Then she heard Mark, muffled by distance, calling their names. He’s inside the house!
“Dad!” Jett shouted, and she took off running wildly in the direction of his voice. She slapped at the corn, plowing through it.
Katy wanted to tell her to be quiet, but that would only make more noise. Before she could follow, Jett was already out of sight, lost in the darkness. But her passage was marked by the brittle snapping of stalks.
If I can hear her, so can the—
Without warning the two goats leapt in front of Katy, cutting off her path. Katy bit back a scream. One of the goats turned and lifted its snout in Jett’s direction.
No!
Then Katy let the scream pour forth, running in the opposite direction. She slowed until she was sure the goats were following, and they bleated their rage, closing fast behind her. She kept screaming as she ran, hoping to lure them all away from Jett.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
No one answered Mark’s shouts.
The house felt empty, as if it were just a stage that the actors had long abandoned. He ran up the stairs, kicking open doors, not giving a damn about property damage. He found Jett’s room—the sight of her stuff scattered around the room made his heart jump with longing—and made a quick search of the closet and under the bed. Then he tried the other room on the second floor, obviously the marital bedroom. His chest was shot through with a different kind of pain as he saw Katy’s sheer nightgown lying on top of the dresser beside Gordon’s folded trousers. He hurried back into the hall and dug his cell phone out of his pocket.
No bars.
He thundered back downstairs, calling for Katy and Jett once more, turning on lights as he entered the dining room. The table was set, dishes arranged as if company was expected for dinner. In the living room, he jerked to a halt. Someone was sitting in a chair.
“Hello?” he said, squinting into the gloom while fumbling for the light switch. The person didn’t move when the room exploded with light.
It wasn’t a person. It was some sort of life-sized doll or figure, wearing an old homespun dress, arms ending in dark work gloves. The thing’s “head” was sitting in its lap, a ball of white cloth with button eyes and a thin thread for a mouth.
Freaky as hell. As freaky as that scarecrow in the barn.
He didn’t want to make a connection between the man with the scythe who’d tried to cut his arm off and this headless female scarecrow. What if a sicko was running loose who liked to play dress-up? Perhaps Jett and Katy were already dead, their bodies chopped into pieces and fed bit by bit to those goddamned goats.
Mark wasn’t ready to give up, although his arm was throbbing. A craving for some kind of painkiller surged through him, but he pushed it aside. He was going to have to do this stone cold sober.
He looked in the hall closet for some kind of weapon, hoping Gordon was like most rural males and kept a firearm handy. No such luck. Not even a golf club for self-defense. But he did find a flashlight, which he shoved into his back pocket.
Then he spied the phone sitting on a little round table at the end of the hall. He picked up the receiver, but there was no dial tone. Like the female scarecrow’s head, he was cut off.
He went back out on the porch. Light from the windows illuminated the yard, but darkness encroached all around the house. He sensed more than saw the goats pressing restlessly against the fence.
Then he heard “Dad!” in the darkness.
Jett!
He jumped off the porch, nearly lost his balance as one of his ankles twisted, and began limping toward his daughter.
Then came the screams.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It took Jett a few seconds to realize Mom wasn’t behind her.
She’d assumed Mom would also run toward the house. Even though Jett was pretty sure they couldn’t count on Gordon to help them, at least Dad was on their side. With the three of them, they could kick these goats’ asses and figure out a way to get out of Solom alive.
A family. Getting through it together. Just like old times.
But when she heard Mom’s screams from the far side of the cornfield, she realized Mom must have been gotten turned around and become confused. She didn’t know whether to run back and help, or to continue running until she was out in the open where Dad could find her. At least she couldn’t hear any goats. The lights of the big farmhouse were visible through the swaying stalks, which meant she must be nearly out of the cornfield.
Get Dad, then help Mom. Two heads are better than one, right?
She took a step forward and the lighted squares of windows vanished, as if a large curtain had fallen over the house. Then she saw what stood before her.
The Scarecrow Man.
The large, curving blade of the scythe raised in silhouette against the lesser darkness of night. A muffled voice came from beneath the ragged straw hat. “The soil thirsts.”
Jett wasn’t sure what that meant, but she was pretty sure it had something to do with that blade and her blood. She jumped back as the scythe swept in an arc, chopping brittle stalks and sending leaves and chaff hurtling through the air. She felt the breeze of the metal as it passed inches from her belly.
Jett fled back the way she’d come, although she’d lost all sense of direction. It didn’t matter now. All she knew was that the blade and the Scarecrow Man were behind her, and as long as she kept running, she’d be okay. Even if it meant running forever.
She cursed her stupid little Goth boots with their big rubber heels as struggled to keep her balance amid the furrows. At least Mom had stopped screaming. Except that might not be a good sign.
That might mean she was already dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Katy’s ploy had worked, and the goats had followed her.
So many of the animals had gathered around her, their eyes glinting with the wet reflection of distant moonlight, that she figured the whole herd must have closed in. That was good. That meant Jett had a decent chance of escaping.
Except where is the Scarecrow Man? Why isn’t he with his goats?
