The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight

by R. L. Stine

  I scolded myself for acting so crazy.

  Stop thinking about scarecrows, I told myself. Stanley was right. The scarecrows had moved in the wind last night.

  It was just the wind.

  Stanley took us fishing later that morning. As we started off for the creek, he seemed in a really cheerful mood.

  He smiled as he swung the big picnic basket Grandma Miriam had packed for our lunch. “She put in all my favorites,” Stanley said happily.

  He patted the basket with childish satisfaction.

  He had three bamboo fishing poles tucked under his left arm. He carried the big straw basket in his right hand. He refused to let Mark and me carry anything.

  The warm air smelled sweet. The sun beamed down in a cloudless blue sky. Blades of recently cut grass stuck to my white sneakers as we headed across the backyard.

  The medicine had helped. My eyes were much better.

  Stanley turned just past the barn and began walking quickly along its back wall. His expression turned solemn. He appeared to be concentrating hard on something.

  “Hey — where are we going?” I called, hurrying to keep up with him.

  He didn’t seem to hear me. Taking long strides, swinging the straw picnic basket as he walked, he headed back in the direction we started from.

  “Hey — wait up!” Mark called breathlessly. My brother hates to hurry when he can take his time.

  “Stanley — wait!” I cried, tugging his shirt-sleeve. “We’re going around in circles!”

  He nodded, his expression serious under the black baseball cap. “We have to circle the barn three times,” he said in a low voice.

  “Huh? Why?” I demanded.

  We started our second turn around the barn.

  “It will bring us good luck with our fishing,” Stanley replied. Then he added, “It’s in the book. Everything is in the book.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him this was really silly. But I decided not to. He seemed so serious about that superstition book of his. I didn’t want to spoil it for him.

  Besides, Mark and I could use the exercise.

  A short while later, we finished circling and started walking along the dirt path that led past the cornfields to the creek. Stanley’s smile returned immediately.

  He really believes the superstitions in the book, I realized.

  I wondered if Sticks believed them, too.

  “Where’s Sticks?” I asked, kicking a big clump of dirt across the path.

  “Doing chores,” Stanley replied. “Sticks is a good worker. A real good worker. But he’ll be along soon, I bet. Sticks never likes to miss out on a fishing trip.”

  The sun began to feel really strong on my face and on my shoulders. I wondered if I should run back and get some sunblock.

  The dark-suited scarecrows appeared to stare at me as we walked past the tall rows of cornstalks. I could swear their dark painted faces turned to follow me as I went by.

  And did one of them lift its arm to wave a straw hand at me?

  I scolded myself for such stupid thoughts and turned my eyes away.

  Stop thinking about scarecrows, Jodie! I told myself.

  Forget your bad dream. Forget about the dumb scarecrows.

  It’s a beautiful day, and you have nothing to worry about. Try to relax and have a good time.

  The path led into tall pine woods behind the cornfields. It got shady and much cooler as soon as we stepped into the woods.

  “Can’t we take a taxi the rest of the way?” Mark whined. A typical Mark joke. He really would take a taxi if there was one!

  Stanley shook his head. “City kids,” he muttered, grinning.

  The path ended, and we continued through the trees. It smelled so piney and fresh in the woods. I saw a tiny brown-and-white chipmunk dart into a hollow log.

  In the near distance I could hear the musical trickle of the creek.

  Suddenly, Stanley stopped. He bent and picked up a pinecone.

  The three fishing poles fell to the ground. He didn’t seem to notice. He held the pinecone close to his face, studying it.

  “A pinecone on the shady side means a long winter,” he said, turning the dry cone in his hand.

  Mark and I bent to pick up the poles. “Is that what the book says?” Mark asked.

  Stanley nodded. He set the pinecone down carefully where he found it.

  “The cone is still sticky. That’s a good sign,” he said seriously.

  Mark let out a giggle. I knew he was trying not to laugh at Stanley. But the giggle escaped somehow.

