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          If you are reading this now, it means that you have found the book. I have done my best to hide it, but I knew that someday, someone would find it amongst my possessions. I cannot know who is reading this now, be it my children, my grandchildren or perhaps someone else entirely. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you heed my warning. Though it is just an ancient book, it is a dangerous thing. The knowledge within it is not the real danger. What you should fear is what it can summon. It was a lesson I learned when I was just a young boy.

            When I was young, our family’s farm was not doing well. The growing seasons always seemed to be poor, and our crop yields were low. With our meager harvests, we were just barely getting by. Those years were rough, especially during the long winters. It was a heavy weight that sat upon the whole family, but I know it hung the heaviest on my father. He felt that the whole family’s well being was his responsibility, and he was failing everyone. It was his lands that bore little fruit, his hard work that came up empty each time. He did everything that he could, but it wasn’t nearly enough. His farm was failing, as was his brother’s. My father’s brother owned the fields near ours, and he was faring no better. The two had split up the land that they inherited from their own father, looking to support their family with their share. With how things were going, both families were equally suffering. That was until one strange season.

            One summer, my dad came into the house one day and talked to my mother about his brother’s fields. He was saying that his crop was coming up quite early, and his fields were looking green. Sure enough, when we went out to look, his fields were indeed thriving. Young green plants were bursting from the soil, which was a great improvement from the past years. Our fields looked pitiful in comparison, and I am sure that was what my father was thinking about all day. He talked to his brother about this apparent success, but he claimed he didn’t do anything different. “Must finally be my year,” he cheerfully said, happy to at last have things going for him. For us children, we saw this as a wonderful sign. Surely that would mean our fields would be next. Our fields would be just as green and lively as his sometime soon. They just had to. My father, though, was not so naïve. I remember the sour look on his face as he walked back to the house that day. That wasn’t the only thing that stuck in my mind from that day, though. When I was looking over the ripe, green field, I remember seeing a scarecrow posted in the middle. Standing tall over the young crop, a sentinel against the crows and pests. At the time, I believed he had put it up to protect his crops. Now that he finally had some good growth, he didn’t want the crows to ruin it all for him. It turned out, it wasn’t all that simple.

            As the weeks went on, our family watched his fields grow in health and size. All while our fields struggled to match them. At first, my dad tried to appear happy for his brother. He would say that they deserved to have such a good break. That he was glad that his brother would have a good yield this year. Deep inside, though, we knew it tore him up. To have such success openly mocking him. His brother didn’t say such things; it was his fields that did all the talking. They stood tall and proud while his lands failed him. All his hard work coming to squat, while his brother’s efforts bringing absolute victory. When the time harvest came, his brother filled dozens of wagons with his crop. His store rooms were filled to bursting, and his purse soon followed suit when he went to market. Our family was nowhere close to such success. We could hardly afford to sell our own crop, because it was the only food we had to survive the winter. While we reaped the fields, I remember seeing my dad stare over at his brother’s property from time to time. Even a hardened man like him couldn’t overcome the jealousy. It got even worse when his brother came over and offered to help our family out. Some food, some money, anything we needed to help make it through the coming winter. To our family, they were gifts. To my father, it was a stab to the gut. Of course he accepted the help, because he wanted the best for his family. To have another man take better care of his own family then he could was soul-crushing. My mother did her best to assure him, but it did very little. I was afraid that the guilt would kill him before any winter chill could.

            That bountiful harvest turned out to not be some freak accident. The next year, my uncle had another massive crop and the following years brought the same. Their poor, struggling family was now rolling in the wealth, at least to us. He used his new found luck to buy more land and goods. Their crumbling barn was renovated, and their house gained a few extra rooms. Their three children now went out of town for schooling, while we remained to care for the fields. While my uncle gained new wealth and lands, he lost his humbleness. There were some days when I wondered if he remembered we were related. Surely someone so successful wouldn’t be tied to such lowly peasants. As his brother grew more boastful, my father grew to despise his success more vocally. No matter where we were at, be it at the dinner table or in the fields, he always had a harsh word to say about his brother. He refused anything his brother tried to give us, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t want any of his sympathy or his help. My father wanted nothing to do with it.

            One year, though, things started to change. It was the year that my uncle sought to build a new house for his family. They had people working around the clock building their new home. They even had to move some boxes of their own stuff into our barn while construction progressed. Father raised a lot of ruckus when that happened. Their old farmhouse was run down and old, it needed replacing. If you asked my dad, he would claim that his brother was doing this because he didn’t want his family to look poor. Their farmhouse was too dirty and plain to be worthy, so it had to go. They needed new and flashy, they needed the opulence. I don’t know if that was the reason or not, but my father was sure of it. He hated his successful brother like the devil. He wished that God would come down one day and strike some humility into the greedy man. It seemed someone heard his words.

