[Goosebumps 20] - The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight

by R. L. Stine

  “But the straw itches!” he cried.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I told him. I grabbed his shoulders. “Stand still. Don’t move.”

  “Why do I need straw?” he whined.

  “Mark, you have to look like all the other scarecrows,” I told him. “Otherwise, Sticks won’t be fooled.”

  I stuffed the burlap face with straw. Then I held up the old overcoat for Mark to put on.

  “I can’t do this!” he wailed. “I’m going to itch to death! I can’t breathe!”

  “You can breathe perfectly fine,” I told him. I stuffed straw into the sleeves. I was careful to let clumps of straw hang from the cuffs, covering Mark’s hands. Then I stuffed more straw into the jacket.

  “Will you stand still?” I whispered angrily. “This is a lot of hard work—you know?”

  He grumbled in a low voice to himself as I continued to work.

  “Just keep thinking how great it’ll be when Sticks sees you and thinks you’re a scarecrow that’s really coming to life,” I said.

  I had straw stuck to my hands, straw all down the front of my sweatshirt and jeans. I sneezed. Once. Twice. I’m definitely allergic to the stuff.

  But I didn’t care. I was so excited. I couldn’t wait to see Sticks’ terrified face. I couldn’t wait to pay him back for trying to frighten us all week.

  “I need a hat,” Mark said. He was standing stiffly, afraid to move under all the straw.

  “Hmmmm.” I thought hard. There weren’t any hats in the barn with the other scarecrow supplies. “We’ll just take one off a real scarecrow,” I told Mark.

  I stepped back to see my handiwork. Mark looked pretty good. But he still needed more straw. I set to work, stuffing him, making the old coat bulge.

  “Now don’t forget to stand straight and stiff, with your arms straight out,” I instructed.

  “Do I have a choice?” Mark complained. “I—I can’t move at all!”

  “Good,” I said. I arranged the straw that stuck out of his sleeves, then stepped back. “Okay. You’re ready,” I told him.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Like a short scarecrow,” I told him.

  “I’m too short?” he replied.

  “Don’t worry, Mark,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I’m going to stick you up on a pole!”

  “Huh?”

  I laughed. “Gotcha,” I muttered. “I’m kidding.” I started to lead him to the cornfields.

  “Think this is going to work?” Mark asked, walking stiffly. “Think we’re really going to scare Sticks?”

  I nodded. An evil grin spread over my face. “I think so,” I told my brother. “I think Sticks is in for a terrifying surprise.”

  Little did I know that we all were!

  21

  I gripped Mark’s arm with both hands and led him to the cornfields. The bright moon bathed us in white light. The tall cornstalks shivered in a light breeze.

  Mark looked so much like a scarecrow, it was scary. Tufts of straw stuck out at his neck and the cuffs of his coat. The enormous old coat hung loosely over his shoulders and came down nearly to his knees.

  We stepped into the field. Our sneakers crunched over the dry ground as we edged through a narrow row.

  The cornstalks rose above our heads. The breeze made them lean over us, as if trying to close us in.

  I let out a gasp as I heard a rustling sound along the ground.

  Footsteps?

  Mark and I both froze. And listened.

  The tall stalks bent low as the wind picked up. They made an eerie creaking sound as they moved. The ripe corn sheaths bobbed heavily.

  Creeeeak. Creeeeak.

  The stalks shifted back and forth.

  Then we heard the rustling again. A soft brushing sound.

  Very nearby.

  “Ow. Let go!” Mark whispered.

  I suddenly realized I was still gripping his arm, squeezing it tightly.

  I let go. And listened. “Do you hear it?” I whispered to Mark. “That brushing sound?”

  Creeeeak. Creeeeak.

  The cornstalks leaned over us, shifting in the wind.

  A twig cracked. So nearby, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  I held my breath. My heart was racing.

  Another soft rustling sound. I stared down at the ground, trying to follow the sound.

  “Oh.”

  A large gray squirrel scampered across the row and disappeared between the stalks.

