The Scarecrow: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom) Page 19

  “Look out!” Jett screamed and Katy glanced ahead to see the Scarecrow Man standing in the driveway, surrounded by a dozen goats, blocking their escape. While Moses had been no obstacle, this was like a phalanx that she wasn’t even sure the car would penetrate without a serious impact.

  She swerved hard, too late, and the Subaru bounced over a hump into a gulley, sliding sideways toward the creek fifteen feet below. The car slammed against a stand of locust trees and shuddered to a halt.

  And the world went as black as the bottom of an October night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  When Mark Draper arrived at the Smith house, both vehicles were gone from the driveway. He knocked on the front door with no answer, and then walked around the house. He didn’t know how Gordon Smith would react to trespassing, but a tingling at the base of Mark’s skull told him something was wrong. After hearing Jett’s stories and seeing the dead boy in the water wheel, he was willing to believe his paranoia was real and not a side effect of withdrawals.

  Mark was about to drive back to the general store to call the sheriff’s department when he saw the barn. The doors were swung wide, and the gate was open. Twin tire tracks led into the old wooden structure, and the tracks looked fresh. That was where Jett had been attacked by the scarecrow and the goats, and he figured he’d at least take a peek.

  He owed her that much. He hadn’t believed her this morning. Now he realized, maybe for the first time in his life, that he expected her to lie. Because she’d learned it from him. Along with other bad habits. His failure cast a bigger ripple than a mere broken marriage and a troubled childhood, because Jett would be carrying that bad karma with her even after Mark was worm food.

  As he approached the gate, he noticed splotches of blood on the gravel driveway. The blood led into the barn.

  “Damn,” Mark whispered, breaking into a jog even though his knees were trembling. Dusk seemed to settle more heavily with each step, and the dark heart of the barn beckoned him like a carnival funhouse. Chickens emitted clucks from a row of cages along the front of the barn, and in the otherwise brooding silence, the clamor added to his uneasiness. What if the blood was Jett’s? And what if something had happened to her just because he didn’t believe her?

  The wet drops reflected in the scant light that leaked through the doors and windows. Mark followed them to a set of narrow wooden stairs, where the drops were larger and stood out like black paint against the gray, bleached boards. Mark hesitated only a second, making sure none of the goats that Jett had talked about were around.

  Man-eating goats.

  That was about as loopy an idea as, say, a dead boy crying for help. He shivered and ascended the stairs, stepping as carefully as he could. Even missing a shoe, his footfalls sounded like the beating of a kettle drum. Or maybe the noise was his pulse pounding through his temples. He leaned against the wall for balance, not trusting the skinny, cock-eyed railing.

  His hand brushed cloth and a dusty snuff of dried straw and chicken manure assailed his nostrils. He fought off a sneeze, eased up another few steps, and his hand struck cold metal. He ran his hand along the smooth length and came to wood, then back up into a metal tip. A pitchfork. Mark lifted it free of its support and checked its weight. The curve of the tines made it awkward to handle in the confined space, but the tool gave Mark a sense of security.

  At the top of the stairs, the blood had pooled on a short landing, as if whatever—or whomever—was injured had struggled to open the door that must lead to the hayloft. The blood gave off a bright, warm smell that reminded Mark of seawater. He tried the latch, and his hand came away slick and moist. He wiped his hand on his slacks and eased the latch up. The door swung open with a slow groan of hinges.

  The hayloft access was open on the far side of the barn, and the first glimmers of moonlight cast the pastures and surrounding hills in silver, as if the scene had been electroplated. The air was rich with chaff and the sweet smell of early dew. Mark was tempted to call out for Jett, but what if someone was holding her prisoner? The scarecrow thing, or whatever? Or the creepy stalker in black he’d seen in the photos?

  Mark hefted the pitchfork and held the sharp tines in front of him, taking careful steps forward. Something could be hiding in the hay bales to either side of him, and he couldn’t swivel the steel points fast enough if he were jumped. Light from the gaps in the boards threw lustrous stripes across the floor, giving the illusion of prison bars. Mark was in the middle of the hayloft when he glanced out the window and saw Gordon’s Chevy Suburban parked behind the barn.