            It started with some things going missing. His kids came to our doorstep asking if we had “borrowed” some of their tools. My father was furious at the accusations; my mom had to stop him from stomping over to his brother’s house and dragging him out by his ears. We had nothing to do with their missing tools, but that soon became the least of their worries. Other sorts of bad luck began to plague them. A blight came to their crops, bringing wither and rot to them. What cattle they had began to grow sick, and their henhouse was raided by some nocturnal predator. Not long after, their oldest son broke his arm. He had been up in the barn when the floorboards broke beneath him. Which was odd for such a new barn. When we heard these stories, we secretly smiled at their misfortune. While we weren’t doing any better, at least they weren’t having it so easy. I know my father enjoyed every one of them. He wouldn’t show it, but I know at night he would go to sleep with a smile on his face. Someone was knocking his brother down a peg, and he loved every second of it.

            Things took a bizarre turn when my uncle came to our doorstep one night, begging to see our father. He was frantic, I remember him having a wild, desperate look in his eye. Though my father hated his brother, he was concerned with his distress. The two went into the house to talk, leaving the business between men. Though the kids were not allowed to hear, I snuck outside to listen by the window. I just had to know what terrified my uncle so. The first thing I heard was my father arguing with his brother. My uncle had asked to buy our entire harvest, every bit of it. My father was sure it was some cruel joke, some kind of mockery of our situation. We needed that food for ourselves. To sell it all would leave our pantries empty for the winter. His brother claimed we could just use the money to buy more food, but my father refused. This seemed to throw my uncle into an even greater panic. He practically demanded to have our harvest, no matter how much money it cost. He said that “they” needed to be paid, like he was in some kind of debt. My father scoffed at this and told him to give them his money if he was so ready to throw it away. My uncle cried out that “money means nothing to them.” I remember being so confused by that statement. Why would someone not want money? You could buy anything you wanted with it! It seemed strange for debt collectors to not want money. My father told him to use his own crop, but his brother claimed he had already sold too much. No one else around had enough alone to “make the payment.” He needed to buy every bit he could find to break even, and if my father refused he would be a “dead man.” My father angrily refused any offer he gave, unwilling to help his brother in the slightest. He figured it was time my uncle learned a lesson. Perhaps now he would learn some humility. At that point, his brother practically lost his mind. My father threw him out our door and told him to never come back. If he saw him steal a single ear of corn, my father would nail his hide to the barn.

            I told my siblings about this panicked confrontation, and we were all curious about what was going on. We came up with the idea that our uncle owed money to some mob leader or something. Some loan man that gave him the funds to build this brand new house. Now his goons had come to collect, and he was empty handed. What didn’t make sense, though, was the idea that they didn’t accept money. What thug didn’t want money? We couldn’t figure it out, but we all made sure to keep an eye on our uncle’s property the next day. We didn’t want to miss the show.

            The following day, our curiosity paid off. We watched our uncle run out into his dying fields, out to the scarecrow that stood amongst the rotting crop. I was confused by his actions. What did he want with an old, worn scarecrow? It had been stuck in the field for years, what could it possible offer? It surely didn’t have anything of value. My sister joked that he was going to try hiding in the scarecrow so the collectors couldn’t find him. It was funny at the moment, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. He started screaming at the dummy, spraying it with curses and swears we were too young to understand. He stomped and fumed at the thing, jabbing his finger at it and making all sorts of noise. Obviously, the scarecrow said nothing in return, and that somehow offended him. In frenzy, he tore the scarecrow from its post and flung it to the ground. He kicked it and stomped on it, screaming to the heavens as he did. We laughed at him, it seemed so comical. He was fighting a man made of straw and burlap. It didn’t exactly seem like a fair fight. To finish the assault off, he brought out a torch and lit the scarecrow up. The dried dummy went up in an instant, consumed in flame. At last, a sense of calm came to our uncle and he disappeared back into his house. We did not see him the rest of the day. We told our father about the odd behavior, but he didn’t comment much about it. I wonder if it made him think of the night before. Was this threat his brother was ranting about truly real? I didn’t know, as my father said little else about the situation. Perhaps there was some truth to his crazed words. When night fell, that uncertainty quickly vanished.

