Sunday, August 30, 2020

CARVED IN STONE part 5

Copyright (c) 2020 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.





CARVED IN STONE

Part 5

By R. Peterson

 

John Walker took a last swallow then stared at the tea leaves swirling in the bottom. They looked like the dark clouds rolling outside the window. Thunder shook the witch’s dwelling on the corner of Main Street and Galbraith. Everyone jumped except Melania. “Good lord,” Alison Weatherbee gasped. “I thought the house was going to come tumbling down!”

            “It will,” Melania said. “All things must pass … but not tonight.”

            “Where do you buy this?” The sheriff tapped his cup. “I’ve not had such a scary trip since I rode shotgun in Leroy Hicks’ car the night of our High School Homecoming bonfires.”

            “Are you looking to buy?” Allison smirked.

            “It’s tempting,” John said. “But any drug this powerful has to be illegal … or it should be.”

            “It’s not the herb that make you travel,” Melania said. “Like lots of things … the power is in the container.”

John looked closely at his cup. It was cracked and looked … old.

“This is a Purple Sand tea set made from the ashes of a Chinese witch during the Han Dynasty about two-hundred B.C.,” Melania explained. “The augury baked into the Bone China allowed the emperor and others to travel without being noticed.”

 

            “But I heard you ask Allison to bring a special blend from the basement.”

            Tornare indietro l'orologio was cultivated in the imperial gardens especially to fill these cups,” Melania told him. “And I enjoy the taste.”

            “I’m just a simple farm boy with a badge,” John said. “I don’t know a lot about enchanting but it looks like this blend would be hard to find.”

            “Not at all.” Allison laughed. “The jars are all on the third shelf near the end … I’ve never seen them empty.”

            “I get the feeling this entire house from top to bottom is filled with magic and mystery.”

            “So what did you think of our little adventure?” Melania gestured. Allison stood up and walked toward the tea kettle.

John took off his hat and scratched his head. “What I don’t understand is we’re seeing you with a family and the last name Kernes. You say you were never married … how can this be?”

            ‘I adopted several unwanted children in my younger days,” Melania explained. “I gave them an imaginary father … as well as a real home.”

            “It was interesting seeing Margie O’Brian before she married Sean,” the sheriff said. “My grandmother used to tell stories about the Chinaman to keep us in line when we were kids.        “Did it work?” Allison carried the heavy pot to the table.

            “We were terrified,” John confessed. “But the fear of some imaginary monster soon fades when you’re thirteen.”

            “The Chinaman is real,” Melania said. “And so are the Hodmedod. There is balance in all things. The Momett are a very gentle and loving people … it is only natural that they should have dark and dangerous relatives.”

            “Is?” the sheriff stammered.

            “Would you like more?” Allison lifted the pot.

John Walker hesitated. The storm would not be ending anytime soon. He had never known his grandfather Joseph. And a member of the Walker family had always been sheriff of Comanche County since the death of the legendary Thomas Lang. Going with the witch on one of her tea rides was like living for a time in the past. “I would love one,” he said.

 

            “All magic comes from wisdom.” Melania smiled. “And its offspring, knowledge, is born of love.”

And they all drank … and time moved.

 

Scarecrows

Part 2

 

Margie hadn’t felt this mischievous in a long time; she literally danced around the house as she did her chores. Emma Hicks would come by at six to take her to the dance rehearsal at the Melania Descombey Kernes house in Cloverdale. Margie treasured going into town; it was a welcome relief from the drudgery of living in the country. She had carefully sewn the head on her scarecrow and no matter how many times she walked through the porch she still admired how handsome he looked. She had dyed an old mop head black for hair and it was trimmed neatly and parted in the middle, like a movie star would wear it.

She found herself fussing with her own hair as she invented excuses to promenade past where Brian leaned against the wall. This was day two of the Comanche County Scarecrow Festival and she couldn’t sit still. Margie was beginning to see why it had become a tradition.

“I know I shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered as she walked from the radio to the porch. She lifted her creation and slipped her feet into the straps on its feet. She took a deep breath. “Emma told me not to dance with you until tonight.” The scarecrow felt like a warm blanket against her in the frigid air as she embraced it under the covered porch. The Tommy Dorsey song There are such things began to play on the radio. Margie’s eyes were closed and her mouth was open slightly as she and the scarecrow began to drift across the wooden floor. “But a little bit of practice doesn’t hurt does it?  Oh my sweet Brian!” She exhaled.

 

 

Sherriff Walker kicked at the feathers and bloody snow with the toe of his cowboy boot. Mr. Fenster was frantic. “We got us a killer in this county and I want something done about it.” The old farmer lifted the wooden door to his chicken coop from the snow where it lay. “Look at this! It’s ripped right off the hinges, had to be a man that done this, a weasel or a skunk will just tunnel under. I don’t know of a one that could rip off a door.”

“It wasn’t no skunk or weasel.” Joe Walker squatted down and looked at the footprints. “These are man tracks made by work boots and they lead into the woods.” He motioned for his deputy to come over. “Get on the radio. Contact the mayor and tell him I have a situation. I’ll need to deputize six men right away. Tell him I’ll explain everything later.” He turned toward Fenster. “Did you dig these?” The Sheriff gestured toward several round holes in the ground.

