مترسک شبگرد فصل 13

The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight - Chapter 13

It hadn’t been a scarecrow.

It was Sticks.

In the woods down by the creek. And, now, outside the barn.

Sticks. Playing another one of his mean tricks.

And I was suddenly certain that Sticks had somehow made the scarecrows twitch and pull on their stakes last night.

Sticks just loved fooling the “city kids”. Ever since Mark and I had been little, he’d played the scariest, meanest practical jokes on us.

Sometimes Sticks could be a nice guy. But he had a real cruel streak.

“I thought you were fishing,” he said casually.

“Well, I’m not,” I snapped. “Sticks, why do you keep trying to scare us?” “Huh?” He pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Sticks, give me a break,” I muttered. “I know you were the scarecrow just now. I’m not stupid!” “Scarecrow? What scarecrow?” he asked, giving me a wide-eyed, innocent expression.

“You were dressed as a scarecrow,” I accused him. “Or else you carried one here, and pulled it on a string or something.” “You’re totally crazy,” Sticks replied angrily. “Have you been out in the sun too long or something?” “Sticks—give up,” I said. “Why are you doing this? Why do you keep trying to scare Mark and me? You scared your Dad, too.” “Jodie, you’re nuts!” he exclaimed. “I really don’t have time to be dressing up in costumes just to amuse you and your brother.” “Sticks—you’re not fooling me,” I insisted. “You—”

I stopped short when I saw Sticks’ expression change. “Dad!” he cried, suddenly frightened. “Dad! You say he was scared?” I nodded.

“I’ve got to find him!” Sticks exclaimed frantically, “He—he could do something terrible!” “Sticks, your joke has gone far enough!” I cried. “Just stop it!”

But he was already running toward the front of the barn, calling for his father, his voice shrill and frantic.

Sticks didn’t find his dad until dinnertime. That’s the next time I saw him, too—just before dinner. He was carrying his big superstition book, holding it tightly under his arm.

“Jodie,” he whispered, motioning for me to come close. His face was red. His dark eyes revealed his excitement.

“Hi, Stanley,” I whispered back uncertainly.

“Don’t tell Grandpa Kurt about the scarecrow,” Stanley whispered.

“Huh?” Stanley’s request caught me off guard.

“Don’t tell your grandpa,” Stanley repeated. “It will only upset him. We don’t want to frighten him, do we?” “But, Stanley—” I started to protest.

Stanley raised a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell, Jodie. Your grandpa doesn’t like to be upset. I’ll take care of the scarecrow. I have the book.” He tapped the big book with his finger.

I started to tell Stanley that the scarecrow was only Sticks, playing a mean joke. But Grandma Miriam called us to the table before I could get the words out.

Stanley carried his superstition book to the table. Every few bites, he would pick up the big, black book and read a few paragraphs.

He moved his lips as he read. But I was sitting down at the other end of the table and couldn’t make out any of the words.

Sticks kept his eyes down on his plate and hardly said a word. I think he was really embarrassed that his father was reading the superstition book at the dinner table.

But Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam didn’t act the least bit surprised. They talked cheerfully to Mark and me and kept passing us more food—as if they didn’t even notice Stanley’s behavior.

I really wanted to tell Grandpa Kurt about how Sticks was trying to scare Mark and me. But I decided to listen to Stanley and not upset my grandfather.

Besides, I could deal with Sticks if I had to. He thought he was so tough. But I wasn’t the least bit afraid of him.

Stanley was still reading, jabbering away as he read, as Grandma Miriam cleared the dinner dishes. Mark and I helped. Then we took our seats as Grandma Miriam carried a big cherry pie to the table.

“Weird,” Mark whispered to me, staring at the pie.

He was right. “Doesn’t Grandpa Kurt like apple pie?” I blurted out.

Grandma Miriam gave me a tense smile. “Too early in the year for apples,” she murmured.

“But isn’t Grandpa Kurt allergic to cherries?” Mark asked.

Grandma Miriam started cutting the pie with a silver pie cutter. “Everyone loves cherry pie,” she replied, concentrating on her work. Then she raised her eyes to Stanley. “Isn’t that right, Stanley?” Stanley grinned over his book. “It’s my favorite,” he said. “Grandma Miriam always serves my favorite.” After dinner, Grandpa Kurt once again refused to tell Mark and me a scary story.

We were sitting around the fireplace, staring at the crackling yellow flames. Even though it had been so hot, the air had grown cool this evening, cool enough to build a nice, toasty fire.

