Short Stories

Father Scarecrow

TW: Horror, slight gore

Ok, it's time that I finally started this journal. Dr. Victor said that a good way to cope with what happened to me is to write it out in a journal. I'm very grateful for him, even if he doesn't believe a word I say. Not that I blame him. If I heard someone else say this to me, I probably would think that they were completely crazy. Hell, the only reason I know I'm not crazy is because of the scars I have. But I'm stalling. I should start.

It happened a few months ago. I was babysitting these two kids: Noah and Lucas were their names, I think. Really sweet kids. Anyway, the three of us were sitting on the floor of the living room, coloring with crayons. I still remember what I was drawing, a cow. Weird that your brain remembers such specific details. I remember seeing the two boys gigging and drawing on the same piece of paper. I leaned over, trying to get a peek. It was a picture of a scarecrow looking in a window. I tilted my head, confused. Scarecrows were kinda taboo at the time because of the disappearances that had been going around at the time. People in town were just...disappearing without a trace. All that remained was a scarecrow in their place that held an eerie resemblance to the missing person, and a dead crow, stuffed with straw. Ugh, it makes me sick to even think about it, especially after what happened.

"What'cha drawing?" I asked. The two boys giggled.

"Mr. Patches! He's our friend!"Noah said. Lucas nodded in agreement. I nodded.

"I don't think I've ever met him. Is he imaginary?" I called.

"Nope! He's real!" Lucas laughed. I frowned and looked away.

"Boys, please promise me that you won't go talking to him," I said. I could practically hear the frown in Lucas's voice.

"But why? He's really nice, and he brings us candy!" he said. I whipped around and stared at them.

"Please, think, has he ever come off as...odd to you two?" I asked. The boys looked at each other.

"Well, he did say to not tell mommy and daddy about him," Lucas said. I raised an eyebrow.

"And don't you think that's a bit weird?" I pushed.

"Yeah..." They said, looking down.

The next few minutes were rather uneventful, I just got the boys ready for and into bed, and sat down on the couch, quickly texting my dad the updates. He promised he could get me out of there the second that the boy's parents came home. Then I saw it. Two little scarecrows were sitting on the porch, each bearing an uncanny resemblance to the two boys. I stood up. That serial killer was targeting the boys. I grabbed my cell and called 911. They said they would be over in five minutes. That was too much time.

In a blank slate of panic, I grabbed the poker by the fireplace and ran upstairs to the boys' room, flinging the door open. I saw two figures, dressed in black and with what looked to be burlap sacks over their heads. I charged one with the poker and managed to break through the skin. The person let out an inhuman cry, and fell backward, trying to nurse its wound. The other figure jumped on me before I could react, and pinned me to the floor by my throat. I felt the oxygen slowly leave my body, as I realized I would die here. I heard a third figure enter the room and began barking orders at the other two. One of them, the one I had stabbed, ran downstairs. To be honest, I was way too woozy to understand too much of what was going on. The next big thing I could really remember happening was hearing a rattle of pills and seeing the other person holding the bottle of my medication I had in my backpack downstairs. That's when it hit me: these people weren't going to kill me, they were going to take me somewhere, and they knew enough about me to bring my medication along so I wouldn't miss my daily dose. Pure, primal fear took over my body, and I began to thrash and scream, trying anything to get this person off of me. I heard the third person say something. And the person holding me slammed my head against the wooden floor, and I blacked out.