“Hell no, I didn’t. Why would I did post holes here?” Fred Fenster was furious. “Why aren’t you going after him? You got a deputy. Them is plenty good odds.”

“Him is at least four men, probably five; each set of these boot prints is different. I don’t know why five men would want to tear up a coop and kill chickens. You’d have to be crazy to do what they’ve done, and that’s what bothers me. I think we are dealing with a bunch of vagrant maniacs. I haven’t seen worn-out boots like the ones that made these tracks, for thirty years.”

“Are you just going to stand there and let them get away?” Fred shouted.

“It’s getting dark and the Motha Woods are full of bears, wolves and who knows what. Lead on Fred and I’ll follow you.” The Sheriff pointed toward the edge of the forest.

Fred Fenster hitched up his drooping bib overalls and capered back toward his ramshackle house.

            “You ain’t getting my vote next election! By thee god,” he yelled.

 

 

            “We’ve got problems,” Judge Walker said as he walked into the Get your Gun  next door to Rip Cycle Motors on the south side of Sarah Dees Avenue. Ed Fowler looked up from behind a grimy counter and rested the shotgun he was cleaning.

            “Let me decide if it’s we or not,” he said.

            “We got reports coming in about farm animals being killed … especially chickens.”

            “Sounds like weasels or skunks … maybe a fox.”

            “Yes it does, except weasels and skunks don’t dig holes and the only fox holes I know of are on the border with Germany. We got a gang of Moggies posting without my say-so.” Tom Walker picked up a box of shotgun ammunition from the counter and rolled the shells in his hands.

            “That brother of yours; is he on to it yet?” Ed finished cleaning the gun, snapped the breach shut then sighted down the barrel.

            “He’s been to two farms this morning trying to get extra deputies to go after what he thinks is a bunch of psychotic tramps.”

            “How many volunteers does he have?”

            “None, as of yet. I’ve been pressuring the mayor to put him off.”

            “Why not give him some? Let’s get a few of our boys to go with him as volunteers.”

            “I’ll check around to see if anyone has any escaped Tattie-Bogals; I’ve heard about a group of runaways living in the Motha Woods, but as far as I know it’s just a story.”

            “We might have to deal with your brother sooner than we planned.” Ed swung the gun around till it was pointed at the judge’s head. He pulled the trigger it clicked on an empty chamber.

            “What?” he reacted to the judge’s wide-open eyes. “It wasn’t loaded!”

 

 

            Emma stopped her thirty-four Ford in front of her grandmother’s house on the east end of Galbraith Avenue. Margie sat beside her and kept glancing to the back-seat where her stuffed dance partner lay. Emma knew the young girl had already developed a fascination for the creature. “Did you bring the picture of your favorite movie star?” Emma asked.

            “Yes,” Margie said. “I cut it out of Look Magazine.” She held the picture up. “It’s Clark Gable. I tried to copy his hair style on … Brian.”

            “Oh Brian is it now?” Emma smiled, but deep down she was apprehensive about what her and her grandmother were about to do. She was concerned it might be too much, that it might make Margie’s Tattie-Bogal … go to a forbidden place.

            The other dancers began to arrive. Each carried a scarecrow body that had been carefully sewn. Everyone laughed when Erma Bates showed up. The padding on her Straw-Dandy had slid down on the torso making it look like he had a pot gut.

            “Better tell him to lay off the beer.” Norma Jennings cackled.

Erma laughed herself as she held the scarecrow in her pudgy arms “Looks just like my papa,” she said.

They girls marveled at the intricate detail on Margie’s dance partner. Some of the girls wanted to kiss his tantalizing mouth.

Margie laughed but refused to share her new love. “We’re engaged,” she said.

Emma led six teen girls carrying scarecrows up the ornately manicured grounds and into the two story home.

 

 

            Sheriff Joe Walker watched as the truck pulled up, six armed men were riding in the back. “Who’s that driving?” He asked his deputy.

            “I think it’s Clyde Oram.”

            “The x-con who works for my brother?”

            “I think so.”

            “Damn,” said the Sheriff.

Clyde came walking over as the half dozen men climbed from the back of the truck. They came forward with two hound tracking dogs on leaches. He smirked as he looked at the Sheriff and his deputy. “The honorable Judge Walker tells me you need lots of help sheriff.”

            “We’re not after coons,” the Sheriff pointed to the dogs. “Get them out of here.”

            “But you need help tracking; these are the best in the county.”

One of the hounds sniffed the prints in the snow, then began to howl.

            “The men we’re after leave tracks a blind man could follow, I don’t know who they are, but we don’t need to let them know we’re coming.” Sheriff Walker put his hands on Clyde’s shoulders and turned him around. “Shut that dog up,” he ordered as he shoved him toward the baying hound. “And all of you fellows leave, except for the two Sullivan brothers. I’ll give you boys a ride back to town when we’re done.”

            “His honor told us all to come out here!” Clyde’s face was red.

