“Morning”
I said groggily to my mother as I stumbled towards the coffee pot to jolt myself awake with enough caffeine to kill a small horse.
I guess if I’d had been a little more awake I would’ve instantly caught the irritated and perplexed look on her face as she sat at the dining room table with her own coffee mug in hand, but being drowsy and barely conscious as a result of staying up a little too late and waking up a little too early meant that fine perception skills were out the window until I had at least drank two cups, but even in my half sleep state I could tell something was off by her complete lack of response.
My mother, who was normally very cheerful and cordial even to the most familiar people in her life, was only ever silent for two reasons. She was either reading something, or she was mad at someone, and as I looked over to see her staring at me from across the kitchen without a book in sight, I knew that I was dealing with a silence from the latter of the two scenarios.
“What’s up mama? You okay?”
For a moment or two she just stared at me with this expression that silently screamed “Are you freakin serious?” but remembering her natural cordiality she shook her head slightly before responding.
“Mike showed me a picture of your uhm . . . your little project out in the yard. He’s not happy about it, and neither am I.”
I couldn’t help but furrow my brow at the remark. Admittedly I have been known to do a disappointing thing or two in my day, but I always at least tried to fess up to them, but as my mother spoke to me I racked my mind for a clue. At least some kind of indication as to what she was talking about, but the longer I thought the more I began to realize I genuinely had no idea what she was upset about. Being tired, and now tired and confused. I simply gave up trying to solve the mystery after only a few moments of deliberation. I decided that playing dumb was the best course of action. After all, being dumb in this case was simply being honest, and honesty is always the best policy.
“I’m sorry mom, but I really don’t know what you’re talking ab-“
“Don’t start that crap with me Cole, You’re telling me that disgusting, creepy thing just propped itself up overnight? Grew legs and stopped being animate right in the middle of our field?”
My furrowed brow steadily transformed itself into a completely perplexed scowl. I could feel my face getting hot and my mouth dropping open in a subtle, but again involuntary expression of not only confusion now, but confusion and irritability.
“Mom I’m serious!” I reproached a little louder than intended. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t even had time to go out to the field for like, two days with work and school and everything. What is out there that you think I did?!”
Moms are good at a lot of things, and my mom was a pretty kickass mom even by mom standards. Her lie detector was something to behold. Even I’ll admit that. It was an unspoken rule in our family that lying to mom was never worth the risk. She always knew, and always called it out, but as she read my expression from across the room I could see her hardened expression lighten up a bit, and then quickly become replaced with a look of . . . Well, I don’t know really. Concern? Anxiousness maybe?
“Come with me.”
You guys remember that book “Scary Stories to Tell in The Dark?” with all the scary stories and the traumatizing pictures that someone thought would be perfect for grade school kids?
You remember that story about the scarecrow? Harold, I think? It stands out as a particularly spooky freaking story. At least in my memory. The picture with it of course made it all the worse, just like every picture in that book did, but as I stood in the middle of the north field next my mother on our families fifteen-acre property It dawned on me that this horrible thing might be to much for even the author of “Scary Stories To Tell in the Dark.” Harold was looking a lot more like Harry Potter in comparison to this horrible creation.
Propped up on an old fence post in the middle of our field was a scarecrow. Not a scarecrow like the cute little straw hat and button eyes, and not a scarecrow like the two-dimensional drawing of some psychopath’s daydreams. The whole figure mounted up on this post was just. . . Wrong.
It looked something like a woman, an older woman. Or at least some sickos best attempt at one. A mangy, tangled looking wig of hair that was far too blonde to be a natural hair color sat on top of her head like a mop that someone had left out in a windstorm. Huge thick tangles scattered off in every direction. The head itself seemed to be some kind of typical straw dome that you’d normally see. Little bits and pieces of straw were sticking out between the tearing stitches and ears and other orifices so that’s how I was able to tell, but instead of just leaving well enough alone whoever made this scarecrow decided to sew a mask over the straw portion, some spots were stretched so tight that they looked like they’d tear at any moment, other spots had given way and hung loose in thick stretchy polymer bags. The image gave this lady scarecrow a look like something out of the walking dead, mildew and mold had started to form in spots here and there giving the pasty complexion a horrible blue and green tint. Her empty mouth hung open in this awful looking scream, a black void where teeth and a tongue might be seemed to stretch endlessly into the chasm of the straw dome just beneath it.
