Scarecrow

Chapter 6

Donnelly leaves through the back door, unknowingly taking the exact same route Walt's murderer walked two months ago. The moon is a milky disk obscured by clouds above the ever-rising sea of corn, and he must pick his way around the taller stalks to reach the storage shed.

"Jesus..." The lock has been broken prior to his arrival, a detail he takes note of for later.

The interior of the barn is as dark as it was when Lewis broke in, but Donnelly requires no flashlight to see his way, for he knows every inch of his property like the back of his hand. Perhaps the only object in his way he does not account for as he crosses the darkened barn is the scarecrow, his old friend Mr. Straw, hanging precariously from its rope lashed to the rotting rafter. The straw man is but a harmless shape in the gloom that he must pass under to reach the toolbox, its burlap face watching him without truly seeing at all. Aside from having to squeeze his bulk through a particularly thin space between a tractor and a scythe leaning against the wall, he experiences no other setbacks until he reaches the box. The old lid is cracked ever so slightly; the sickle's final resting place has definitely been recently disturbed.

He roots through the box in vain, never once noticing the leaden silence that has befallen the normally creaky and shifting storage barn, a silence so still, so finite, that it seems even the corn stalks outside have stopped their incessant rustling to listen in, unsettled with the knowledge that something bad, something wicked, is about to occur.

A rough thump in the rafters high above him makes him snap around, suddenly alert. A part of his brain, that irrational corner of the mind that exists in us all, can see the faceless murderer still lurking in the darkness, waiting for its next foolish victim to stray into its wooden realm. But it's just a crow, a big, ugly specimen, picking for food between some loose shingles. Donnelly snorts and turns back to his work. The crow's beady little eyes, painted like glossy marbles into its black face, settle on something much tastier than the odd worm; Mr. Straw's support post, eroded by a particularly vibrant strain of bio-fungus and a family of fat, juicy termites. The rafter it hangs by is not too far away, and the bird lands upon it to promptly begin pecking impishly at the tasty bugs. Each strike of its sharp beak slowly dislodges a rotting cross that has not been moved in 25 years, ever since Donnelly himself hung it up and out of sight in order to banish the image of the scarecrow in his father's clothes. The cross, and the straw martyr tied to it, are suspended directly above the farmer's oblivious head.

Twenty feet below it, Donnelly has just about given up on finding any traces of the sickle when that damn thumping noise starts up again, louder this time, followed by the mournful groaning of old wood. Cursing colorfully, and deciding inwardly that it is within his rights as a citizen of the United States to empty his shotgun into every crow's nest this side of Beauty– a man can't do a damn thing anymore without one of the abominations swooping in– Donnelly peers up and into the inky darkness, struggling to make out something, anything, in the gloom. Thinking fast, he reaches into the tool box and pulls out a rubber mallet. Should he spot the crow, he's going to do his best to remind it of its place on the chain of evolution. It's no shotgun, but it will suffice.

The bird, knowing none of this, goes right on with its feast, and it is just when Donnelly is drawing the hammer from its chest does the beast's beak dislodge the scarecrow's support post with a final, innocent poke.

The withered twine finally snaps, sending the scarecrow hurtling down to its owner in a sudden explosion of dust and wooden shrapnel. Jim Donnelly barely has enough time to cry in surprise before the creature of his childhood nightmares slams into him with its straw embrace.

Pain is what draws him back to consciousness, pain in his arms, chest, and head. Donnelly opens his eyes to come face-to-face with Mr. Straw, the scarecrow's blank face contorted in his awakening vision to form a grinning mouth of stitched-on burlap. He kicks out at the straw man with a little cry of horror, but it does not budge. He realizes very suddenly that if the scarecrow's soft body had not cushioned him from its wooden crucifix, he would surely be dead. Strange time to count his blessings, but he does it happily.
Given hope by the feeling of relative freedom of his legs and waist, Donnelly then tries to move his arms, but finds quickly that he cannot. Upon closer inspection, he sees that Mr. Straw is weighing heavily down upon his torso and arms. No serious damage seems to have befallen him, but the straw man's cross is heavy enough that he cannot lift it on his own. This is, to say the least, not good. Not good at all.