            I remember waking up in the middle of the night, for what reason, I didn’t know. Something just seemed wrong when I was roused. As if I could feel a storm brewing before it even arrived. The air itself felt wrong, and I wondered what was going on. My room was still dark, lit only by the glowing moon outside. My siblings were still asleep in their beds; I was the only one who had been disturbed. Everything around me seemed in place, so I decided to take a look outside. Perhaps something outside was the source of it all. I got out of my bed and went to the window. I didn’t see anything near our home, so I turned my eyes to my uncle’s property. His fields were cut and harvested; only a few sparse stands of stalks remained. The fields were not empty though. There were figures standing in the dirt, beings who were slowly stalking their way to the new farmhouse. I was too far away to make them out, but something seemed off about them. Their silhouettes were all wrong, their shapes didn’t seem human. I was terrified by the sight, but was drawn to it just the same. It was so bizarre; it had to be a dream. Perhaps that was why I had the courage to creep outside and take a closer look. I didn’t think it was real, I thought it was all just some strange nightmare. I slipped out the window, leaving my sleeping siblings behind. I slunk my way through the weeds and crept to a hiding spot where I could get a better look. At last, I could make out the figures that stood in my uncle’s fields. What I saw was so outlandish; my mind couldn’t even believe they were real.

            His fields were filled with scarecrows, of all shapes and sizes. Creatures scrapped together by cloth, metal, straw and bone. Some walked like men, some stalked about like animals, and others were too alien to understand. Heads made of bags, buckets and skulls. Limbs crafted from wood, rope and metal. Some skittered on spidery legs, while other squirmed through the soil on boneless tendrils. They filled the fields, seemingly appearing from nowhere. All heads were turned to my uncle’s house, and they all lurched their way to the house. The creaking and squeaking of their limbs filled the night air, and a strange murmuring sound seemed to resonate from their false throats. A violent crashing sound startled me, and I realized that the first wave of scarecrows reached the house. They were all armed with farm tools, each of them coated in a layer of dirt and rust. They smashed their weapons against the doors, tearing at the wood that stood between them and their victims. The windows shattered as other attackers breached the house. As the junk-built puppets climbed into the broken windows, I heard a piercing scream come from within. The family was now awake, and they were trapped in the middle of a very real nightmare.

            The screams and cries within the house didn’t bother the scarecrows in the least. Their assault continued on as they ripped through the doors and walls. I couldn’t hear much over the chaos, but I was sure a struggle was taking place within. Suddenly, the scarecrows pulled away from the house, as if it was a cornered animal ready to strike. Those that had gone into the house now poured from the broken orifices. A group of the fleeing scarecrows held something between them. It was a torn red thing, reminiscent of a slaughtered cow. I knew it was not an animal, but I refused to accept it. The scarecrows had retreated into a circle around the house, creating an impenetrable wall of straw men. Had they claimed what they wanted, or were they waiting for something else? My answer came from a shudder in the earth. Somewhere in the darkness, the soil and plants surged and boiled. A great form erupted from the earth, and stomped its way to the encircled house. The scarecrows parted their masses to allow it passage to the trapped inhabitants. It was a scarecrow like them, but massive in size. Its face was flat and wooden; there were no eyes or mouth. Torn clothes hung from its frame and barbed wire entwined every limb. It was its hands that caught my eye. The fingers were blades of all shapes and sizes. Axes, sickles and swords that whirred and chopped the air. Without hesitation, the giant abomination plowed its way into the house, shattering the wooden walls as if they were glass. The screams grew louder, but they couldn’t overtake the crunching of wood and the shearing of planks. The other instrument that joined this horrid symphony was laughter. The scarecrows were laughing and joking as the monstrosity tore its way through the home. This nightmare was just a fun outing for them.

            Something ran past my hiding spot as I stared at the carnage. For a second I thought of running back to the house, but I was afraid I would give myself away if I moved. I buried myself deeper in the weeds, searching for the creature that passed by. The startling arrival wasn’t by some animal or scarecrow, but by my father. Still in his night clothes, he ran through the field to the house of his brother. He was armed with an ax, and was yelling something out to the beings that encircled the home. I was shocked to see my father, as I had assumed this strange dream only involved me. How was he here amongst all this? His charge forth faltered as he caught sight of his enemies. Never had he imagined facing a foe so warped and strange. He screamed something at them, and resumed rushing to his brother’s aid. One scarecrow broke away from the crowd and approached him. He raised his ax to cut down his opponent. An arm no thicker than a broom stick swung out and sent him tumbling back like a rag doll. He scrambled in the dirt, trying to regain his bearings when the scarecrow came up to him and yanked the ax from his hands. He tried to fight back, but a swift kick from a cow bone leg caused him to fly back even farther. The rickety being just turned around and rejoined its brethren. Just as it did, a few scarecrows in the front burst into flame. Their brothers stood beside them with lit torches, striking the burning scarecrows with the burning ends. With a cackle, these flaming beings sprinted to the crumbling household and flung themselves inside. Within seconds, the entire house burst into flames. The chaos inside the house had died down, and the massive scarecrow exited the building as the flames claimed it. In its claws were two squirming figures. It dropped them to the ground, and the scarecrows swarmed. They grabbed the prisoners and began to drag them to the fields. The giant being raised its claws in the air, and the moonlight flickered on its blood-soaked claws. It was then I finally screamed.