            “He’s a judge not a Sheriff. This is my party I say who gets invited.” Sheriff Walker pointed toward the truck. “Now!” he ordered.

Joe Walker’s deputy leaned in toward his boss.

            “The Sullivan boys work for your brother too,” he said.

            “I know that,” said the Sheriff. He watched the two men climb from the back of the truck. One caught his boot on the trucks bumper, stumbled and fell into the snow; the other watched him stupidly. “But I can handle them.”

            “You ever been through the Motha Woods before?” his deputy asked. He was peering into the gloomy forest.

            “Through it!” the Sheriff said. “Hell I’ve never even walked into it.”

The four trudged into the snow covered trees … and disappeared.

 

 

            The Judge and Ed Fowler were driving Motha road when they met the men returning in the truck.

Clyde unrolled his window. “You’re brother ran us all off except for the Sullivan’s,” he said.

Ed looked at the judge. “There’s no way those boys can take them alone,” he said.

            “The sheriff’s car parked up ahead?” the judge asked Clyde.

            “I believe it is.” Clyde said. “What you got in mind?”

            “If we can’t kill them right now we can delay them for a while.” Tom Walker said.

He slid a knife from his pocket and showed the blade to Ed. “Real sharp,” he said. “Sharp enough to cut tires, hoses and a throat if need be.”

The truck full of men turned and followed Ed Fowler and the Judge … back up the road.

 

 

            Margie put her arms around Brian; her feet were strapped to his. The five other girls stood in the middle of Emma’s grandmother’s living room holding their Straw Dandies. All the furniture had been moved to the side to allow room for the dancers. Emma’s elderly grandmother Melania sat at one end of the room cutting paper into tiny pieces.

Margie couldn’t make her feet stand still; she giggled.

            “I’ve got flutterbys in by belly”, she said.

Emma cranked up her grandmothers Victrola phonograph and placed the needle on the spinning 78 rpm recording. The sounds of the Jimmy Dorsey orchestra playing Besame Mucho drifted through the air as the girls and the Straw Dandies began to float around the room.

Margie closed her eyes. She could feel Brian begin to lift, to pull her into each step. She was no longer guiding his legs through the dance steps. He was leading her. She started to relax and began to be swept away by the music and the strange ambiances pulsating the length of her body.

She felt breath like a frosty breeze on her cheek that made tiny goose-bumps cascade down her arms. She opened her eyes and the blue buttons were gone. Brian’s eyes were now a pale icy blue and he blinked. Margie closed her eyes again. She didn’t want the dream to end.

            The music stopped and Emma motioned the girls to gather around her. “Form a single line with your dance partner,” she said. “When the music starts dance through the arches, me and grandmother have a surprise for you.” Margie looked. Emma sat on a high stool next to an ornate arbor which had been erected at one end of the room. The archway led through a hallway into the kitchen.

“Remember the photographs I had you bring?” Emma asked the girls. “You are about to find out what they were for.”

The music started and the girls danced through the archway. As they went through Emma scattered finely cut bits of the photograph each girl had brought over the dancers like confetti. Delighted shouts and giggles rang out as the couples disappeared into the next room. Margie was last in line. When she went to dance under the archway with her scarecrow, Emma hesitated then brought her hand down.

            “I don’t think I should do this,” Emma said and pointed toward Margie’s scarecrow, “he’s almost a Mommet now.”

            “Fate is a lover that will not, and should not be denied.” Melania smiled. She closed her eyes then motioned for Emma to release her confetti.

Margie felt like an electrical current was raining down on her and Brian. Millions of diminutive bubbles swept over her body, and then burst causing exquisite pleasure. She felt weak in her legs and started to fall, and then strong arms were lifting her holding her up. Margie sensed herself being pulled through the doorway into the kitchen. Her heart was beating wildly she was afraid to unlock her eyes.

She heard the knob on the back door turning, then a screech as the screen door behind it opened. Frigid air blew over her face and caused her auburn hair to stream out behind her.

 

Brian gazed back at her with his soft blue eyes. “I have waited forever for you,” he said.

 

 

            Sheriff Walker studied the tracks in the snow; they had followed them for almost three miles through thick pine and quaking aspen. The group of men they were pursuing had held to a steady North West direction until suddenly they had veered off moving due north. The Sheriff was concerned, tiny tuffs of snow were falling from the sides of the tracks. A taletell sign that the prints were very fresh. He and his deputies should be getting close. One of the Sullivan brothers stuck his head high in the air, he looked like a gopher. His nostrils twitched. “I smell smoke,” he said.

Sheriff Walker moved some branches with his hand. In a glade straight ahead a group of human like figures plodded through the snow around a rocked-in campfire. Crudely built domed shelters made of pine boughs tied together encircled the clearing. The figures all seemed to be wearing white grain bags over their heads. There were smaller ones among them – children! It wasn’t until he saw the straw sticking out of one old shirt sleeve that he knew for sure what they were.

“Scarecrows!” he gasp.