  Stanley’s big brown eyes filled with hurt. “It’s all true, Mark,” he said quietly. “It’s all true.”

  “I — I’d like to read that book,” Mark said, glancing at me.

  “It’s a very hard book,” Stanley replied. “I have trouble with some of the words.”

  “I can hear the creek,” I broke in, changing the subject. “Let’s go. I want to catch some fish before lunchtime.”

  The clear water felt cold against my legs. The smooth rocks of the creek bed were slippery under my bare feet.

  All three of us had waded into the shallow creek. Mark had wanted to lie down on the grassy shore to fish. But I convinced him it was much more fun — and much easier to catch something — if you stand in the water.

  “Yeah, I’ll catch something,” he grumbled as he rolled up the cuffs of his jeans. “I’ll catch pneumonia!”

  Stanley let out a loud laugh. It sounded like “Har! Har! Har!”

  He set the big picnic basket down carefully on the dry grass. Then he rolled up the legs of his denim overalls. Carrying a pole high in one hand, he stepped into the water.

  “Ooooh! It’s cold!” he cried, waving his arms above his head, nearly losing his balance on the slippery rocks.

  “Stanley — didn’t you forget something?” I called to him.

  He turned, confused. His big ears became bright red. “What did I forget, Jodie?”

  I pointed to his fishing pole. “How about some bait?” I called.

  He glanced at the empty hook on the end of his line. Then he made his way back to shore to get a worm to bait his hook.

  A few minutes later, all three of us were in the water. Mark complained at first about how cold it was and about how the rocks on the bottom hurt his delicate little feet.

  But after a while, he got into it, too.

  The creek at this point was only about two feet deep. The water was very clear and trickled rapidly, making little swirls and dips over the rocky bottom.

  I lowered my line into the water and watched the red plastic float bob on the surface. If it started to sink, I’d know I had a bite.

  The sun felt warm on my face. The cool water flowed past pleasantly.

  I wish it were deep enough to swim here, I thought.

  “Hey — I’ve got something!” Mark cried excitedly.

  Stanley and I turned and watched him tug up his line.

  Mark pulled with all his might. “It — it’s a big one, I think,” he said.

  Finally, he gave one last really hard tug — and pulled up a thick clump of green weeds.

  “Good one, Mark,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s a big one, all right.”

  “You’re a big one,” Mark shot back. “A big jerk.”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” I muttered.

  I brushed away a buzzing horsefly and tried to concentrate on my line. But my mind started to wander. It always does when I’m fishing.

  I found myself thinking about the tall scarecrows in the field. They stood so darkly, so menacingly, so alert. Their painted faces all had the same hard stare.

  I was still picturing them when I felt the hand slip around my ankle.

  The straw scarecrow hand.

  It reached up from the water, circled my ankle, and started to tighten its cold, wet grip around my leg.

  8

  I screamed and tried to kick the hand away.

  But my feet slipped on the s
mooth rocks. My hands shot up as I toppled backwards.

  “Ohh!” I cried out again as I hit the water.

  The scarecrow hung on.

  On my back, the water rushing over me, I kicked and thrashed my arms.

  And then I saw it. The clump of green weeds that had wrapped itself around my ankle.

  “Oh, no,” I moaned out loud.

  No scarecrow. Only weeds.

  I lowered my foot to the water. I didn’t move. I just lay there on my back, waiting for my heart to stop pounding, feeling once again like a total jerk.

  I glanced up at Mark and Stanley. They were staring down at me, too startled to laugh.

  “Don’t say a word,” I warned them, struggling to my feet. “I’m warning you — don’t say a word.”

  Mark snickered, but he obediently didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t bring a towel,” Stanley said with concern. “I’m sorry, Jodie, I didn’t know you wanted to swim.”

  That made Mark burst out in loud guffaws.

  I shot Mark a warning stare. My T-shirt and shorts were soaked. I started to shore, carrying the pole awkwardly in front of me.

  “I don’t need a towel,” I told Stanley. “It feels good. Very refreshing.”