            I cried out at the horrible sight, of bloody blades and burning homes. Of my uncle and one of his sons who struggled to escape the clutches of the scarecrows. I screamed as loud as I could, hoping that the noise would wake me from this horrible nightmare. My father’s head whipped to my hiding spot, shocked by my presence. I was too scared to run, to even move from my spot. For a second, my father looked between me and his captured brother. Torn between two of his kin. With a cry, he turned away from his brother and ran to me. I caught a glimpse of his face before he swept me up in his arms. His eyes were wide and scared. My father, the man of stone, was terrified. He grabbed me and ran back to the house, never slowing for a moment. He didn’t dare look back at the gruesome scene, but I did.

            As my father fled, I looked back at the family we had abandoned. I saw the burning house and bloodied creature, but I caught sight of something worse. I saw the scarecrows that pulled the screaming humans behind them. They were lurching their way to the weeds and corn, which swayed wildly in the breezeless night. The one thing I will always remember is that they glowed. Something beyond the corn glowed with the light of the harvest moon. A sickening searing orange that burned like a world on fire. I gave one last scream as the scarecrows stepped into the blinding light and then I passed out.

            I woke the next morning, unable to recall anything that happened after my blackout. Our family quickly dressed and rushed outside. The fields were empty in the morning light, no life stirred. Our uncle’s house was a pile of ash and blackened wood, weak coils of smoke trailing from the torched remains. The ground was torn and stirred, as if an army had rushed through the fields. We searched the wreckage for any survivors, hoping that someone was spared during this nightmarish attack. We found no bodies in the burnt rubble. We searched the fields, hoping to find them. We finally did. Three posts were erected in the barren fields, each one baring a scarecrow of their own. Except these scarecrows were made from the family, or what little was left of them. They were the bodies of my aunt and two of her children. My uncle and his other child were not there. They weren’t anywhere. We spent hours searching the fields and the weeds. They were nowhere to be found. It was as if they had simply vanished from this world.

            It wasn’t until years later when I truly understood what had happened that night. I was an older boy then, searching through the junk in our barn for a replacement part. It was there I found the boxes. The crates that came from my uncle’s house before that horrid night claimed them. Curious, I rummaged through it. I don’t know what I hoped to find, but I certainly found something interesting. It was on old book, so old that I thought it would crumble in my grip. The paper was ancient and stained, the cover wrapped in dried corn husks. I opened it, wondering what it could possibly contain. It held the words of soil and root. It held the words of the scarecrows.

            What I learned from that book I shall not write here, you can easily read all that yourself. What I shall say is that you must be wary of the things that book promises. It speaks of ceremonies that can bring forth the scarecrows, to call a meeting with beings old as the earth itself. Of how you can make a deal with these beings, one that can make barren fields bountiful and failing crops thrive. The scarecrows can make such things happen, but this comes with a price. The scarecrows do not work for free, they require payment. A portion of the harvest must be sacrificed to them, so that the deal may continue. They care not for gold or coin; they seek the bounty of the fields. One must pay this price, lest the deal become void and the scarecrows reclaim what is theirs. My uncle was lured in by this deal, desperate for any path to success. He called forth the scarecrows and struck a bargain with them. They would make his fields bloom, and he would repay their services. It was a fair deal, until the infection of greed crept in. Until someone wanted more and more. Asking for more than they could pay. The scarecrows demand equal payment. They demand that their services be repaid. They demand that no harm comes to their emissaries. Each being who deals with the scarecrows is given an emissary, one who speaks to the crows. They are the ones who bring the crops and the growth. Those who ward away the pests and disease. Not a hand should be laid on these emissaries, lest the wrath of the scarecrows come down upon them.

            To whoever reads this, beware the scarecrows. They are beings older than you can imagine, and capable of more than you think. The deals they make are tempting, offering a way out for those in need. That is why I have not destroyed the book, because there may be a time when we truly need their help. When our family’s land is threatened by drought or debt, perhaps we shall make the same deal then. If that time does come, obey the laws of the scarecrows. Honor the deal. It seems like a perfect deal, one without flaw or loophole. There is a flaw though, and it is us. Scarecrows are incorruptible beings, but we are not.
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Well, that went way longer than I thought! Sorry about that! If you somehow read all that, congrats!

And it is October! Halloween season! Lets get them scarecrows out!