An instant later a shriek came from behind. The Sheriff turned. Almost in slow motion, a giant of a man swept a scythe in a semi-circle through the air and through the neck of one of his men.  Not a giant, or a man, his mind calmly informed him, it’s a Scarecrow. And it’s just cut off the head of one of the Sullivan brothers. For a split second, Sullivan’s horrified eyes stared at the Sherriff accusingly. Then they blinked once and Sullivan’s head toppled into the snow. All hell broke loose.

 His deputy’s gun fired a split second before his own. His bullet hit the charging thing direct in the chest. A spray of straw blew out from the back of the Scarecrow but the creatures, dozens of them, were still coming. They were almost upon him when a sharp blow struck him on the back of his head and everything began to go black. The last thing the Sheriff remembered before he passed out was the two groups of Scarecrows converging. One group was carrying burning branches.  They seemed to be fighting … each other.

 

 

The music stopped suddenly Margie and Brian stood holding each other on the dance floor. All the girls were out of breath amazed at the new exuberance of their dance partners. A loud pounding came from the front door. Emma stood up and started toward it when Melania motioned for her to stop.

The old lady stood slowly then raised one hand high above her head and closed her eyes. There was a high pitched tone almost beyond the range of hearing that seemed to come from everywhere. It slowly faded. The Straw Dandies that a moment before had been so vigorously alive went limp in the girls arms. Margie held Brian tight, he was unchanged.

Melania nodded to Emma and she answered the door.

Cloverdale’s chief of police stood holding a paper in his hand two other police officers stood behind him. “I have an order signed by Magistrate Judge Tom Walker and a medical specialist. It’s an order for a mandatory mental evaluation for Melania Descombey Kernes,” The Chief of police said. “I’m sorry but your grandmother will have to come with us.”

“Where are you taking her?” Emma gasped.

“To State Hospital North.” The Chief moved aside and two police officers walked toward the old woman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This wasn’t my doing.”

Melania turned to her granddaughter as they led her away.

“The recipe box the Ombre.  Ecco dove troverete le risposte” (that’s where you will find the answers), she whispered.

 

 

 

 

 

Lemont slid the anvil away from the trap door in his barn. An owl hooted from the rafters as he lugged away the grain sacks.

“I know you’re up and about down there,” Lemont muttered as he removed the last bag. “It’s dark out and that’s when you do your murder. I’ve lost so many before. I was hoping to hang on to you. There’s too many of you things in the woods now. There not all mine. There was plenty of others let their ones get away too. They’ll be coming after you and the rest, burning you to nothing.” He opened the trap door then scrambled up a ladder into the loft and pulled the ladder after him.

“I’ve seen you posted at her house, you want her dead as much as I do. No need to wait for the ninth there is a blood moon in the sky tonight.” Lemont yelled from above.

With a slow lurching moan the hideous black thing crawled out of the pit dragging a rotted post. The Hodmedod paused in the barns doorway and an icy chill ran through Lemont’s veins as the monstrosity slowly turned. Lemont shrunk back into the shadows away from the creature’s eyes.

The Chinaman picked up a hand held grain-cutter and swept it through the air. The barn lights reflected off its razor-sharp edge. The monster stalked through the barnyard and into the corn field … dragging the post behind him.

 

 

Margie said goodnight to Emma and then carried Brian to her aunt’s porch as the car drove away.

“Wow you’re so much heavier than I remember.” She was out of breath.

“I could have walked, she knows about me,” Brian said as he watched the car’s taillights.

“I think she suspects, but she doesn’t know how real you are.” Margie said. She was staring into the living scarecrow’s eyes and it was like looking into a dream about heaven.

“There are things that Melania should have told her,” Brian said. “Things she should have told you, about me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Margie said. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care what people think.”

“I can never be what you need, but I will always need you.” Brian hung his head.

A tremendous thump shook the ground and caused a support post on the porch to fall to the ground.

Margie and Brian stared as a huge dark figure came crashing through the corn swinging a gleaming blade in the moonlight.

 

“Run Margie! For God’s sake run!” Brian screamed.

 

To be continued …

 

 

 

 

 

 


Sunday, August 23, 2020

CARVED IN STONE part 4

Copyright (c) 2020 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.


CARVED IN STONE

Part 4

By R. Peterson

 

            “Check your eating utensils at home … see if any forks are missing!”

Sheriff John Walker blinked his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Melania Descombey smiled as she walked from the window. “You asked me how I knew a witch had come of age in Motha Forest.”

            “What does that have to do with my dinnerware?” The sheriff was surprised to see the old woman up and walking. Only moments … before Cloverdale’s resident witch had seemed ready to take her last gasp.

            “Witches send blackbirds to steal forks,” Melania told him. “They use them to cast spells.” She could read the disbelief on John’s face. “Look in that drawer next to your sink. If you can’t seem to find a fork, even an unwashed one, you might want to sprinkle a little garlic around your bed.”

“I seem to remember trying to eat a steak with a spoon the other night in Spare-a-dime,” the sheriff said. “I thought it was just a lazy dishwasher.”