  I burst out laughing, mostly from relief. “Just a squirrel,” I said. “Do you believe it? Just a squirrel!”

  Mark let out a long, relieved sigh from under the burlap bag. “Jodie, can we get going?” he demanded impatiently. “This thing itches like crazy!”

  He raised both hands and tried to scratch his face through the bag. But I quickly tugged his arms down. “Mark—stop. You’ll mess up the straw!”

  “But my face feels like a hundred bugs are crawling all over it!” he wailed. “And I can’t see. You didn’t cut the eyeholes big enough.”

  “Just follow me,” I muttered. “And stop complaining. You want to scare Sticks, don’t you?”

  Mark didn’t reply. But he let me lead him deeper into the cornfield.

  Suddenly, a black shadow fell over our path.

  I let out a sharp gasp before I realized it was the long shadow of a scarecrow.

  “How do you do,” I said, reaching out and shaking its straw hand. “May I borrow your hat?”

  I reached up and pulled the brown, floppy hat off the burlap head. Then I lowered it over Mark’s burlap head and pulled it down tight.

  “Hey—!” Mark protested.

  “I don’t want it to fall off,” I told him.

  “I’m never going to stop itching!” Mark whined. “Can you scratch my back? Please? My whole back is itching!”

  I gave the back of the old coat a few hard rubs. “Turn around,” I instructed him. I gave him a final inspection.

  Excellent. He looked more like a scarecrow than the scarecrows did.

  “Stand right here,” I told him, moving him into a small clearing between two rows of cornstalks. “Good. Now when you hear me bringing Sticks over, put your arms straight out. And don’t move a muscle.”

  “I know, I know,” Mark grumbled. “Think I don’t know how to be a scarecrow? Just hurry—okay?”

  “Okay,” I told him. I turned and made my way quickly along the shifting rows of cornstalks. Dry straw and leaves crackled beneath my sneakers.

  I was breathing hard by the time I reached the guest house. The doorway was dark. But an orange light glowed dimly behind the pulled shade in the window.

  I hesitated at the doorway and listened. Silence inside.

  How was I going to get Sticks to come out alone—without his father?

  I didn’t want to frighten Stanley. He was a really nice man, who would never think of playing mean jokes on Mark and me. And I knew how scared and upset he could get.

  I only wanted to frighten Sticks. To teach him a lesson. To teach him he had no business getting on our case just because Mark and I are “city kids”.

  The wind fluttered through my hair. I could hear the cornstalks creaking behind me in the fields.

  I shivered.

  Taking a deep breath, I raised my fist to knock on the door.

  But a sound behind me made me spin around.

  “Hey—!” I choked out.

  Someone was moving across the grass, half running, half stumbling. My eyes were all watery. It was hard to see.

  Was it Mark?

  Yes. I recognized the floppy hat, the bulky, dark overcoat falling down past his knees.

  What is he doing? I asked myself, watching him approach.

  Why is he following me?

  He’s going to ruin the whole joke!

  As he came closer, he raised a straw hand as if pointing at me.

  “Mark—what’s wrong?” I called in a loud whisper.

  He continue
d to gesture with his straw hand as he ran.

  “Mark—get back in the field!” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to follow me. You’re going to ruin everything! Mark—what are you doing here?”

  I motioned with both hands for him to go back to the cornfield.

  But he ignored me and kept coming, trailing straw as he ran.

  “Mark, please—go back! Go back!” I pleaded.

  But he stepped up in front of me and grabbed my shoulders.

  And as I stared into the cold, painted black eyes—I realized to my horror that it wasn’t Mark!

  22

  I cried out and tried to pull away.

  But the scarecrow held on to me tightly.

  “Sticks—is that you?” I cried in a trembling voice.

  No reply.

  I stared into the blank, painted eyes.

  And realized there were no human eyes behind them.

  The straw hands scratched against my throat.

  I opened my mouth to scream.

  And the door to the guest house swung open. “Sticks—” I managed to choke out.

