen work. After all, you’ll be a woman soon.”