But even though the mouth was left empty. For some wild reason the time had been taken to sew eyes into it, but of course. Even though there was apparently time to sew the eyes, there wasn’t any time to sew the eyes correctly. Or even close. There were no eyelids, so instead you had these two eerily fake cloudy blue marbles that created this wide-eyed stare into everything and nothing at the same time.
The creator of this scarecrow didn’t just do the face and eyes either. At the end of each outstretched arm were fake hands. Again, crudely sewn in place. They waved limply in the southern Ohio winds in whatever direction it decided to blow. Thrown over the body was a filthy white night gown, and a very expensive looking pair of hiking boots covered what I was sure had to be straw packed legs and torso. The boots had the distinct “Wolverine” logo on the sides, and the bright yellow boot laces stood out drastically against the rest of the scarecrows drabby appearance. I knew there was no way that there was skin beneath the dress and socks and boots though. I mean who in the hell would take the time to put fake skin over the entirety of this scarecrow? It had to be just straw under the clothes.
“Wh-What?” It was all I could stutter out as I gazed at the horrible and inexplicable creation in front of me.
“You didn’t do this?” My mom asked almost making me jump. In all my bewilderment and general disturbance, I had all but completely forgotten that mom was out here with me.
“No mom, I swear!” I professed my innocence as my arm extended out to the scarecrow like some sort of ‘case-in-point- ‘evidence. “Why would anyone do this?”
As the words left my mouth, and my mother’s expression once again changed from disgust to something else entirely. I was finally able to pinpoint what it was exactly I was seeing on her face as the awful realization of the situation began to fall into place in my mind as well. It was like the late November air in the north fields had grown increasingly colder with every passing moment of post revelation.
I know that I know I didn’t put this out here, and there’s no way Mom or Mike or anyone that we knew for that matter would be sick enough, or even bored enough. To put something like this out in our field, and so that can only mean one thing. Some random, obviously troubled stranger had taken hours to build this crazy fucked up scarecrow and managed to place it square in the middle of our field without any of us taking notice.
The look I had seen on my mom’s face earlier, and the one she now had. The one that I was without a doubt sure that I had too was one of concern, and growing fear.
“I’ll check the trail cameras on the west tree line.” I finally managed to utter as we continued to stare at the horrible thing. “Maybe it picked up something. No promises though. If they came from the south fields, or Old Macs property then they’d be to far away for the cameras to pick up.”
Mom nodded her head in troubled silence before responding.
“I don’t want this thing in our yard for another minute. Mikes in Phoenix until Tuesday.”
“I’ll get rid of it. Mind if I just bury burn the thing? I don’t want to really walk any kind of distance with it at all.”
Mom nodded in agreement before we silently hopped back into the Gator vehicle we’d rode out in and made our way back to the house.
Several hours later I found myself standing in a hole some four feet deep and three feet wide. Breathing heavily from the labor I’d put into digging it. I grabbed a drink from my water bottle but made it quick. The knowledge of standing under this creepy scarecrow alone in an empty field was by its own right enough to put me on edge but looking up at it and seeing those empty eyes, and those lifeless looking hands waving about in the wind made me want to all but run away from the place in fear.
I stepped out of the hole, lit a cigarette and grabbed my woodcutting axe from the back of the Gator. After walking behind the scarecrow and giving the old fence post five or six good strikes I began to notice yet another highly disturbing detail. With every impact the heavy blade made against the fence post, dozens of black flies would come flying out of the scarecrow’s tears and rips. After two or three I began to see that maggots were clearly piling up beneath the shadow of the scarecrow’s frame. Wiggling around in vain trying to find some kind of shelter from the elements they’d just been exposed to.
As the wind shifted in my direction, I furled my nose and almost heaved at the smell of the rotten straw and old mildew-soaked clothes. It had this almost sickly-sweet smell, like old fruit that someone had wrapped in raw steak and left out in the sun to rot. I had never smelled something quite so rotted away before, and I thought about how someone could’ve carried this scarecrow out here without literally passing out from the odor of it.
After another strike or two with the axe I decided that the fence post was probably weak enough to kick apart. Lining myself up with the center of the post the scarecrow was propped on, I gave it a hard kick, and then another. A loud crack could be heard as the weakened post gave way and fell forward, putting the scarecrow face down into the hole I had just dug for it. As it hit the ground the waterlogged hay made a disgusting ‘squish’ sound as huge swarms of black flies vacated the premises of their impromptu home. Waving my hand away from the insects with a grimace on my face I made my way back to the gator and retrieved the metal cannister of kerosene that I had brought along with me.