Grandpa Kurt was in his rocking chair at the side of the hearth. The old wooden chair creaked as he rocked slowly back and forth.

He had always loved to gaze at the fire and tell us one of his frightening stories. You could see the leaping flames reflected in his blue eyes. And his voice would go lower and lower as the story got scarier.

But tonight he shrugged when I asked him for a story. He stared dully at the huge stuffed bear on its pedestal against the wall. Then he glanced across the room at Stanley.

“Wish I knew some good stories,” Grandpa Kurt replied with a sigh. “But I’ve clean run out.” A short while later, Mark and I trudged upstairs to our bedrooms. “What is his problem?” Mark whispered as we climbed.

I shook my head. “Beats me.”

“He seems so… different,” Mark said.

“Everyone here does,” I agreed. “Except for Sticks. He’s still trying to scare us city kids.” “Let’s just ignore him,” Mark suggested. “Let’s just pretend we don’t see him running around in his stupid scarecrow costume.” I agreed. Then I said good-night and headed into my room.

Ignore the scarecrows, I thought as I arranged the blankets on the bed.

Just ignore them.

I’m not going to think about scarecrows again, I told myself.

Sticks can go jump in the creek.

Climbing into bed, I pulled the quilt up to my chin. I lay on my back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to figure out what kind of picture they formed. There were three jagged cracks. I decided they looked like bolts of lightning.

If I squinted, I could make them look like an old man with a beard.

I yawned. I felt really sleepy, but I couldn’t get to sleep.

It was only my second night here at the farm. It always takes me awhile to adjust to being in a new place and sleeping in a different bed.

I closed my eyes. Through the open window, I could hear the soft mooing of cows from the barn.

And I could hear the whisper of the wind as it brushed through the tall cornstalks.

My nose was totally stuffed up. Bet I snore tonight, I thought.

That is, if I ever get to sleep!

I tried counting sheep. It didn’t seem to be working, so I tried counting cows. Big, bulky, bouncing, sloooooow-moooooving cows.

I counted to a hundred twelve before I decided that wasn’t working, either.

I turned onto my side. Then, after a few minutes, I tried my other side.

I found myself thinking about my best friend, Shawna. I wondered if Shawna was having a good time at camp.

I thought about some of my other friends. Most of them were just hanging around this summer, not doing much of anything.

When I glanced at the clock, I was surprised to see it was nearly twelve. I’ve got to get to sleep, I told myself. I’ll be wrecked tomorrow if I don’t get some sleep.

I settled onto my back, pulling the soft quilt up to my chin again. I closed my eyes and tried to picture nothing. Just empty, black space. Endless, empty space.

The next thing I knew, I was hearing scratching sounds.

I ignored them at first. I thought the curtains were flapping against the open window.

Got to get to sleep, I urged myself. Got to get to sleep.

The scratching grew louder. Closer.

I heard a scraping sound.

From outside the window?

I opened my eyes. Shadows danced on the ceiling. I realized I was holding my breath.

Listening hard.

Another scrape. More scratching. Dry scratching.

I heard a low groan.

“Huh?” A startled gasp escaped my lips.

I pulled myself up against the headboard. I tugged the quilt up to my chin, gripping it tightly with both hands.

I heard more dry scraping. Like sandpaper, I thought.

Suddenly the room grew darker.

I saw something pull itself up to the window. A dark figure. Blocking the moonlight.

“Who—who’s there?” I tried to call. But my voice came out a choked whisper.

I could see a shadowy head, black against the purple sky.

It rose up in the window. Dark shoulders. Followed by a darker chest. Black against black.

A silent shadow, slipping into my room.

“H-help!” Another stammered whisper.

My heart had stopped beating. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe.

It slid over the windowsill. Brushed away the curtains as it lowered itself into my room.

Its feet scraped over the bare floorboards.

Scratch scratch scratch.

It moved slowly, steadily toward my bed.

I struggled to get up.

Too late.

My feet tangled in the quilt.

I fell to the floor, landing hard on my elbows.

I raised my eyes to see it move closer.

I opened my mouth to scream as it emerged from the shadows.

And then I recognized him. Recognized his face.

“Grandpa Kurt!” I cried. “Grandpa Kurt—what are you doing here? Why did you climb in the window?” He didn’t reply. His cold blue eyes glared down at me. His whole face twisted into an ugly frown.

And then he raised both arms above me.

And I saw that he had no hands.

Clumps of straw poked out from his jacket sleeves.

Only straw.

“Grandpa—no!!” I shrieked.