  The big SUV appeared to have been driven through a section of fence, because barbed wire curled around it and a broken fence post lay across the hood. The vehicle’s driver’s side door was open, and the cab appeared empty. Mark was edging toward the window for a closer look when he heard a whisper of movement behind him, the soft rattling of corn husks or the stirring of a rodent. He spun, the pitchfork causing him to lose his balance.

  Silhouetted against the red spill of dying sunlight was a man in a straw hat that was dented and torn, with stray sprigs of reeds sticking out at odd angles.

  Mark squinted, trying to pool enough light in his pupils to make out the face. It appeared to be covered by a rough, grainy cloth. The rest of the clothing was ragged, with frayed strips fluttering in the breeze that carried the smell of autumnal decay from the valley outside.

  “Where’s Jett?” Mark said, his voice thick from dust.

  The man didn’t move.

  The Scarecrow Man, Jett had said.

  Mark took two steps forward, and then went weightless, and he pushed the handle of the pitchfork across his chest as he realized he was falling. A square was cut in the floor, wide enough to drop through a bale of hay –or a man—and his rib cage banged, and then his chin, as he kicked to keep himself upright. The floor couldn’t be more than twenty feet below, but it was hard ground, packed by the hooves of generations of animals.

  And as Mark struggled to keep a grip on the pitchfork, fighting to keep his elbows on the long wooden handle, he was suddenly sure that goats—man-eating goats—were milling down below him, as silent as sharks cruising a chum-stained sea. He could hear their bleats and sighs and smacking lips.

  He pushed his legs out, swinging like a drunken gymnast in a surreal Olympics, and then lifted himself until his belly was across the wooden handle. He reached out one hand and found the hayloft floor, his index finger ripped by a protruding nail. Blood trickled down his finger to the pad of his hand, where it fell to the barn floor below.

  The unseen movement beneath him increased in intensity, and hooves padded softly in the dirt. But that didn’t matter, because he had his balance and then his other hand was gripping a floor board and he pulled himself forward, forward, and then he had a knee on the floor and he was going to make it—

  He looked up to see the Scarecrow Man standing over him, a crescent moon of metal arced above its straw hat. Mark couldn’t be sure, but the burlap face seemed to be grinning. Then the scythe swept down, slicing into Mark’s left wrist all the way to the bone. The whole arm went numb, but he kept a grip with his right hand, even though his blood pressure plummeted and his skin grew cold. As the blade swooped down to reap its sick harvest a second time, Mark let go, and as he fell, he concentrated on Jett’s face but all he saw was the long, endless tunnel of a final failure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jett was the first to return to consciousness, although she might have never left it.

  It all seemed a jumbled dream now, except the pain in her leg. She flexed it—it wasn’t broken but it was plenty bent—and then heard Katy moan. Jett instantly came fully alert and it all came rushing back. She brushed little squares of broken glass from her mom’s hair and shook her gently. “Mom! Mom!”

  Katy’s green eyes snapped wide open. “Just like Rebecca! This is how she died. She wrecked and then…he cut off…”

  “But we’re not dead yet.” Yet.
>
  Jett struggled free of her seatbelt and looked around at the trees, their autumnal splendor filtering the sunset into a golden-red glow. She didn’t see any movement, but she knew the Scarecrow Man and his freaky flock would be on them in no time. She released Katy’s seatbelt. “Can you move?”

  Katy wriggled her limbs, groaned and winced, and then said. “Yeah.”

  “Great. Now can you run?”

  The car was leaning with the driver’s side door pinned against a tree trunk, so Jett opened her door and lifted it with her legs. “Hurry.”

  Katy scrambled past her, glass falling from her as she climbed. She had a puffy welt on her forehead but otherwise seemed to be in one piece. Although Jett was pretty sure the goats would have something to say about that once they closed in. After Katy emerged from the car, she held open the door so Jett could get free. Jett gave one sad glance back at Captain Boo, issued a silent promise that she’d return, and then dropped to the muddy forest floor.