  “You scared away all the fish, Jodie,” Mark complained.

  “No. You scared them away. They saw your face!” I replied. I knew I was acting like a baby now. But I didn’t care. I was cold and wet and angry.

  I stomped onto the shore, shaking water from my hair.

  “I think they’re biting better down here,” I heard Stanley call to Mark. I turned to see him disappear around a curve of the creek.

  Stepping carefully over the rocks, Mark followed after him. They were both hidden from view behind the thick trees.

  I squeezed my hair, trying to get the creek water out. Finally, I gave up and tossed my hair behind my shoulder.

  I was debating what to do next when I heard a crackling sound in the woods.

  A footstep?

  I turned and stared into the trees. I didn’t see anyone.

  Another chipmunk scurried away over the blanket of dead brown leaves. Had someone — or something — frightened the chipmunk?

  I listened hard. Another crackling footstep. Rustling sounds.

  “Who — who’s there?” I called.

  The low bushes rustled in reply.

  “Sticks — is that you? Sticks?” My voice trembled.

  No reply.

  It has to be Sticks, I told myself. This is Grandpa Kurt’s property. No one else would be back here.

  “Sticks — stop trying to scare me!” I shouted angrily.

  No reply.

  Another footstep. The crack of a twig. More rustling sounds. Closer now. “Sticks — I know it’s you!” I called uncertainly. “I’m really tired of your dumb tricks. Sticks?” My eyes stared straight ahead into the trees. I listened. Silence now. Heavy silence.

  And then I raised my hand to my mouth as I saw the dark figure poke out from the shade of two tall pines.

  “Sticks?”

  I squinted into the deep blue shadows.

  I saw the bulging dark coat. The faded burlap head. The dark fedora hat tilted over the black-painted eyes.

  I saw the straw poking out under the jacket. The straw sticking out from the long jacket sleeves.

  A scarecrow.

  A scarecrow that had followed us? Followed us to the creek?

  Squinting hard into the shadows, staring at its evil, frozen grin, I opened my mouth to scream — but no sound came out.

  9

  And then a hand grabbed my shoulder.

  “Ohh!” I let out a cry and spun around.

  Stanley stared at me with concern. He and Mark had come up behind me.

  “Jodie, what’s the matter?” Stanley asked. “Mark and I — we thought we heard you calling.”

  “What’s up?” Mark asked casually. The line on his fishing pole had become tangled, and he was working to untangle it. “Did you see a squirrel or something?”

  “No — I — I —” My heart was pounding so hard, I could barely speak.

  “Cool your jets, Jodie,” Mark said, imitating me.

  “I saw a scarecrow!” I finally managed to scream.

  Stanley’s mouth dropped open. Mark narrowed his eyes suspiciously at me. “A scarecrow? Here in the woods?”

  “It — it was walking,” I stammered. “I heard it. I heard it walking.”

  A choking sound escaped Stanley’s open mouth.

  Mark continued to stare at me, his features tight with fear. “It’s over there!” I cried. “Right there! Look!” I pointed. But it was gone.

  10

  Stanley stared hard at me, his big brown eyes filled with confusion.

  “I saw it,” I insisted. “Between those two trees.” I pointed again.

  “You did? A scarecrow? Really?” Stanley asked. I could see he was really starting to get scared.

  “Well … maybe it was just the shadows,” I said. I didn’t want to frighten Stanley.

  I shivered. “I’m soaked. I’ve got to get back in the sunlight,” I told them.

  “But did you see it?” Stanley asked, his big eyes locked on mine. “Did you see a scarecrow here, Jodie?”

  “I — I don’t think so, Stanley,” I replied, trying to calm him down. “I’m sorry.”

  “This is very bad,” he murmured, talking to himself. “This is very bad. I have to read the book. This is very bad.” Then, muttering to himself, he turned and ran.

  “Stanley — stop!” I called. “Stanley, come back! Don’t leave us down here!”

  But he was gone. Vanished into the woods.