            “You want to know about the Momett,’ Melania said. “There are many strange aspects to their story. I could tell you but it will be far better to show you.” The old woman lifted a tiny bell from a night-table and rang it once. The sheriff thought the sound was hardly enough to wake a gnat but Allison Weatherbee appeared at the bedroom door. “Bring a jar of the special tea labeled Tornare indietro l'orologio from the cellar and brew enough for three in the cast iron kettle.”

            “Good,” Allison smiled. “I was hoping for some travel.”

Melania told the sheriff stories about her early days while Allison was gone. When the girl returned and filled three cups Melania smiled.

 

 

            “Can you hear that noise outside?”

The sheriff took another drink of his tea. It was much better than he expected. “Sounds like a terrible wind coming up!”

            “That’s the moon moving from west to East,’ Melania said. “I’m taking you back to 1941where this all began … well most of it.”

And the sheriff, Melania and Allison walked into a dream …

 

Scarecrows part 1

By R. Peterson

 

            Margie Cleverly put the kettle on the stove for her Aunt’s tea, and then she walked out on the porch with her sewing basket. There was a breeze blowing from the southeast. A quartet of tree branches playing down by the stagnant slough, sounded like rusty door hinges. It was an unusually cold end of October and she’d been in the kitchen all evening making supper for her two younger cousins. She covered herself with a blanket. Her Aunt had been sick for almost two weeks now, two months if you counted from the time she got the letter.  Frank her aunt’s oldest son had been killed in France fighting the Germans.

Margie stood up suddenly from the old porch swing. She thought she’d seen a man striding through the cornfield. There were hardly any men in Comanche County, with the war going on. The ones that were left were either too young or too old to be noticed by a sixteen year old girl. An occasional vagabond passed by but they were mostly harmless. Clouds covered the moon and it made it hard for her to see into the corn patch. Margie stared intently into the dark; she could see someone standing there.  His silhouette stood out against the blue black sky.

A loud thump shook the ground. The moon gently crept out from behind the clouds and illuminated a scarecrow, erected on land that belonged to Mr. Hicks the next door neighbor. The figure was nailed to a leaning fence post, in a field of cut cornstalks. 

She now knew what it was, but her mind made it into something more.

Silver button eyes stared at her from under a fractured leather hat and from the outside of a rotted grain sack.  A torn red handkerchief sewn-on for a scowling mouth dared her to turn her back, with a voice like wind in a cemetery. The rotted fence post shook as the demon with shabby gloved hands struggled to get free.

 It was just a scarecrow, similar to the one she was sewing blue button eyes on now, but something about the thing standing in the corn stubble made ice run through her veins. She bounded as the tea-kettle began to whistle from inside the kitchen. Margie dropped her scarecrow, gathered up the buttons, thread and needles and ran, slamming the porch door, as she fled into the small unpainted house.

Just after midnight the old door creaking sound of the branches stopped and everything was deathly silent, even the cold wind abated. The silver button eyes on the hanging scarecrow began to bulge outward. First one then the other button broke loose from the grain sack and fell to the ground. Murky eyes appeared in the holes left by the missing buttons; they looked in both directions then focused on the house. The red cloth sewn on for a mouth began to twist and tear   forming words. They sounds came out softly but in the extreme silence they could be heard. “I’m going to eat you,” the thing said.

 

 

Margie woke to pounding on the front door. She tied a bathrobe around her and climbed the ladder down from the loft bedroom she shared with Charles and Samuel. The clock above the kitchen stove said 8:00 a.m. Emma Hicks had told her she would be there early, to help with the chores, take Charlie and Sam to school and give Margie a break. Emma used to be her aunt’s next door neighbor before she divorced her husband and moved into town. She was her aunt Momett’s best friend and had been coming regularly since her illness.

“How’s my girl today?” Emma asked when Margie opened the door. She swept in without being invited she was like family.

“I just woke up.” Margie said sleepily. “But I think she slept all night.”

Emma tittered. “I was talking about you,” she said.

She sat an armload of food on the kitchen table then walked back and peered outside before she closed the front door.

            “Lemont was in the corn stubble pulling up a Tatty Bogal when I drove up,” Emma said. “He turned and walked away dragging the post; he wouldn’t even look at me. I guess he’s still mad because he don’t get to whomp on me anymore.”

            “What’s a Tatty Bogal?” Margie asked.

            “A scarecrow, it must have posted itself near your house. You need to be careful now, once they post you know they want something.”

Margie looked at Emma and smiled, she figured her aunt’s friend was pulling her leg. With the Dance of the Scarecrows Festival in two weeks, that’s all the people in the county talked about.

            “Oh Emma, I wish you still lived close. I know why you left and all, but I do miss you and Mommet does too. She’s just all tore up since Uncle Harold died and then Frank.”

            “Well I’ve got something to make her feel better.” Emma said as she pulled a cloth cover off a big pot of soup.

            “It smells delicious.” Margie could sniff the aroma of the herb seasonings Emma used in her cooking.

Emma cackled as she un-wrapped two loaves of still warm bread.

 “It better be, I chased that rooster from mother’s coop to the other side of Cloverdale.” She strolled to the closed door on the side of the hall leading to the bathroom.  “I better see if I can get your Mommet to eat something,” she said.