  “Which way?” Jett said.

  The creek was shallow and offered a natural downhill route, but the laurels and doghobble were so thick along its banks that it looked impenetrable. Plus it was already dark down in there, and the trickling water sounded like giggles. Jett was relieved when Katy said, “Up there. We’ll be better off out in the open.”

  Katy grabbed Jett’s wrist and helped her ascend the slope. Beyond the trees, the sunset illuminated the farm—the barn, the house, and the garden.

  “Is that Dad’s car?” Jett said, pointing to the distant driveway.

  But Katy was looking behind them, and Jett turned, too. The goats were approaching, as silent and sinister as tigers. And among them stood the Scarecrow Man, his scythe in silhouette against the red sky.

  “Go toward the house,” Katy said. “And hurry.”

  “You mean where Psycho Gordon and the headless ghost are waiting for us?”

  “Right. What about the barn?”

  They could see goats milling restlessly around the barnyard. “Doesn’t look good.”

  “Come on,” Katy said, jogging across the pasture.

  Great. She’s headed for the cornfield. I’ve got a bad feeling the Scarecrow Man will have home field advantage in there.

  But Jett had to admit, the other options weren’t that great. Maybe in the corn they would be concealed long enough to figure out their next move. She wondered if the goats had a strong-enough sense of smell to track them down. Like bloodhounds.

  They climbed over the fence at the edge of the pasture, negotiating the strands of barbed wire interspersed with hog wire. Jett experienced a moment of panic when her jacket snagged on a barb. She ripped it free with Katy’s help and then they were in the rows, where the stalks crackled and the wind whispered among the dried tassels. Jett felt a little safer with the fence between them and the goats, although she knew that wires didn’t stop the Scarecrow Man. The creature might very well be already stalking them. Ha ha. The pun didn’t seem the least bit funny.

  “What’s Dad doing here?” Jett whispered. Getting away from that haunted farmhouse and tumbling around in the car crash seemed to have brought Katy back to her senses. Jett was glad to see the old Mom back—even if they might not live long enough to get reacquainted.

  “Maybe you worried him with your scary stories,” Katy said, ducking so that she wouldn’t be visible above the corn.

  “Maybe you worried him with your hillbilly Stepford Wife act.”

  “Was I really that out of it?”

  “Gosh, Mom. You were, like, into recipes.”

  They were now fifty yards into the cornfield, deep enough that they couldn’t make out any buildings. The mountain ridges were capped with the lava of sunset, but the valley was growing darker, the half-moon already visible against the purple ceiling of the sky. Soon Jett wouldn’t be able to see Mom—or the Scarecrow Man.

  “If Mark’s over there, I hope he’s okay,” Katy said, taking Jett’s hand and leading her down a narrow row of corn. “We should go help him.”

  “Yeah, except I can’t even tell which way to go.”

  They squatted and listened, and all around them came crunching and rustling as the goats closed in.

  “I think we’re the ones that need help,” Jett whispered.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Mark jerked awake with a searing pain in his wrist and wet noses poking at him.

  At first he thought he was coming to the surface after one of his renowned, historic blackout binges. But the fiery agony that throbbed with each heartbeat usually hammered his skull instead of his arm. Then it came back to him in a rush—the man with the scythe.

  Mark rolled to his feet, sensing more than seeing the animals that surrounded him. Goats.

  They gathered around him, the stench of their fur heavy in the air, butting and shoving him. A rough, damp texture stoked his injured arm. A tongue?

  Mark pushed the goat away and gripped his wound. Blood was oozing from the opening, and he knew it was bad. He flexed his fingers. At least the tendons weren’t snipped, but he would go into shock if he didn’t stem the flow.

  A pair of horns butted him in the back, driving him to his knees, and hooves stomped inches from his face on the hard dirt floor.

  Mark crawled toward the lesser gray that marked the barn’s exterior. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, but the sun had slipped lower in the sky and given way to the moon.

