مترسک شبگرد فصل 08

The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight - Chapter 8

I screamed and tried to kick the hand away.

But my feet slipped on the smooth 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.

A 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.