Description

          If you are reading this now, it means that you have found the book. I have done my best to hide it, but I knew that someday, someone would find it amongst my possessions. I cannot know who is reading this now, be it my children, my grandchildren or perhaps someone else entirely. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you heed my warning. Though it is just an ancient book, it is a dangerous thing. The knowledge within it is not the real danger. What you should fear is what it can summon. It was a lesson I learned when I was just a young boy.

            When I was young, our family’s farm was not doing well. The growing seasons always seemed to be poor, and our crop yields were low. With our meager harvests, we were just barely getting by. Those years were rough, especially during the long winters. It was a heavy weight that sat upon the whole family, but I know it hung the heaviest on my father. He felt that the whole family’s well being was his responsibility, and he was failing everyone. It was his lands that bore little fruit, his hard work that came up empty each time. He did everything that he could, but it wasn’t nearly enough. His farm was failing, as was his brother’s. My father’s brother owned the fields near ours, and he was faring no better. The two had split up the land that they inherited from their own father, looking to support their family with their share. With how things were going, both families were equally suffering. That was until one strange season.

            One summer, my dad came into the house one day and talked to my mother about his brother’s fields. He was saying that his crop was coming up quite early, and his fields were looking green. Sure enough, when we went out to look, his fields were indeed thriving. Young green plants were bursting from the soil, which was a great improvement from the past years. Our fields looked pitiful in comparison, and I am sure that was what my father was thinking about all day. He talked to his brother about this apparent success, but he claimed he didn’t do anything different. “Must finally be my year,” he cheerfully said, happy to at last have things going for him. For us children, we saw this as a wonderful sign. Surely that would mean our fields would be next. Our fields would be just as green and lively as his sometime soon. They just had to. My father, though, was not so naïve. I remember the sour look on his face as he walked back to the house that day. That wasn’t the only thing that stuck in my mind from that day, though. When I was looking over the ripe, green field, I remember seeing a scarecrow posted in the middle. Standing tall over the young crop, a sentinel against the crows and pests. At the time, I believed he had put it up to protect his crops. Now that he finally had some good growth, he didn’t want the crows to ruin it all for him. It turned out, it wasn’t all that simple.

            As the weeks went on, our family watched his fields grow in health and size. All while our fields struggled to match them. At first, my dad tried to appear happy for his brother. He would say that they deserved to have such a good break. That he was glad that his brother would have a good yield this year. Deep inside, though, we knew it tore him up. To have such success openly mocking him. His brother didn’t say such things; it was his fields that did all the talking. They stood tall and proud while his lands failed him. All his hard work coming to squat, while his brother’s efforts bringing absolute victory. When the time harvest came, his brother filled dozens of wagons with his crop. His store rooms were filled to bursting, and his purse soon followed suit when he went to market. Our family was nowhere close to such success. We could hardly afford to sell our own crop, because it was the only food we had to survive the winter. While we reaped the fields, I remember seeing my dad stare over at his brother’s property from time to time. Even a hardened man like him couldn’t overcome the jealousy. It got even worse when his brother came over and offered to help our family out. Some food, some money, anything we needed to help make it through the coming winter. To our family, they were gifts. To my father, it was a stab to the gut. Of course he accepted the help, because he wanted the best for his family. To have another man take better care of his own family then he could was soul-crushing. My mother did her best to assure him, but it did very little. I was afraid that the guilt would kill him before any winter chill could.

            That bountiful harvest turned out to not be some freak accident. The next year, my uncle had another massive crop and the following years brought the same. Their poor, struggling family was now rolling in the wealth, at least to us. He used his new found luck to buy more land and goods. Their crumbling barn was renovated, and their house gained a few extra rooms. Their three children now went out of town for schooling, while we remained to care for the fields. While my uncle gained new wealth and lands, he lost his humbleness. There were some days when I wondered if he remembered we were related. Surely someone so successful wouldn’t be tied to such lowly peasants. As his brother grew more boastful, my father grew to despise his success more vocally. No matter where we were at, be it at the dinner table or in the fields, he always had a harsh word to say about his brother. He refused anything his brother tried to give us, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t want any of his sympathy or his help. My father wanted nothing to do with it.

            One year, though, things started to change. It was the year that my uncle sought to build a new house for his family. They had people working around the clock building their new home. They even had to move some boxes of their own stuff into our barn while construction progressed. Father raised a lot of ruckus when that happened. Their old farmhouse was run down and old, it needed replacing. If you asked my dad, he would claim that his brother was doing this because he didn’t want his family to look poor. Their farmhouse was too dirty and plain to be worthy, so it had to go. They needed new and flashy, they needed the opulence. I don’t know if that was the reason or not, but my father was sure of it. He hated his successful brother like the devil. He wished that God would come down one day and strike some humility into the greedy man. It seemed someone heard his words.