  Sticks stepped out onto the small stoop. “What on earth—!” he cried.

  He leaped off the stoop, grabbed the scarecrow by the coat shoulders—and heaved it to the ground.

  The scarecrow hit the ground without making a sound. It lay sprawled on its back, staring up at us blankly.

  “Who—who is it?” I cried, rubbing my neck where the straw hands had scratched it.

  Sticks bent down and jerked away the burlap scarecrow head.

  Nothing underneath. Nothing but straw.

  “It—it really is a scarecrow!” I cried in horror. “But it—walked!”

  “I warned you,” Sticks said solemnly, staring down at the headless dark figure. “I warned you, Jodie.”

  “You mean it wasn’t you?” I demanded. “It wasn’t you trying to scare Mark and me?”

  Sticks shook his head. He raised his dark eyes to mine. “Dad brought the scarecrows to life,” he said softly. “Last week. Before you came. He used his book. He chanted some words—and they all came to life.”

  “Oh, no,” I murmured, raising my hands to my face.

  “We were all so frightened,” Sticks continued. “Especially your grandparents. They begged Dad to recite the words and put the scarecrows back to sleep.”

  “Did he?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Sticks replied. “He put them back to sleep. But first he insisted your grandparents make some promises. They had to promise not to laugh at him anymore. And they had to promise to do everything he wanted from now on.”

  Sticks took a deep breath. He stared toward the guest house window. “Haven’t you noticed how different things are at the farm? Haven’t you noticed how frightened your grandparents are?”

  I nodded solemnly. “Of course I have.”

  “They’ve been trying to keep Dad happy,” Sticks continued. “They’ve been doing everything they can to keep him from getting upset or angry. Your grandmother fixes only his favorite food. Your grandfather stopped telling scary stories because Dad doesn’t like them.”

  I shook my head. “They’re that afraid of Stanley?”

  “They’re afraid he’ll read the chant in the book again and bring the scarecrows back to life,” Sticks said. He swallowed hard. “There’s only one problem,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, I haven’t told Dad yet. But…” His voice trailed off.

  “But what?” I demanded eagerly.

  “Some of the scarecrows are still alive,” Sticks replied. “Some of them never went back to sleep.”

  23

  We both let out short cries as the front door to the house swung open.

  Startled, I leaped away from the doorway.

  As the door pulled open, it revealed a rectangle of orange light. Stanley stepped into the light.

  He held on to the door and peered out. His eyes showed surprise as they landed on Sticks and me. But then he goggled and uttered a choking sound as he spotted the headless scarecrow on the ground.

  “N-no!” Stanley sputtered. He pointed a trembling finger at the scarecrow. “It—it walks! The scarecrow walks!”

  “No, Dad—!” Sticks cried.

  But Stanley didn’t hear him. Stanley had already dived back into the house.

  Sticks started after him. But Stanley reappeared in the doorway. As he stepped outside, I saw that he was carrying the big superstition book.

  “The scarecrows walk!” Stanley screamed. “I must take charge! I must take charge of them all now!”

  His eyes were wild. His entire skinny body was trembling. He started toward the cornfields, totally crazy. Sticks tried to calm him down.

  “No, Dad!” Sticks cried desperately, hurrying after him. “The scarecrow was dropped here! I dropped it here, Dad! It didn’t walk! It didn’t walk!”

  Stanley kept walking, taking long, rapid strides. He didn’t seem to hear Sticks. “I must take charge now!” Stanley declared. “I must be the leader. I will bring the others back to life and take control.”

  He turned and glanced at Sticks, who was hurrying to catch up to him. “Stay back!” Stanley shouted. “Stay back—until I read the chant! Then you can follow!”

  “Dad—please listen to me!” Sticks cried. “The scarecrows are all asleep! Don’t wake them!”

  Stanley finally stopped a few yards from the edge of the cornfields. He turned to Sticks and studied his face. “You’re sure? You’re sure they’re not out of my control? You’re sure they’re not walking?”

  Sticks nodded. “Yes. I’m sure, Dad. I’m really sure.”