 

 

 

Lemont Hicks dragged the scarecrow back to his farm buildings. He leaned the splintered post with the effigy hanging from it, against a milking stall, while he opened a trap door in the floor of the barn. He never took his eyes off the thing as he worked and he kept a butane torch and a lighter near him, just in case. The entity didn’t move, not so much as a twitch, but it was daylight and the moon was sleeping.

“You’re like a dog that won’t stay home,” he muttered as he lugged it to the open pit. One arm caught as he tried to shove the thing down the hole and chills ran down his spine for a moment as he grasped the scarecrow’s hand and tucked it next to the body. He hated to touch it, but he knew it was better than having the thing touch him. He watched it slide slowly down the rickety old stairs like a dead body.

“You don’t go posting till I say.” Lemont sneered as he thought about his estranged wife and that whore friend of hers, the one who that had talked her into running off. “You just wait till I say.”

He closed the thick square of oak timbers, and then put a lock on the recessed clasp. He kicked dirt and straw over the door to hide it, then rocked and tugged an anvil till it rested on the lid. He stared at his work then added five 100 lb. sacks of grain for good measure.

            He left the barn and staggered toward his chicken coop. The door hung from one hinge.  The ground inside and out was carpeted with feathers and blood.

            “Lavar!” Lemont shouted. “Damn you! You left the door open. It was out last night! All our chickens have been murdered, I followed China Man’s tracks but who knows where he’s been. Damn you boy! Get out here.”

A nine year old toe head dressed in torn bib overalls and wearing no shoes, stuck his head around the corner of the pump-house. He was blinking and quivering with a face the color of mud.

            “It wasn’t me pa, someone was here last night, laughing talking like the Tatty Bogal. I think it was them let the Moggy go.” He began to toddle toward his stepfather dragging his feet. “Please don’t whip me pa.” He began to cry.

            “Come here boy.” Lamont ordered as he slid his belt from his pant loops. “We got us some sins to skin.”

 

 

            Emma lifted Margie’s scarecrow form from the corner of the porch and looked at it. Clean cotton bags had been carefully sewn together and stuffed with finely ground straw almost like sawdust to make the arms, legs and torso. The head lay nearby, not attached yet. Margie had been sewing on buttons for eyes and colored cloth for mouth, nose and ears. Emma giggled. “Blue eyes! You’re Straw Dandy is so handsome! I wish he was courting me.”

            “You still have time to make your own dance partner.” Margie said. She lifted the head and picked at some loose stitching. “After all, me being in this scarecrow dance was your idea.”

            “I have my own parts in the festival.” Emma said. “Just remember to finish the body today then bring it tomorrow night, this is making day. Don’t put any clothing on your Straw Dandy yet, that’s dress day on the third.” Emma had gone through the festival itinerary with Margie before but she counted on her fingers as if it were very important.  “The festival runs on odd days. One is making day, three is dress, five is courting, seven is love, nine is loss, eleven is joining and thirteen is the fire. Tomorrow is an even day we’ll just practice the dance steps.” She held the legs of Margie’s scarecrow up and looked at the feet. “Make sure these straps are tight. We don’t want you tripping and having your courting man fall on you.” She laughed. “What would Mommet think?”

 

 

            Lemont took highway 13 into Cloverdale. He made a left turn on Wallace then another on East Garlow, pulling into the parking lot behind the Spare-a-dime café. He could have driven down Main Street, it would have been closer, but then the gang inside would have laughed at the blue smoke his old ford was puffing. Lemont hated laughter when it was directed at him, and loved it when it was laid on someone else. His wrist still hurt from the beating he had given Lavar. “He shouldn’t have tried to run,” he muttered as he walked in the back door of the diner.

 

 

            Margie lifted the scarecrow head and studied it from the kitchen table, the blue buttons for eyes were a good touch but she didn’t like the mouth. The bristly black stitching made the thing look evil like Mr. Hick’s scarecrow, the one that had scared her. She was glad he had taken it down. It must have been in the corn patch all along and I didn’t notice it till the corn was cut, she rationalized. She looked again at the instructions Emma had given her, follow them exactly she had written, below the description of the gloomy thread cross-stiches for the smile. Margie began to carefully pick the black thread from the mouth. I have a better idea she thought to herself and after all it is my boyfriend. She grinned as she thought about how she was going to dress him.

 

 

            Lavar sat in a booth next to a large glass window that looked out on Townsend Avenue. There were as many horses pulling wagons as cars on the hard-working street.  Ed Fowler, Tom Walker and Larry Putnam were there drinking coffee and eating pie along with a man he didn’t know. Mrs. Yokohama was there with a clean cup and a hot pot of coffee as soon as he sat down.

            “Good morning day to you Mr. Hicks,” she sang as she filled his cup with coffee. Lemont ignored her.

“You want lots of apple pie today, very good - ask them.” She pointed to the other men at the table, their plates were almost empty. Tom Walker stuffed a piece of crust in his mouth as she refilled his cup.

            “Of course I want pie, why the hell you think I come in this dump for?” Lemont bellowed. His friends laughed.

            “Coming right up! You like apple pie very much I bet!” Mrs. Yokohama scurried away.