And there was one other major problem with her plan: now that she was surrounded, she didn’t have a Plan B.
She backed up deeper into the corn, feeling around her in the dark. The earth was rich and fecund, moist with autumn and sweet with the impeding sleep of winter. This place had brought forth life, and now it was going to deliver death. Ashes to ashes, blood to mud.
She stumbled into the sagging stack of cloth and screamed, beating away as the cottony arms hugged her. The Scarecrow Man!
Then she felt something solid beneath it as she punched the straw-stuffed creature. Wood?
She froze and realized the scarecrow wasn’t trying to grab her. It was hanging limply from its pole, the wide-brimmed hat lowered over its hidden face.
I must be in the center of the cornfield. But who hung the scarecrow back up here?
She didn’t have time to worry about that now. She wrestled the scarecrow down from the pole and flung it to the ground, and then threw her weight against the pole. Once she worked it loose, she wriggled it back and forth until she was able to slide the tip from its hole in the ground. The goats were closing in again, snorting and sighing, confused by her burst of activity.
She freed the pole and tested its heft. It was about eight feet long and thick, weighing maybe fifteen pounds. She wouldn’t be able to swing it effectively amid the thick vegetation, but at least she felt better holding a weapon. She was about to test it on the nearest goat, which was approaching with his horns lowered, when she sensed movement behind her.
Jett? She couldn’t have gotten back here so fast.
And then she realized the scarecrow was standing.
Not just standing, but walking.
Toward her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Mark entered the cornfield, slapping at the stalks, cursing under his breath. His wrist and his ankle were competing to see which could send t
he most severe jolts of pain through his central nervous system, colliding in a wall of torture that was almost numbing. His throat was parched, and the thick dust in the air didn’t help. He croaked Jett’s name as he wandered in the direction of her voice.
When he heard Katy’s scream, he realized he had a choice to make. The maniac with the blade would probably not be able to kill both Katy and Jett if they were separated, at least not at the same time. All Mark had to do was distract the killer long enough for them to escape. It didn’t matter what happened to him. He’d made the selfish choice long enough, and they had suffered for it. Now it was his turn to suffer.
But he wouldn’t do Katy much good if he was a hundred yards away from her. He yanked the flashlight from his pocket and switched it on. The beam would ruin his element of surprise, but considering the racket he was making by limping and staggering around, that wasn’t much of a loss. And maybe the light would distract the killer and make him come after Mark instead.
“Dad?” Jett called, somewhere to his right, but not too far away. Maybe forty yards.
“Be quiet, honey,” Mark shouted. “He’ll hear you.”
“Yes, I will,” said the blob of darkness just in front of him, and the Scarecrow Man swung the blade.
It struck Mark high in the shoulder, cleaving flesh and knocking into bone. The flashlight flew from his hand and cast a crazy yellow etching against the sky as it tumbled. Blood rolled down his back and arm, its warmth palpable in the cool night. He could smell his own steam as he dropped to the dirt.
His vision went gray and the pain was so deep and bright and electric that it was almost like a heroin high. Except he knew the cold turkey of withdrawal that waited on the other side would be icy and final.
With the last of his fading strength, he grabbed for the handle of the scythe. His fingers clutched wood, but the Scarecrow Man freed his weapon with little effort.
“The soil thirsts,” the man said.
Gordon?
Mark rolled onto his back, half his body gone numb. He sucked in a lungful of air but his chest felt like poured cement. “You…crazy…fuck. Leave my…family alone.”
“They’re my family now,” Gordon said from behind the burlap mask. “Part of Solom. Just like you will be.”
He shook the scythe, and blood rained down on Mark. The flashlight had settled in the dirt so that the Scarecrow Man was in the circle of its beam, like a spotlight on a stage magician. His gloved hands gripped the handle of the scythe. The straw hat and ragged clothes were strange enough, but the burlap mask with the burned eye holes was more horrible than any drug-induced hallucination Mark had ever suffered. Mark tried to picture the professor’s jowly face behind the mask, but he couldn’t even convince himself this thing was human.
He was done for. He accepted that. Even with medical help, shock would claim him long before he could even be packed into an ambulance. The best thing he could do now was delay this psycho for enough precious seconds to allow Katy and Jett to escape. He tried to kick the creature, but he was only able to slide his leg six inches across the ground. Gordon laughed.
“Your blood will nourish the soil,” Gordon said. “But it’s going to take all you have. And then some.”
Mark spat and it tasted like coins. He sucked in an agonizing breath. “Go to hell.”
“I am, and I have company.”
Mark heard rustling among the stalks. He swiveled his neck to see, but then his strength faded and all he could do was stare up at the faint ceiling of stars high above and hope a merciful God hid somewhere above it.
Ah, hell, at least I’ll die sober. That’s miracle enough.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Katy lifted the pole as the scarecrow approached her.
But as she peered at the silhouette, the outline of its face grew brighter and appeared beneath the brim of the black hat that sat atop it. The skin was the color of the moon, pocked with just as many craters and with permanent darkness lurking just behind it. There was no burlap to disguise it, and the eyes were like hellish swirls of lava boiling up from a volcano’s belly. The man’s suit was of ill-fitting black wool, frayed and tattered as if the man had crawled up from an ancient, stony grave.
