مترسک شبگرد فصل 04

The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight - Chapter 4

The prickly straw, poking out of the sleeve of the black coat, scraped against my neck.

I let out a shrill scream.

“It’s alive!” I cried in panic, diving to the ground, scrambling away on all fours.

I turned back to see Mark and Stanley calmly watching me.

Hadn’t they seen the scarecrow try to choke me?

Then Stanley’s son, Sticks, stepped out from behind the scarecrow, a gleeful grin on his face.

“Sticks—! You creep!” I cried angrily. I knew at once that he had moved the scarecrow’s arm.

“You city kids sure scare easy,” Sticks said, his grin growing wider. He reached down to help me to my feet. “You really thought the scarecrow moved, didn’t you, Jodie?” he said accusingly.

“I can make the scarecrows move,” Stanley said, pulling the cap down lower on his forehead.

“I can make them walk. I did it. It’s all in the book.”

Sticks’ smile faded. The light seemed to dim from his dark eyes. “Yeah, sure, Dad,” he murmured.

Sticks is sixteen. He is tall and lanky. He has long, skinny arms and legs. That’s how he got the nickname Sticks.

He tries to look tough. He has long black hair down past his collar, which he seldom washes. He wears tight muscle shirts and dirty jeans, ripped at the knees. He sneers a lot, and his dark eyes always seem to be laughing at you.

He calls Mark and me “the city kids”. He always says it with a sneer. And he’s always playing stupid jokes on us. I think he’s kind of jealous of Mark and me. I don’t think it’s been easy for Sticks to grow up on the farm, living in the little guest house with his dad.

I mean, Stanley is more like a kid than a father.

“I saw you back there,” Mark told Sticks.

“Well, thanks for warning me!” I snapped at Mark. I turned back angrily to Sticks. “I see you haven’t changed at all.” “Great to see you, too, Jodie,” he replied sarcastically. “The city kids are back for another month with the hicks!” “Sticks—what’s your problem?” I shot back.

“Be nice,” Stanley muttered. “The corn has ears, you know.”

We all stared at Stanley. Had he just made a joke? It was hard to tell with him.

Stanley’s face remained serious. His big eyes stared out at me through the shade of his cap. “The corn has ears,” he repeated. “There are spirits in the field.” Sticks shook his head unhappily. “Dad, you spend too much time with that superstition book,” he muttered.

“The book is all true,” Stanley replied. “It’s all true.”

Sticks kicked at the dirt. He raised his eyes to me. His expression seemed very sad. “Things are different here,” he murmured.

“Huh?” I didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

Sticks turned to his father. Stanley was staring back at him, his eyes narrowed.

Sticks shrugged and didn’t reply. He grabbed Mark’s arm and squeezed it. “You’re as flabby as ever,” he told Mark. “Want to throw a football around this afternoon?” “It’s kind of hot,” Mark replied. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

Sticks sneered at him. “Still a wimp, huh?”

“No way!” Mark protested. “I just said it was hot, that’s all.”

“Hey—you’ve got something on your back,” Sticks told Mark. “Turn around.” Mark obediently turned around.

Sticks quickly bent down, picked up the wormy corncob, and stuffed it down the back of Mark’s T-shirt.

I had to laugh as I watched my brother run screaming all the way back to the farmhouse.

Dinner was quiet. Grandma Miriam’s fried chicken was as tasty as ever. And she was right about the corn. It was very sweet. Mark and I each ate two ears, dripping with butter.

I enjoyed the dinner. But it upset me that both of my grandparents seemed so changed. Grandpa Kurt used to talk nonstop. He always had dozens of funny stories about the farmers in the area. And he always had new jokes to tell.

Tonight he barely said a word.

Grandma Miriam kept urging Mark and me to eat more. And she kept asking us how we liked everything. But she, too, seemed quieter.

They both seemed tense. Uncomfortable.

They both kept glancing down the table at Stanley, who was eating with both hands, butter dripping down his chin.

Sticks sat glumly across from his father. He seemed even more unfriendly than usual.

Stanley was the only cheerful person at the table. He chewed his chicken enthusiastically and asked for a third helping of mashed potatoes.

“Is everything okay, Stanley?” Grandma Miriam kept asking, biting her bottom lip. “Everything okay?” Stanley burped and smiled. “Not bad,” was his reply.

Why do things seem so different? I wondered. Is it just because Grandma and Grandpa are getting old?

After dinner, we sat around the big, comfortable living room. Grandpa Kurt rocked gently back and forth in the antique wooden rocking chair by the fireplace.

It was too hot to build a fire. But as he rocked, he stared into the dark fireplace, a thoughtful expression on his white-stubbled face.

Grandma Miriam sat in her favorite chair, a big, green overstuffed armchair across from Grandpa Kurt. She had an unopened gardening magazine in her lap.

Sticks, who had barely said two words the whole evening, disappeared. Stanley leaned against the wall, poking his teeth with a toothpick.

Mark sank down into the long, green couch. I sat down at the other end of it and stared across the room.

“Yuck. That stuffed bear still gives me the creeps!” I exclaimed.

At the far end of the room, an enormous stuffed brown bear—about eight feet tall—stood straight up on its hind legs. Grandpa Kurt had shot it many years ago on a hunting trip. The bear’s huge paws were extended, as if ready to pounce.

“That was a killer bear,” Grandpa Kurt remembered, rocking slowly, his eyes on the angry-looking beast. “He mauled two hunters before I shot him. I saved their lives.” I shuddered and turned away from the bear. I really hated it. I don’t know why Grandma Miriam let Grandpa Kurt keep it in the living room!

“How about a scary story?” I asked Grandpa Kurt.

He stared back at me, his blue eyes suddenly lifeless and dull.

“Yeah. We’ve been looking forward to your stories,” Mark chimed in. “Tell us the one about the headless boy in the closet.” “No. Tell a new one,” I insisted eagerly.

Grandpa Kurt rubbed his chin slowly. His eyes went to Stanley across the room. Then he cleared his throat nervously.

“I’m kind of tired, kids,” he said softly. “Think I’ll just go to bed.” “But—no story?” I protested.

He stared back at me with those dull eyes. “I don’t really know any stories,” he murmured. He slowly climbed to his feet and headed toward his room.

What is going on here? I asked myself. What is wrong?