            It started with some things going missing. His kids came to our doorstep asking if we had “borrowed” some of their tools. My father was furious at the accusations; my mom had to stop him from stomping over to his brother’s house and dragging him out by his ears. We had nothing to do with their missing tools, but that soon became the least of their worries. Other sorts of bad luck began to plague them. A blight came to their crops, bringing wither and rot to them. What cattle they had began to grow sick, and their henhouse was raided by some nocturnal predator. Not long after, their oldest son broke his arm. He had been up in the barn when the floorboards broke beneath him. Which was odd for such a new barn. When we heard these stories, we secretly smiled at their misfortune. While we weren’t doing any better, at least they weren’t having it so easy. I know my father enjoyed every one of them. He wouldn’t show it, but I know at night he would go to sleep with a smile on his face. Someone was knocking his brother down a peg, and he loved every second of it.

            Things took a bizarre turn when my uncle came to our doorstep one night, begging to see our father. He was frantic, I remember him having a wild, desperate look in his eye. Though my father hated his brother, he was concerned with his distress. The two went into the house to talk, leaving the business between men. Though the kids were not allowed to hear, I snuck outside to listen by the window. I just had to know what terrified my uncle so. The first thing I heard was my father arguing with his brother. My uncle had asked to buy our entire harvest, every bit of it. My father was sure it was some cruel joke, some kind of mockery of our situation. We needed that food for ourselves. To sell it all would leave our pantries empty for the winter. His brother claimed we could just use the money to buy more food, but my father refused. This seemed to throw my uncle into an even greater panic. He practically demanded to have our harvest, no matter how much money it cost. He said that “they” needed to be paid, like he was in some kind of debt. My father scoffed at this and told him to give them his money if he was so ready to throw it away. My uncle cried out that “money means nothing to them.” I remember being so confused by that statement. Why would someone not want money? You could buy anything you wanted with it! It seemed strange for debt collectors to not want money. My father told him to use his own crop, but his brother claimed he had already sold too much. No one else around had enough alone to “make the payment.” He needed to buy every bit he could find to break even, and if my father refused he would be a “dead man.” My father angrily refused any offer he gave, unwilling to help his brother in the slightest. He figured it was time my uncle learned a lesson. Perhaps now he would learn some humility. At that point, his brother practically lost his mind. My father threw him out our door and told him to never come back. If he saw him steal a single ear of corn, my father would nail his hide to the barn.

            I told my siblings about this panicked confrontation, and we were all curious about what was going on. We came up with the idea that our uncle owed money to some mob leader or something. Some loan man that gave him the funds to build this brand new house. Now his goons had come to collect, and he was empty handed. What didn’t make sense, though, was the idea that they didn’t accept money. What thug didn’t want money? We couldn’t figure it out, but we all made sure to keep an eye on our uncle’s property the next day. We didn’t want to miss the show.

            The following day, our curiosity paid off. We watched our uncle run out into his dying fields, out to the scarecrow that stood amongst the rotting crop. I was confused by his actions. What did he want with an old, worn scarecrow? It had been stuck in the field for years, what could it possible offer? It surely didn’t have anything of value. My sister joked that he was going to try hiding in the scarecrow so the collectors couldn’t find him. It was funny at the moment, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. He started screaming at the dummy, spraying it with curses and swears we were too young to understand. He stomped and fumed at the thing, jabbing his finger at it and making all sorts of noise. Obviously, the scarecrow said nothing in return, and that somehow offended him. In frenzy, he tore the scarecrow from its post and flung it to the ground. He kicked it and stomped on it, screaming to the heavens as he did. We laughed at him, it seemed so comical. He was fighting a man made of straw and burlap. It didn’t exactly seem like a fair fight. To finish the assault off, he brought out a torch and lit the scarecrow up. The dried dummy went up in an instant, consumed in flame. At last, a sense of calm came to our uncle and he disappeared back into his house. We did not see him the rest of the day. We told our father about the odd behavior, but he didn’t comment much about it. I wonder if it made him think of the night before. Was this threat his brother was ranting about truly real? I didn’t know, as my father said little else about the situation. Perhaps there was some truth to his crazed words. When night fell, that uncertainty quickly vanished.

