The Scarecrow

Part 1 of "The Scarecrow"

The barn on the other side of the woods seemed to spring up overnight. Strange things have happened here before, but none as strange as this.

I must’ve gotten six different calls about it by the time I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee. The phones were ringing off their hooks all over the station. Everyone from all walks of life was calling.

My deputy, Ahern, walked into my office, holding a phone with its cord wrapped around his wrist. “Sheriff Blakely? Mrs. Nicol just called about that barn.”

“We’ve gotten more calls than we can count about that barn,” I said, rubbing my face.

“Big barns don’t just appear like that in the middle of the night, sir. There would’ve been a lot of noise.” Ahern set a newspaper on my desk. “Look at the pictures the reporters took. That thing looks like it was built a hundred years ago. How the hell did it get here?”

I figured we would have to go check it out ourselves. My first assumption was that this was an elaborate prank. The town’s not a very busy place. Only in the summer months with the fair do we see anything exciting. The Christmas festival, too. I can understand someone being bored, but I’d prefer it if it didn’t involve everyone and their dog calling me first thing in the morning. The rubber duck incident in the park pond was at least harmless.

Considering no one was getting hurt, only Ahern and I went out to the barn. It was a foggy summer morning, and the humidity was already setting in. A small group of people was gathered in the grass by the road. A photographer was kneeling in front, snapping pictures of the barn. The group consisted of men, women, and children, whispering among themselves. A little girl was growing bored and tried to walk away, but her mother took her arm and gently pulled her back.

Being there convinced me that this wasn’t a hoax. The barn did indeed look like it was a hundred years old. The paint was peeling and many of the wooden boards were half-rotted. There were no signs of people or animals being inside. Part of me wondered if it was a movie set, but we would’ve been informed if someone wanted to film their movie here.

“Has anyone been inside?” I asked.

Everyone shook their heads.

Gesturing for Ahern to stay and make sure the group didn’t get out of control, I went forward. The grass was long and unruly. Rabbits darted into the darkness of the woods as I approached. Frankly, I wasn’t sure what to expect going into this barn. I was hoping for nothing, but that certainly wouldn’t answer how or why it was here. Something as strange as this, I felt, should probably be left to the imagination.

I was a few feet away from the big doors when my hopes for nothing were completely dismantled. The doors shook a little. The clunk of a big latch being undone was heard, and then the doors slowly opened. Standing in the hay was a slouching scarecrow. Almost as soon as the sunlight hit the jack-o’-lantern for its head, every crow in the forest let out their harsh cries and flew off, the sky darkening temporarily.

The scarecrow moved all on its own, like a person. I was almost certain that there was indeed a person under that pumpkin, but upon looking into the carved eyes, I could see nothing but a small candle. Despite its lack of facial expression aside from a typical Halloween pumpkin grin, I could feel that it was indeed alive.

“I see from your badge are the town sheriff, but you are not as I remember,” the scarecrow said. Its voice was just like that of a man’s. “Where is Sheriff Maynard?”

It took a moment for me to remember who Maynard was; he was sheriff during the Depression and World War II, retiring in ’46 before passing away ten years later. “I’m sorry, but he’s dead,” I said.

The scarecrow put his hand over his chest. “My apologies. How long ago was this?”

“About five years.” I raised an eyebrow. “Do you know what year it is?”

“The last year I remember is 1943, when my dear friend Farmer Weston went off to war. He said he would return. Where is he?”

“Stay right there. I’ll be back.” I jogged back over to Ahern and the crowd of people. “Does anyone here know a Farmer Weston?”

A young man raised his hand, then put them back in his pockets. “Farmer Henry Weston?” he asked.

“I think so. Was he in the Second World War?”

“Yep. My uncle. He was killed in France. When my parents and I went to check on his farm, we found it was gone.”

“Gone?”

“Disappeared. No trace. Not even foundation left.”

“Did any of his buildings look like this one?”

“I was thinking that myself when I got here, but his barn was in much better condition than this. I dismissed it as coincidence.”

I led the fellow back over to the scarecrow, who was now wringing his gloved hands. Strands of hay were sticking out of his sleeves, and some of them had fallen to the ground.

“My uncle did have a scarecrow, just like this one.” The man looked more confused than shocked. He glanced at me. “This has got to be a prank.”

“No. No prank,” the scarecrow said. “You are . . . ?”

“Marty Weston. Henry’s nephew.”

“Why, I can remember when you were only waist-high and toddling about the field.”

Marty looked at the ground, giving a heavy sigh. “Uncle Henry’s dead.”

“And the year is 1961,” I added. “How . . . what happened to that barn?”

The scarecrow looked ashamed. “Weston had some disagreements with his neighbors. I can remember one of them going so far as to say he and his wife would try to buy the property if he didn’t come back from the war. When he was drafted, I broke my own rules not to use any magic. I didn’t want to scare anyone, but I wanted to make sure everything was as Weston left it. Of course, his neighbor still tried, and I did my best to make him lose interest. What a chore that was, but it worked. But . . . I guess it was all for nothing. Weston never came back. I couldn’t keep this up forever. I didn’t realize how dilapidated the place would be when I made it reappear.”

“That’s not your fault, son,” I said. “We can fix it up, put it up for auction. Somebody will take care of you.”

The scarecrow looked unsure. Still holding his hands together, he said, “Farmer Weston . . . is truly gone?”

I don’t know who or what created this scarecrow, but they did a damn good job at giving him human qualities. I’ve seen too many people go through grief to know he was in denial, but I can’t imagine finding out your closest friend is dead after waiting 18 years. “I’m sorry, son.”

I still wanted to help the scarecrow, but I guess he just wanted to be left alone. He began retreating into the barn, saying, “Thank you for telling me.”

“We can still help you,” I said. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“I appreciate your offer of help, but for now, I must be alone. Maybe someday, I will return.” The scarecrow moved further back into the barn, getting up onto a wooden crate and freezing with his arms outstretched, like an ordinary scarecrow. The doors closed, and slowly, the barn faded from view. When I reached out to where the barn once stood, I felt nothing but air.

For a brief moment, I thought the whole thing was one elaborate dream, but then I heard Marty say, “My uncle did say there was something special about his scarecrow, but he never told me it could talk or do magic.”

“Well, I certain hope this guy doesn’t wait eighteen years to reappear,” I said. Glancing back at the crowd over my shoulder, I called, “Alright, show’s over! We don’t need to hang around here staring at nothing.”

Truthfully, I knew there wasn’t “nothing” there, and I knew that whenever that barn reappeared, I would be there.