  Stanley’s face filled with confusion. He kept staring hard at Sticks, as if not believing him. “I don’t have to read the chant?” Stanley asked, confused, his eyes on the swaying cornstalks. “I don’t have to take charge?”

  “No, Dad,” Sticks replied softly. “The scarecrows are all still. You can put the book away. The scarecrows are not moving.”

  Stanley sighed with relief. He lowered the book to his side. “None of them?” he asked warily.

  “None of them,” Sticks replied soothingly.

  And that’s when Mark—in full scarecrow costume—decided to come staggering out of the cornfield.

  24

  “Where’ve you been?” Mark called.

  Stanley’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth in a high shriek of terror.

  “Dad, please—!” Sticks pleaded.

  Too late.

  Stanley took off, heading into the cornfields, the big book raised high in front of him. “The scarecrows walk! They walk!” he cried.

  Mark tucked at the burlap bag face. “Did we blow it?” he called. “Is the joke over? What’s happening?”

  There was no time to answer him.

  Sticks turned to me, his features tight with fear. “We’ve got to stop Dad!” he cried. He started running to the swaying cornstalks.

  Stanley had already disappeared between the tall rows of corn.

  My allergies were really bad. I kept rubbing my eyes, trying to clear them. But as I followed Sticks, everything was a shimmering blur of grays and blacks.

  “Ow!” I cried out as I stumbled in a soft hole and fell.

  Mark, right behind me, nearly toppled over me.

  He reached down and helped pull me up. I had landed hard on both knees, and they were throbbing with pain.

  “Which way did they go?” I asked breathlessly, searching the dark, swaying rows of creaking cornstalks.

  “I—I’m not sure!” Mark stammered. “What’s going on, Jodie? Tell me!”

  “Not now!” I told him. “We have to stop Stanley. We have to—”

  Stanley’s voice, high and excited, rose up from somewhere nearby. Mark and I both froze as we listened to the strange words he was chanting.

  “Is he reading something from that weird book?” Mark demanded.

  Without answering, I heade
d in the direction of Stanley’s voice. It was easy to follow him. He was chanting the strange words at the top of his lungs.

  Where was Sticks? I wondered.

  Why hadn’t Sticks been able to stop his father?

  I pushed frantically through the tall stalks. I was moving blindly, my eyes watered over, brushing the stalks out of the way with both hands.

  In a small clearing, I found Stanley and Sticks. They were standing in front of two scarecrows on poles.

  Stanley held the book up close to his face as he chanted, moving his finger over the words.

  Sticks stood frozen, a blank expression on his face, a face of cold terror.

  Had the words of the chant somehow frozen him there like that?

  The scarecrows stood stiffly on their poles, their painted eyes staring lifelessly out from under their floppy black hats.

  Mark and I stepped into the clearing just as Stanley finished his chant. He slammed the big book shut and tucked it under one arm.

  “They’re going to walk now!” Stanley cried excitedly. “They’re going to come alive again!”

  Sticks suddenly seemed to come back to life. He blinked several times and shook his head hard, as if trying to clear it.

  We all stared at the two scarecrows.

  They stared back at us, lifeless, unmoving.

  The clouds floated away from the moon. The shadow over the cornfields rolled away.

  I stared into the eerie, pale light.

  A heavy silence descended over us. The only sounds I could hear were Stanley’s shallow breathing, tense gasps as he waited for his chant to work, for his scarecrows to come to life.

  I don’t know how long we stood there, none of us moving a muscle, watching the scarecrows. Watching. Watching.

  “It didn’t work,” Stanley moaned finally. His voice came out sad and low. “I did something wrong. The chant—it didn’t work.”

  A smile grew on Sticks’ face. He gazed at me. “It didn’t work!” Sticks exclaimed happily.

  And then I heard the scratch scratch scratch of dry straw.

  I saw the scarecrows’ shoulders start to twitch. I saw their eyes light up and their heads lean forward.

  Scratch scratch scratch.