مترسک شبگرد فصل 17

The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight - Chapter 17

The hand grabbed my shoulder.

Too terrified to cry out, too dazed to think clearly, my eyes followed the dark coat sleeve—up to the shoulder—up to the face.

A blur. All a frightening blur.

And then the face became clear.

“Stanley!” I cried.

He leaned over me, his red ears glowing, his face tight with worry. He gently grabbed my shoulder. “Jodie—are you all right?” “Stanley—it’s you!” I exclaimed happily. I sat up. “I think I’m okay. I don’t know. Everything hurts.” “What a bad fall,” Stanley said softly. “I was in the field. And I saw it. I saw the scarecrow….” His voice trailed off. I followed his frightened gaze up ahead of me on the dirt path.

The scarecrow lay facedown across the path.

“I saw it jump out,” Stanley uttered with a shudder that shook his whole body.

“My wrist…” Mark moaned from nearby.

I turned as Stanley hurried over to him. Mark was sitting up in the grass at the side of the path, holding his wrist. “Look—it’s starting to swell up,” he groaned.

“Oooh, that’s bad. That’s bad,” Stanley said, shaking his head.

“Maybe it’s just a sprain,” I suggested.

“Yeah,” Stanley quickly agreed. “We’d better get you to the house and put ice on it. Can you get back up on Maggie? I’ll ride behind you.” “Where’s my horse?” I asked, searching both ways along the path. I climbed unsteadily to my feet.

“She galloped back to the barn,” Stanley replied, pointing. “Fastest I’ve seen her go in years!” He glanced down at the scarecrow and shuddered again.

I took a few steps, stretching my arms and my back. “I’m okay,” I told him. “Take Mark on the horse. I’ll walk back.” Stanley eagerly started to help Mark to his feet. I could see that Stanley wanted to get away from here—away from the scarecrow—as fast as possible.

I watched as they rode off down the path toward the house. Stanley sat behind Mark in the saddle, holding the reins, keeping Maggie at a slow, gentle pace. Mark held his wrist against his chest and leaned back against Stanley.

I stretched my arms over my head again, trying to stretch the soreness from my back. My head ached. But other than that, I didn’t feel bad.

“Guess I’m lucky,” I murmured out loud.

I took a long glance at the scarecrow, sprawled facedown across the path. Cautiously, I walked over to it.

I poked its side with the toe of my sneaker.

The straw beneath the coat crinkled.

I poked it harder, pushing my sneaker hard into the scarecrow’s middle.

I don’t know what I expected to happen. Did I think the scarecrow would cry out? Try to squirm away?

With an angry cry, I kicked the scarecrow. Hard.

I kicked it again.

The burlap bag head bounced on the path. The scarecrow’s ghastly painted grin didn’t move.

It’s just a scarecrow, I told myself, giving it one last kick that sent straw falling out from the jacket front.

Just a scarecrow that Sticks tossed onto the path.

Mark and I could have been killed, I told myself.

We’re lucky we weren’t.

Sticks. It had to be Sticks.

But why?

This wasn’t a joke.

Why was Sticks trying to hurt us?