A Scarecrow's Midnight Massacre
By: Erin Mainville.
In the dead of night, a cold breeze blew through fields of dead harvest; through cornstalks, over soybeans, and around ancient bales of hay, long-forgotten amongst the barren trees and crawling mist. Along these fields, right beside a small dirt road, a filthy scarecrow rested on its wooden perch, swaying slightly in the wind.
Complete with a ripped shirt, faded blue coveralls, and a tarnished straw hat, nothing would appear strange at one's glance in that direction. But little did they know, a certain village in the lonely hills of Glasgow had every good reason to fear this night of the year. October thirty-first, otherwise known as Hallow's Eve, was home to the night when blood would run relentlessly through the cobblestone streets, blazes would be visible for miles away, and acrid smoke would billow up high as the eye could see, effectively blocking the sum from view for the next few days. Little did they know, that every Hallow's Eve, as the square's clock tower struck the first chords of midnight, that a certain scarecrow's eyes glowed red.
As browned leaves swirled around, riding the wind's twisted flight path, this same scarecrow, known to everyone native to this area, lifted itself off its wooden stake and slowly made its way down the beaten dirt warpath to pay the inhabitants of this village a small visit.
About twenty minutes later, he reached the outskirts of town, and looked to his right, where an abandoned shed resided at the top of a misty hill. The scarecrow worked its way over to the old weathered building, pushed open the creaking door, and then his eyes came to rest upon the object of his searching. In the far corner, hidden under a layer of dusty cobwebs, lay a rusted scythe. He picked it up with glove-encased straw fingers and continued on his way.
As he entered the village streets, he moved stealthily to the nearest house, a brick one with a thatch roof. The door pushed open without so much as a whisper of noise, he regarded the scene before him. Towards the back of the building, a man, woman, and a crib rested quietly. Without a single word or sound, he struck. The once-clear panes of the windows of this home were now splattered with dripping crimson. Things continued in this manner for quite some time, until people started waking up due to the commotion caused when a victim screamed out in agony before being silenced for eternity.
When they saw what was happening, a man from the crowd grabbed a flaming torch and threw it upon the possessed scarecrow. It too screamed just like all its victims, in excruciating pain, flailing around like a beached fish. Eventually everything grew quiet, as where the demented abomination once stood, only a small pile of ashes remained. These ashes were soon bagged and tossed into the nearby lake, so as to ensure absolutely no trace of the fallen monstrosity was left.
So, henceforth, stories of this occurrence were passed down from generation to generation, some gory and gruesome, leaving no part of the horror untold, whilst others were changed dramatically to spare their children nightmares for years to come.
But, little did they know, that not far downstream, a certain bagged pile of ashes, seemingly non important to the human eye, quivered and quaked, then split and ripped apart as a certain scarecrow resurrected itself, then made its way to a certain wooden perch in a certain harvested field to wait for a certain time, place, and date to finish what it started.