Not yet, but soon.
Gone soon, he thought again, and stared up at the ceiling in the moonlit dark. Soon was close enough.
After a long ten minutes he rolled over. So quiet, he thought. The wind blew, rattling the window, but it didn’t scream or cry. Far off, a howl echoed faintly over the hills—most definitely Old Man Turner’s hound, and certainly not a wolf.
James rolled over on his other side, twisting beneath his blankets, then kicked them off in frustration. The night felt dull. His mind chased itself in circles.
He slipped out of bed and walked over to the window, wide awake even as midnight tolled downstairs on the grandfather clock. He looked out over the milky fields and sighed.
He raised his eyes farther. Beyond the fields, past the cornhusks, a place loomed where no moonlight had ever dared fall.
Tonight, however, the hollow was bathed in faint silver light that softened its shadows and reflected the great steel shovels poised on the brink of its earthen skin. James stared at it for a long time, breath even and calm, face warm against the cool windowpane. Then, bored and confused, he returned to bed.
Two long hours later he sat up with a start, still wide awake, a recent voice now replaying in his mind as a surprising truth: Grownups ruin everything…
Shortly thereafter, had anyone been looking, they would have seen a small figure in red checkered pajamas running across the darkened fields.
* * * * *
“Cut clean through, every one!”
Ed Graybill nodded his head, confident in the truth of his story. “All the gas lines, all the brake lines. All the tires slashed, too. And sugar in all the tanks! Pete Gifford is pissed!”
Excited murmurs rose and fell around the red picnic table.
Brian Lumley took up Ed’s torch. “They say Heinz Construction’s gonna walk. The job’s off, at least ‘til spring. The hollow’s not going anywhere for now.”
There was a long pause. No one spoke.
Then, hesitantly, someone piped in, “I heard there’s a madman who lives in there, way back in a hidden cave. He escaped from an asylum back in the fifties, an’—”
Later that night a storm rolled through town and across the distant farms. The wind shrieked. Distant trees moaned. A wolf howled.
And under his bed, scared to death, James Holt shivered, smiling a jack o’ lantern grin.
About the Author
Gregory Miller was born in State College, Pennsylvania in 1978. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in a number of national publications. His first novel, Big Cicadas, was published in 2003 and his first collection of poetry, Four Autumns, in 2005. In 2004 he served as a freelance consultant for Houghton Mifflin’s The Lord of the Rings online curriculum guide. A high school English teacher, he currently lives in Pittsburgh with his wife, Vera, and son, Samuel.
About the Illustrator
John Randall York was born in Texas and grew up playing and working in a small zoo where his father was the director. He loves ghost stories, old horror movies and illustrations from the middle 20th century. He also enjoys writing songs and playing guitar. John has designed giftware for S & D Limoges, Lenox China, The Hamilton Collection, Fitz&Floyd, and Faroy. His artwork is available on his website, www.johnrandallyork.com. Scaring the Crows: 21 Tales for Noon or Midnight is his first adventure in book illustration. He currently lives in Tyler, Texas with his wife and three cats.
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