            “Dirty little slant eyed chink.” Larry Putman watched her carry a load of dirty plates into the kitchen.

“You think she’s got a two way radio back there?” He asked the others as he spooned sugar into his coffee.

            “Of course she does,” Tom Walker said. “Look what they did to us at Pearl Harbor, sneaking is their way, and I sold Iron to them murdering Jap devils for ten years.”

            “We ought to go back there smash it and make Jap Mary Yokohama eat it.” Ed Fowler said, “After I show her what we do to Japanese women,” the others laughed. He stood up and rocked his hips back and forth, but sat back down quickly when the old lady came bustling back with Lemont’s pie and another pot of coffee.

After Mrs. Yokohama left Ed Fowler looked around then leaned in close to Lemont, he gestured to the stranger sitting with them. “This here is Dr. Louis O’Conner he’s from Mississippi, he’s Putman’s cousin and he’s one of them mind doctors.”

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Dr. O’Conner said.

Larry nodded looked at his cousin and grinned. “He’s been around the block a few times. We can trust him and we can use him.”

He looked at Walker “Ain’t that right Judge?” Tom Walker glanced at Dr. Louis then at the others. “I checked him out – He’s Ku Klux Klan, Death to Roosevelt - Dewey Republican, Saltillo Fellowship Baptist Church, he comes from respectable blood.”

            Louis O’Conner said “Pleased to meet yawl, I ain’t much for chewing the fat, just tell me what you got.”

            “Lemont’s grandmother in law is a witch,” Tom said.

            “Ain’t they all,” Dr. Louis snorted.

            “I’m talking the real supernatural kind,” Tom looked around the room, nobody seemed to be eavesdropping. A group of old men were clustered around a wood burning stove, listening to Lowell Thomas give a radio report on the war. “About thirteen years back, 1931 I think it was. Lemont’s wife’s grandmother Melania Descombey Karnes cast a spell on a scarecrow. The damn thing up and come to life. Old Lemont here stole the recipe card from the old lady; it tells how to make them come alive. Once them buggers are conjured up they’re hard as heck to kill and the longer they’re around the nastier they get. That’s when our scarecrow festival got started. It runs every November from the first to the thirteenth. You’ve seen the posters?”

            “How could I miss them?” Dr. Louis said.

            “At the end of each festival there’s a big bonfire all the scarecrows in the county get burned.”

            “So what you need me for?” Dr. Lewis asked.

            “There are lots of different scarecrows,” The Judge said. “There’s the Tatty Bogals and the Straw Dandy’s they’re your regular garden variety and are mostly worthless. Then there’s the Moggies and the Shufts, they can get mean and usually do. The best ones are the Hodmedods, they’re big, strong and they love killing.”

Ed Fowler interrupted “Most of us have at least one Moggie or Shuft hidden away, a few even have a Hodmedod that can put to good use when the need arises.” He looked at Lemont and Lemont glared back at him.

The Judge continued.  “The Old Lady Karnes has a few too and if need be she can make more, there is a special breed called Shay, excellent trackers. She uses them to hunt down the renegades and make sure they get invited to the bonfires.”

Ed picked up the sugar jar to lace his coffee, it was empty, he pointed it at Dr. Lewis.

            “What we need from you is a mandate committing the old lady to State Hospital North; it shouldn’t be too hard,” he said. “She believes that scarecrows come to life, besides she must be seventy years old.”

            “She’s seventy four, born in 1870. She has a brother in town who’s a second generation doctor, a general practitioner - I have a file on her,” the Judge said.

Ed continued. “Once she’s out of the way we can do whatever we want. Dewey will be president in six days. He will own the country and we will own this county.” Ed smiled. “If anybody gets in our way, they get a visit from Lemont’s Chinaman.”

Lemont scowled at him. “Shut your yap,” he said.

“It’s no big secret,” Ed protested. “Everybody knows you got one, just not where you keep it.”

“I can sign a few papers, no big deal,” the Doctor said. “But how do you get these things to obey you? You can’t just tell them to kill and they do it. Can you?”

“The day of each cycle,” Ed said “The anniversary of when they were created, they can’t refuse any request from their maker, stalking, scaring, killing you name it and it’s done.”

“Any anniversaries coming up?” the doctor asked.

“The ninth” Ed looked at Lemont “Isn’t that right?”

Lemont looked angry at first then he shrugged his shoulders “That’s right.” he said.

Ed got up and walked to an empty table and brought back a full glass sugar jar. After he had laced his coffee, he took the lid off a saltshaker and emptied the salt into his empty sugar jar. Then he filled the salt shaker with sugar. He promenaded over and set the two corrupted containers on the empty table. “Dirty little slant eyed chink,” he said as he walked back to the laughter coming from his booth.

The radio was playing “That old Black Magic” by Glen Miller when Joe Walker the county sheriff walked in with his deputy. “Let’s get out of here,” Judge Walker said as he watched his brother walk to the counter.

            Mrs. Yokohama appeared with a ticket just as the men stood up. “Everything is A Ok?” she asked.