After dousing the scarecrow, mixing in the horrible decay smell with the pungent ‘fuel’ smell. I threw my lit cigarette into the hole from a distance to set the scarecrow alight, but surprise surprise. It didn’t take.
“Of course,” I mumbled to myself as I retrieved the box of matches from my jacket pocket and struck one alight. As I tossed it into the pit the flame caught enough of the kerosene to ignite it.
A loud “whoosh” sound emanated from the hole as I covered my eyes from the sudden brightness of the pit in front of me. The initial ignition, followed by the kindling from the fence post and the straw the scarecrow was made out of and the clothes it was wearing was enough to keep the fire going for the next hour or so.
As time passed the flames dwindled down to almost embers as they struggled to find things to devour in the pit, and eventually the embers died down as well. Leaving only a pile of blackened debris and white ash where the scarecrow used to be. As the sun began to set, I started backfilling the hole I’d dug. Once the hole was refilled, I’d put grass seed and straw down over it, and there’d be no evidence of this scarecrow ever being here at all by next spring.
It was just after this backfilling process, as I was in the ‘smoothing dirt’ phase that I was suddenly caught off guard by several flashlights in my face, and loud commandeering voices telling me to drop my shovel and step away from the hole.
Amidst the blinding confusion I could hear my mom shouting from behind the disorienting lights.
“Cole, it’s okay! It’s going to be okay! We didn’t know, how could we? Please officer you have to believe us we would never do something like this!”
As I stood in the field with my hands up a silhouetted figure approached me and turned me around, putting my hands behind my back as he did so. Before I could even respond I felt the cold metal of handcuffs against my wrists and felt myself being assertively escorted across the field to the series of police cars at the edge of our property. To my right I could see an old red truck I’d never noticed before being pulled by a wench onto the back of a tow truck.
“Have you ever seen this woman?” The middle aged, round faced and mustached police officer said to me sternly as held up a picture of an older woman. In the picture she was smiling, and her arm was reached out towards a valley from the scenic outlook the picture was taken on. She looked happy, but I had never seen the women before. Again, I played the honest fool, because honesty is the best policy.
“No sir, I’ve never seen this woman before. Will you please tell me what this is about?”
The police officer shook his head and pointed towards the red pickup on the back of the tow vehicle that was slowly idling its way off the property.
“Her names Clara Whitesides. She’s been missing for two weeks. That’s her truck on y’alls property. Looks a little suspicious doesn’t it son?”
I shook my head and tried to find some kind of way to profess my innocence against the seemingly inevitable trouble I was finding myself in.
“Sir I promise I have never seen this woman in my life. I haven’t even really been home much in the last two days and i-“
As I looked again at the photograph my heart sank as a horrible dawning crept its way into my very being.
Clara Whitesides horrifyingly enough did look quite familiar. She had light blue eyes, and a head of blonde hair that must’ve been died. It was far too blonde to be any kind of natural hair color.
And she was wearing a very expensive pair of hiking boots. From her angle in the picture the “Wolverine” logo could be seen very clearly, and her bright yellow boot laces seemed to stand out in contrast.
My stomach churned with horror as I thought back to the scarecrow. That messed up sewing job. The smell of rotting hay. The black flies and the maggots pouring out of it as I chopped the post down and kicked it into the hole.
Someone didn’t just place an ugly looking scarecrow on our property. That would’ve been awful enough.
No, whoever had kidnapped this woman had killed her, skinned her and taxidermy’d everything they could onto a straw base, and left it out on our field for us to find . . .
I had just burned and buried a woman’s corpse.
“Son, are you alright?” The cop asked again as he undoubtedly saw my complexion change from sun tanned to pale white as I looked over to the backfilled hole that police dogs were digging at furiously. Their owners shining flashlights onto the loosened dirt mound to see whatever came up.
“Son? What are they going to find in that hole? If you know something, you tell me right now.”
I shook my head slowly and almost automatically as I desperately searched every frenzied corner of my mind to explain to this police officer how I’d just inadvertently spent the better part of a day helping some psychopath dispose of a body . . .
I got sent to the police station, and interrogated for a long time, but ultimately, like I’ve said a few times now. Honesty is the best policy, and though what I had done was clearly disturbing, and technically law breaking. My ignorance to the situation was enough to at least eventually let me go home, but I will never be able to look at another scarecrow the same.