Katy lifted the pole, prepared to swing it at the menacing figure. The goats had stepped away from her and grown docile, no longer threatening. The man took another step forward, his hand held out, palm up, as if begging for money.
“What do you want?” Katy said.
The ravaged and pale face was as silent as stone. Jett called out to her from somewhere in the cornfield and Katy answered. “Stay back, Jett!”
The goats gathered behind the dark-clad figure like a cavalry awaiting the command to charge. Katy retreated two steps, wondering if she should run. She’d rather face the Scarecrow Man with the scythe than this mute and morbid creature.
The black lips cracked open. “You will know them by their fruits.”
“Oh my God, Mom!’’ Jett yelled from nearby. “Is that the creepy preacher?”
“Preacher?” Katy yelled back, not surprised that Jett had disobeyed her order to stay away. “Do you know this man?”
“You’ll know him by his fruits, right?” Jett was maybe twenty yards away now, grinding through the grist of vegetation.
Katy’s motherly instinct guided her between her daughter and the “creepy preacher.” Is this Gordon’s ancestor? The DEAD ancestor?
She braced for the coming stampede of the goats but they no longer seemed agitated, much less possessed and ravenous. Katy elevated the scarecrow pole before her, the sharp, muddy tip pointed toward the man. Light radiated from his exposed skin, weak as a paper lantern, like some sort of walking astral projection.
His hand was still extended, unnaturally steady, as if he had all the time in the world. Maybe even longer.
“What do you want?” Katy grunted between clenched teeth.
The face crinkled, the eyes narrowing. “I want what is mine.”
Jett burst into the trampled clearing, muttering a curse before moving behind Katy.
“Where’s your dad?” Katy asked her, not taking her eyes off the man.
“Don’t know. He was in the cornfield, but—”
“But I reaped him,” came a voice, and a dark silhouette separated from the surrounding rows and stepped into the circle of dull light illuminated by the preacher’s skin.
The Scarecrow Man.
Blade raised high and dripping red.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Holy shit,” Jett said, and her mom didn’t correct her.
Although “unholy shit” might have been a better call.
Mom had a pointy stick, and that was good, but it wasn’t much against an eerie preacher, a scarecrow with a hunk of sharp metal, and thirty demonic goats.
And was that blood on the blade of the scythe?
The Scarecrow Man lowered the scythe handle to his waist as if preparing to sweep up a fresh harvest. The burlap face turned to the preacher. “I knew you’d return. You accepted my offering.”
“Know them by their fruits,” the preacher said.
“And I give you these fruits,” the Scarecrow Man said, edging the blade toward Katy and Jett.
Jett recognized the voice, and all the madness now made sense. Gordon had swallowed his own scarecrow legend, donned his murderer’s uniform, and chopped up Dad, and now was ready to offer his new family as a sacrifice to this creepy, waxy thing.
This farm was every bit as screwed up as she’d feared. The only bright side was that at least she hadn’t lost her mind. Solom had lost it for her.
Jett yanked her mom’s blouse and whispered, “Run.”
But Katy stood her ground. “No. I’m going to finish this.”
“But Dad—”
Jett didn’t get to complete her thought because the preacher swooshed forward like a swatch of sheet caught in a Halloween wind. Katy swung the pole at him but its wooden tip passed right through his torso.
“Know them by their fruits,” the preacher boomed. “And yours is rotten.”
The hand that the preacher had held out snatched the pole from Katy’s hands, the white snakes of fingers encircling the wood. Jett pulled Katy to the ground as Gordon swung his scythe at them, flinging drops of blood across Jett’s clothes.
The scythe’s blade whirred wildly through the air and cleaved into the preacher’s neck. His head tumbled away while the black hat caught the breeze and lifted away. The preacher’s headless body stood there for a moment, spewing ethereal milk.
“Noooooo,” Gordon wailed, tossing the blade to the ground and cupping his hands to catch the gushing fluid. The headless preacher thrust the pole forward and a moist sloooch pierced the chilly air.
Gordon’s burlap mask tilted down as he stared at the pole protruding from his gut. Jett searched those black burnt eyeholes for any sign of humanity, but the darkness behind them was absolute.
While Gordon wheezed and wobbled, the preacher scooped up his head and affixed it back atop his gaunt shoulders, and then walked over to his hat. Holding his head in place with one crablike hand, he plucked the black hat from the dirt and clamped it back atop his head, as if that were the glue holding him together.
Gordon sagged, but the angle of the pole kept his body from falling. He tried to reel the intruder from his abdomen, teasing out a few greasy inches, gore coating the wood. A gout of red appeared in the middle of the burlap as he coughed blood. Gasping for breath, he ripped off the mask with one hand while balancing his weight so that the pole didn’t skewer him. He no longer looked menacing. He looked more like a chubby, spoiled child whose gift of flowers had been trampled.
The Scarecrow: A Supernatural Thriller (Solom) Page 20