            “I’m afraid not,” Larry Putman said. “You should have washed your dishes better; we ain’t paying for dirty food.”

They were almost to the door when Sheriff Walker stood up. “Just a minute there boys. I noticed you walked right past the checkout with-out paying.”

            “The plates were dirty.” Ed said. “We don’t pay for slop.”

The Sheriff walked over to their booth. “But you ate every piece.” He picked the tab check off the table. “Pie and coffee, that’ll be thirty five cents each,” he glared at them. “Unless you want to work it off.”

“Look here Joe, you can’t …” The Judge didn’t finish. The Sheriff grabbed him by the shirt collar.

“I used to think you ran with the wrong crowd.” He looked at the men. “Now I think they do.” He shoved his brother away. He watched as the men dug money from their pockets and laid it on the table. They walked out the front door without saying anything.

Mrs. Yokohama hurried up to the Sheriff. “I’m big sorry,” she said. “I don’t want to make some trouble.”

The Sheriff smiled at her. “How about some pie,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Margie finished sewing the grin on her scarecrow’s face. She used a pale pink fabric and the mouth really opened. It looked almost real. “You don’t look at all bad now - Brian,” she said. She giggled as she hugged the stuffed figure. On impulse she leaned forward and kissed the pink cloth lips. She pulled back startled. It was a strange new amatory feeling. A tingling sensation swept down her back and delighted her toes. She took a deep breath then another. There was a gentle ache in the back of her throat that was somehow sensual. The blue button eyes twinkled, she felt enchanted as she gazed into them. They seemed to be looking at her.

“No, not bad at all my dear Brian,” she whispered.

 

 

Ed Fowler stood with the four men next to Tom Walker’s 36 Ford Coup. “The first thing we got to do is get rid of your damned brother the sheriff.”  He looked at the Judge.

            “I agree, but it’s got to be done correctly. We’ll  need a killer who’ll be caught. We need someone to accuse. I think I know a way to lure him away from town and get him someplace alone.” The judge looked at Lemont. “You still want to get even with that bitch, the one who talked your wife into leaving you?”

            Lemont had been half listening now he perked up. “I wouldn’t mind giving her some trouble.”

            “Then let your Hodmedod out for a little anniversary night-time stroll, have him visit your friend Emma’s place. Have it slaughter everyone in the house. When the Sheriff shows up the murderer’s going to get him too.”

            “This had better work,” Ed said.

            “With my brother gone I’ll have to appoint a new Sheriff,” the judge said. “Who wants the job?”  

 

 

            Emma Hicks walked into the two story house she now shared with her grandmother.  Melania Descombey Karnes sat in a rocking chair, by the parlor window, looking out at the first falling snow of the year. “Grandmother you’re too close to the window, you’ll catch a cold!” She picked up a heavy quilt from the back of a sofa and draped it across the old lady’s shoulders. “I hate to see this snow so soon. It’s going to make it cold for the Scarecrow festival.”

            “The snow will be gone and it will be dry on the thirteenth,” Melania said. “La paglia brucerà ancora (the straw will still burn).”

            “How can you be so sure? How do you always know what will be?” Emma asked her grandmother.

            “The future is always what you believe; it can be no other way.” She looked at her granddaughter and smiled. “I’m happy that you’re living with me now, Lemont was no good for you, I knew that when you first brought him home, but any mother must allow her children to be wrong, to learn right. Many things in life have to go their own way.”

 

 

 

Emma sat down and put her head in her hands.

“I think it was Lemont who took the card from your Ombre box grandmother, he knows about the magic. I think he has been hiding a Hodmedod.”

“Yes he hides it in a hollow under his barn, soon he will send it out to do murder.” The old woman turned to her granddaughter. “Ha fatto un cattivo spaventapasseri, (he has made a bad scarecrow). He wasn’t careful, Egli non ha utilizzato il panno bianco, (he didn’t use the white cloth.)” Melania was looking out the window, but not at the snow covered landscape. She seemed to be looking through it. She gestured to her granddaughter to come to her, and then caressed her cheek as she whispered. “You must be careful my little one, very careful.”

 

 

It was nighttime when Lemont lifted the grain sacks off the heavy door in the floor of his barn, then with some effort slid the anvil to one side. He stood looking downward for several moments. Fear washed over him like an icy shower, the thing below had begun to shift. He could hear a faint rustling, and the grating sound of the post being dragged along the dirt floor. Lemont grabbed the two live chickens with their feet bound and tossed them into the pit then slammed down the lid. He quickly replaced the anvil and the grain bags. He sank to the floor exhausted and listened as the chickens trapped below shrieked loudly, then were suddenly silenced.

“Be satisfied for now,” he whispered to the entity in the darkness below him. “Soon you will have humans as food to gobble on.”

 

 

A group of timeworn men huddled next to the woodstove inside the Spare-a-dime diner, listening to the radio. Allied troops from Canada had just secured the island of Walcheren off the coast of Belgium. A blood bath was taking place as the Germans fought furiously to re-take the strategic position. In the town of Cloverdale another war was just about to begin. A battle on a much smaller scale but just as strange, just as significant and just as bloody.

 

To be continued …