            I remember waking up in the middle of the night, for what reason, I didn’t know. Something just seemed wrong when I was roused. As if I could feel a storm brewing before it even arrived. The air itself felt wrong, and I wondered what was going on. My room was still dark, lit only by the glowing moon outside. My siblings were still asleep in their beds; I was the only one who had been disturbed. Everything around me seemed in place, so I decided to take a look outside. Perhaps something outside was the source of it all. I got out of my bed and went to the window. I didn’t see anything near our home, so I turned my eyes to my uncle’s property. His fields were cut and harvested; only a few sparse stands of stalks remained. The fields were not empty though. There were figures standing in the dirt, beings who were slowly stalking their way to the new farmhouse. I was too far away to make them out, but something seemed off about them. Their silhouettes were all wrong, their shapes didn’t seem human. I was terrified by the sight, but was drawn to it just the same. It was so bizarre; it had to be a dream. Perhaps that was why I had the courage to creep outside and take a closer look. I didn’t think it was real, I thought it was all just some strange nightmare. I slipped out the window, leaving my sleeping siblings behind. I slunk my way through the weeds and crept to a hiding spot where I could get a better look. At last, I could make out the figures that stood in my uncle’s fields. What I saw was so outlandish; my mind couldn’t even believe they were real.

            His fields were filled with scarecrows, of all shapes and sizes. Creatures scrapped together by cloth, metal, straw and bone. Some walked like men, some stalked about like animals, and others were too alien to understand. Heads made of bags, buckets and skulls. Limbs crafted from wood, rope and metal. Some skittered on spidery legs, while other squirmed through the soil on boneless tendrils. They filled the fields, seemingly appearing from nowhere. All heads were turned to my uncle’s house, and they all lurched their way to the house. The creaking and squeaking of their limbs filled the night air, and a strange murmuring sound seemed to resonate from their false throats. A violent crashing sound startled me, and I realized that the first wave of scarecrows reached the house. They were all armed with farm tools, each of them coated in a layer of dirt and rust. They smashed their weapons against the doors, tearing at the wood that stood between them and their victims. The windows shattered as other attackers breached the house. As the junk-built puppets climbed into the broken windows, I heard a piercing scream come from within. The family was now awake, and they were trapped in the middle of a very real nightmare.

            The screams and cries within the house didn’t bother the scarecrows in the least. Their assault continued on as they ripped through the doors and walls. I couldn’t hear much over the chaos, but I was sure a struggle was taking place within. Suddenly, the scarecrows pulled away from the house, as if it was a cornered animal ready to strike. Those that had gone into the house now poured from the broken orifices. A group of the fleeing scarecrows held something between them. It was a torn red thing, reminiscent of a slaughtered cow. I knew it was not an animal, but I refused to accept it. The scarecrows had retreated into a circle around the house, creating an impenetrable wall of straw men. Had they claimed what they wanted, or were they waiting for something else? My answer came from a shudder in the earth. Somewhere in the darkness, the soil and plants surged and boiled. A great form erupted from the earth, and stomped its way to the encircled house. The scarecrows parted their masses to allow it passage to the trapped inhabitants. It was a scarecrow like them, but massive in size. Its face was flat and wooden; there were no eyes or mouth. Torn clothes hung from its frame and barbed wire entwined every limb. It was its hands that caught my eye. The fingers were blades of all shapes and sizes. Axes, sickles and swords that whirred and chopped the air. Without hesitation, the giant abomination plowed its way into the house, shattering the wooden walls as if they were glass. The screams grew louder, but they couldn’t overtake the crunching of wood and the shearing of planks. The other instrument that joined this horrid symphony was laughter. The scarecrows were laughing and joking as the monstrosity tore its way through the home. This nightmare was just a fun outing for them.

            Something ran past my hiding spot as I stared at the carnage. For a second I thought of running back to the house, but I was afraid I would give myself away if I moved. I buried myself deeper in the weeds, searching for the creature that passed by. The startling arrival wasn’t by some animal or scarecrow, but by my father. Still in his night clothes, he ran through the field to the house of his brother. He was armed with an ax, and was yelling something out to the beings that encircled the home. I was shocked to see my father, as I had assumed this strange dream only involved me. How was he here amongst all this? His charge forth faltered as he caught sight of his enemies. Never had he imagined facing a foe so warped and strange. He screamed something at them, and resumed rushing to his brother’s aid. One scarecrow broke away from the crowd and approached him. He raised his ax to cut down his opponent. An arm no thicker than a broom stick swung out and sent him tumbling back like a rag doll. He scrambled in the dirt, trying to regain his bearings when the scarecrow came up to him and yanked the ax from his hands. He tried to fight back, but a swift kick from a cow bone leg caused him to fly back even farther. The rickety being just turned around and rejoined its brethren. Just as it did, a few scarecrows in the front burst into flame. Their brothers stood beside them with lit torches, striking the burning scarecrows with the burning ends. With a cackle, these flaming beings sprinted to the crumbling household and flung themselves inside. Within seconds, the entire house burst into flames. The chaos inside the house had died down, and the massive scarecrow exited the building as the flames claimed it. In its claws were two squirming figures. It dropped them to the ground, and the scarecrows swarmed. They grabbed the prisoners and began to drag them to the fields. The giant being raised its claws in the air, and the moonlight flickered on its blood-soaked claws. It was then I finally screamed.