  Then he remembered why he was here.

  Jett. Katy. Jesus Christ, what has Solom done to them?

  Mark rose to his feet, using his good arm to steady himself against the flank of a goat. Eight or ten of the animals surrounded him, and as he felt another damp snout and a flick of a long tongue, he realized their intent.

  They want my blood. Like vampire goats from hell.

  Mark had suffered an endless number of bad drug trips and freak-outs and crashes, but nothing had ever prepared him for such a real-life horror show. He waded through the animals, holding his wounded arm high, which also slowed the leaking blood. A couple of the goats reared up and planted their hooves on his chest, trying to climb him. Mark kicked and wriggled until he was out of the pack and running for the open spaces.

  Outside the barn, he could see the dark hulk of the house with its lighted squares of windows. He wondered if Jett and Katy were inside. The psycho with the scythe would have had plenty of time to come down from the barn loft and go after them.

  Mark slammed into the fence, unable to see it in the dark, and the barbs ripped into his skin. He fell to the ground, rolled back to his feet with the hooves thundering behind him, and found a leaning locust post. He scrambled over it, jamming his feet against the strands of wire and then somersaulting to the other side. Woozy, he sat up, ripped off his shirt, and wrapped it around the gash in his arm. If he lost any more blood, he’d pass out, and then Jett and Katy would be on their own.

  Gordon will protect them.

  But he couldn’t convince himself of that, especially the way Jett had described her stepdad’s behavior. No, it was time for him to step up. To pay them back for all of the failures. He’d made lots of empty promises, but this time he was going to keep one. Even if he died in the process, he was going to make a sacrifice for once.

  He recalled Dick, his sponsor, repeating a mantra of recovery: “Do the next right thing.”

  Mark staggered to his feet, ignoring the excruciating bolts of pain that flashed up his arm. The goats crowded against the fence, straining against the strands of wire, whining and bleating with an unnatural hunger. He gripped the makeshift bandage between his teeth and tightened the knot with a yank of his head. His wrist flared with liquid electricity and he bit back a scream.

  As he lurched toward the house, he repeated a name over and over, like the chugging of a sick locomotive climbing a final hill: Jett Jett Jett.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  This is all my fault.

  Katy accepted that fact, although she didn’t have t
ime to run down the list of mistakes that had led them to a dark cornfield with a killer scarecrow and his flock of hungry beasts closing in. All she knew was that Jett was going to get out of this mess, one way or another.

  She’d never been in the cornfield before. She’d picked up the “off limits” vibe from Gordon and had figured it was some kind of Smith male turf issue. But she’d enjoyed the view of it from the window, a sighing, swaying green sea that suggested peace in summer and a golden pool in autumn—all except for the scarecrow that had dangled from a post on the middle of the field until the stalks had grown up to conceal it.

  Now she was lost, and she was afraid to raise her head up enough to look for landmarks. The corn was easily eight feet high, so she wouldn’t be able to see anything without clearing a path, and that would create noise. And noise would bring death.

  Or worse.

  “This way,” Katy said to Jett, with a confidence she didn’t feel. Her improvised plan was to keep moving in one direction and hope they got out of the field before the goats caught up with them. But they had to move fast and silently, because the hooves were crunching dried stalks all around them.

  Jett didn’t answer but fell in behind her, both of them crouching low as they jogged through the night. There was just enough of the dying sunset left for them to navigate the row, although from time to time, Katy parted two stalks to step into the adjacent row in an attempt to throw off their pursuers.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Jett asked.

  “Yes,” Katy whispered. “Out of here.”

  “You think our chances will be any better in the open?”

  “We’ll be able to see them coming. At least they’re not ghosts, right?”

  Jett stopped behind her and Katy took a few more steps before turning. “That’s not funny,” Jett said.

  A goat must have heard her, because a frantic bleat pealed over the cornfield, and the rustling of hooves paused. The twilight grew eerily silent except for the scratchy whispers of stalks rubbing together.