  “I’m going after him,” I told Mark. “And then I’m going to tell Grandpa Kurt about this. Can you carry back the fishing poles by yourself?”

  “Do I have to?” Mark whined. My brother is so lazy!

  I told him he had to. Then I went running along the path through the woods toward the farmhouse.

  My heart pounded as I reached the cornfields. The dark-coated scarecrows appeared to stare at me. As my sneakers thudded on the narrow dirt path, I imagined the straw arms reaching for me, reaching to grab me and pull me into the corn.

  But the scarecrows kept their silent, still watch over the cornstalks. They didn’t move or twitch as I hurtled past.

  Up ahead I saw Stanley running to his little house. I cupped my hands over my mouth and called to him, but he disappeared inside.

  I decided to find Grandpa Kurt and tell him about the scarecrow I saw moving through the woods.

  The barn door was open, and I thought I saw someone moving around inside. “Grandpa Kurt?” I called breathlessly. “Are you in there?”

  My wet hair bounced on my shoulders as I ran into the barn. I stood in the rectangle of light that stretched from the doorway and stared into the darkness. “Grandpa Kurt?” I called, struggling to catch my breath.

  My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. I stepped deeper into the barn. “Grandpa Kurt?” Are you here?”

  Hearing a soft scraping sound against the far wall, I made my way toward it. “Grandpa Kurt — can I talk to you? I really need to talk to you!” My voice sounded tiny and frightened in the big dark barn. My sneakers scraped over the dry straw floor as I walked toward the back.

  I spun around as I heard a rumbling sound.

  The light grew dimmer.

  “Hey!” I shouted. Too late.

  The barn door was sliding shut.

  “Hey! Who’s there?” I cried out in stunned anger. “Hey — stop!”

  I slipped over the straw as I started to lurch toward the sliding door. I fell down hard but quickly scrambled to my feet.

  I darted toward the door. But I wasn’t fast enough.

  As the heavy door rumbled shut, the rectangle of light grew narrower, narrower.

  The door slammed with a deafening bang.

  The darkness slid around me, circled me, covered me.r />
  “Hey — let me out!” I screamed. “Let me out of here!”

  My scream ended in a choked sob. My breath escaped in noisy gasps.

  I pounded on the wooden barn door with both fists. Then I frantically swept my hands over the door, searching blindly for a latch, for something to pull — some way to open the door.

  When I couldn’t find anything, I pounded on the door until my fists hurt.

  Then I stopped and took a step back.

  Calm down, Jodie, I told myself. Calm down. You’ll get out of the barn. You’ll find a way out. It’s not like you’re trapped in here forever.

  I tried to force away my panic. I held my breath, waiting for my heart to stop racing. Then I let my breath out slowly. Slooooowly.

  I was just starting to feel a little better when I heard the scraping sound.

  A dry scraping. The sound of a shoe crunching over straw.

  “Oh!” I let out a sharp cry, then raised both hands to my face and listened.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  The sound of footsteps. Slow, steady footsteps, so light on the barn floor.

  Footsteps coming toward me in the darkness.

  11

  “Who — who’s there?” I choked out, my voice a hushed whisper. No reply.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  The soft, scratchy footsteps came closer.

  “Who is it?” I cried shrilly.

  No reply.

  I stared into the darkness. I couldn’t see a thing.

  Scrape. Scrape.

  Whoever — or whatever — was moving steadily toward me.

  I took a step back. Then another.

  I tried to cry out, but my throat was choked with fear.

  I let out a terrified gasp as I backed into something. In my panic, it took me a few seconds to realize that it was only a wooden ladder. The ladder that led up to the hayloft.

  The footsteps crunched closer. Closer.

  “Please —” I uttered in a tiny, choked voice. “Please — don’t —”

  Closer. Closer. Scraping toward me through the heavy darkness.

  I gripped the sides of the ladder. “Please — leave me alone!”

  Before I realized what I was doing, I was pulling myself up the ladder. My arms trembled, and my legs felt as if they each weighed a thousand pounds.