            I cried out at the horrible sight, of bloody blades and burning homes. Of my uncle and one of his sons who struggled to escape the clutches of the scarecrows. I screamed as loud as I could, hoping that the noise would wake me from this horrible nightmare. My father’s head whipped to my hiding spot, shocked by my presence. I was too scared to run, to even move from my spot. For a second, my father looked between me and his captured brother. Torn between two of his kin. With a cry, he turned away from his brother and ran to me. I caught a glimpse of his face before he swept me up in his arms. His eyes were wide and scared. My father, the man of stone, was terrified. He grabbed me and ran back to the house, never slowing for a moment. He didn’t dare look back at the gruesome scene, but I did.

            As my father fled, I looked back at the family we had abandoned. I saw the burning house and bloodied creature, but I caught sight of something worse. I saw the scarecrows that pulled the screaming humans behind them. They were lurching their way to the weeds and corn, which swayed wildly in the breezeless night. The one thing I will always remember is that they glowed. Something beyond the corn glowed with the light of the harvest moon. A sickening searing orange that burned like a world on fire. I gave one last scream as the scarecrows stepped into the blinding light and then I passed out.

            I woke the next morning, unable to recall anything that happened after my blackout. Our family quickly dressed and rushed outside. The fields were empty in the morning light, no life stirred. Our uncle’s house was a pile of ash and blackened wood, weak coils of smoke trailing from the torched remains. The ground was torn and stirred, as if an army had rushed through the fields. We searched the wreckage for any survivors, hoping that someone was spared during this nightmarish attack. We found no bodies in the burnt rubble. We searched the fields, hoping to find them. We finally did. Three posts were erected in the barren fields, each one baring a scarecrow of their own. Except these scarecrows were made from the family, or what little was left of them. They were the bodies of my aunt and two of her children. My uncle and his other child were not there. They weren’t anywhere. We spent hours searching the fields and the weeds. They were nowhere to be found. It was as if they had simply vanished from this world.

            It wasn’t until years later when I truly understood what had happened that night. I was an older boy then, searching through the junk in our barn for a replacement part. It was there I found the boxes. The crates that came from my uncle’s house before that horrid night claimed them. Curious, I rummaged through it. I don’t know what I hoped to find, but I certainly found something interesting. It was on old book, so old that I thought it would crumble in my grip. The paper was ancient and stained, the cover wrapped in dried corn husks. I opened it, wondering what it could possibly contain. It held the words of soil and root. It held the words of the scarecrows.

            What I learned from that book I shall not write here, you can easily read all that yourself. What I shall say is that you must be wary of the things that book promises. It speaks of ceremonies that can bring forth the scarecrows, to call a meeting with beings old as the earth itself. Of how you can make a deal with these beings, one that can make barren fields bountiful and failing crops thrive. The scarecrows can make such things happen, but this comes with a price. The scarecrows do not work for free, they require payment. A portion of the harvest must be sacrificed to them, so that the deal may continue. They care not for gold or coin; they seek the bounty of the fields. One must pay this price, lest the deal become void and the scarecrows reclaim what is theirs. My uncle was lured in by this deal, desperate for any path to success. He called forth the scarecrows and struck a bargain with them. They would make his fields bloom, and he would repay their services. It was a fair deal, until the infection of greed crept in. Until someone wanted more and more. Asking for more than they could pay. The scarecrows demand equal payment. They demand that their services be repaid. They demand that no harm comes to their emissaries. Each being who deals with the scarecrows is given an emissary, one who speaks to the crows. They are the ones who bring the crops and the growth. Those who ward away the pests and disease. Not a hand should be laid on these emissaries, lest the wrath of the scarecrows come down upon them.

            To whoever reads this, beware the scarecrows. They are beings older than you can imagine, and capable of more than you think. The deals they make are tempting, offering a way out for those in need. That is why I have not destroyed the book, because there may be a time when we truly need their help. When our family’s land is threatened by drought or debt, perhaps we shall make the same deal then. If that time does come, obey the laws of the scarecrows. Honor the deal. It seems like a perfect deal, one without flaw or loophole. There is a flaw though, and it is us. Scarecrows are incorruptible beings, but we are not.
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Well, that went way longer than I thought! Sorry about that! If you somehow read all that, congrats!

And it is October! Halloween season! Lets get them scarecrows out!