I will never tell my parents how my grandparents really died. They wouldn’t believe me if I did. You may not either. About a month ago I had just gotten out of class when I checked my phone. To my surprise I had a voicemail from my father. Sure, mom has called me from time to time since I left for college, but when I saw that my father had called me I knew it had to be bad news. I just didn’t know how bad.
“Son, we’re buying you a plane ticket. You need to fly home tonight. There… has been an accident. Call me when you get this.” That’s all the voicemail said. I called them and he explained that my grandfather had been killed in an accident with his combine while harvesting corn. And that the shock of finding him had given my grandmother a heart attack.
The flight was nerve racking. I have never done well with small spaces. And I couldn’t smoke on the flight which made it even worse. I spent the whole flight fidgeting and walking back and forth to the restroom even though I didn’t need to go. I just needed to move around.
My dad was already waiting for me when I landed, which ruined my plan of sneaking a cigarette before he showed. He gave me a hug and helped me load my bag in the car. I decided I needed a cigarette bad enough and lit one up in the parking garage. My dad had never seen me smoke, and I tried to act as casually as I could. He raised an eyebrow at me as he closed the trunk.
I waited for a lecture or an outburst, but all he did was nod. “That’s a nice lighter.” He said. I hadn’t realized I was still fidgeting with it. I handed him the vintage trench lighter. “Ellen, my uh… girlfriend bought it for me a few weeks ago. Found it at an antique store in Seattle.”
He took it in his hand and looked it over approvingly. Then he handed it back. “No smoking in the car. Your mother would never let us hear the end of it.” He instructed. My headache was gone now that I had a sufficient amount of nicotine. I threw the cigarette down and stomped it out with my foot.
AN hour later we were back at my parent’s house. My mother greeted me with a hug. Then she stepped back and looked me up and down. “Your father used to smoke menthols too when he was your age.” She said and gave my father a smirk.
I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed she had caught me or surprised my dad used to smoke. He gave me a pat on the shoulder and walked into the house.
We spent the night catching up on what I had been up to while I was in college. They filled me in on how their business was struggling but they were keeping their head above water. And then eventually my dad filled me in on the details of the funeral. They had decided to do a closed casket on both of my grandparents. The injuries that my grandfather had received apparently were too gruesome for an open casket. And they did a closed casket on my grandmothers so that people would ask why.
The next morning we attended the funeral. There were only a few people. My grandparents were in their eighties and had very few friends that were still around. Afterwards we went back to my parents house and ate.
“Son, your mom and I have talked about this. We need to sell your grandparent’s farm. We have neither the time or money for the upkeep. If you can take a week off school and clean the place up, you know, get it ready to sell… we will give you twenty five percent of whatever we get when it sells.” My father explained.
I took a large bite of chicken and chewed it as I thought it over. I could call the school and explain the situation. And I could easily catch up later. “Yeah, I can do that. But, what do you mean, clean it up. How bad is it?” I asked.
My father and mother exchanged a worried look before she looked back down at her plate. “Just before your grandfather passed your grandmother called me. She told me that he had been diagnosed with dementia.. Between that and their diminished health I suspect that the property is in pretty bad shape.”
“You haven’t been out there?” I asked. It wasn’t more than a couple of hours away. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t been to visit.
My mother replied in a defensive tone. “We have both been working seven days a week at the shop. We had to let all of our employees go. Business is not going too well.”
I nodded and asked what the plan was.
“I will drive you out tomorrow. You can stay there until I pick you up friday. That gives you six days to get things boxed up. I already ordered the boxes. They will be delivered tomorrow.
The following day my father drove me up to the old farm. I spent a few weekends there as a kid. The place always had a creepy vibe but it was fun. I could walk through the corn all day and never reach the end.

As we pulled in there was a large scarecrow. That stood over the corn at the edge of the field. “When did they get that thing?” I asked. My dad didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at it out of the corner of his eye. His face contorted into a look of intense worry… maybe fear. I couldn’t tell. As we passed the scarecrow I looked back. The wind hit it just right and for a second, I would have sworn it turned its head to watch us.
About twenty minutes after I had been dropped off I was still wandering through the house, evaluating the countless knick knacks and pictures. Trying to decide what should be kept, sold or tossed. The phone rang. My heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since I had heard a landline ring I thought it might be the fire alarm.
I answered it. “This is Jim. I am delivering the boxes you ordered but my GPS doesn’t work out here. Can you give me directions?” The man asked.
“Head down old county road about five miles. Make a right at the dirt road.” I said. I tried to think of a landmark knowing how vague that was. “You’ll see a scarecrow. Make a right at the scarecrow.”
The man thanked me and hung up. About a half hour later I was washing the dishes in the sink and cleaning up the kitchen. My grandmother must have just set out lunch before the accident because there were two plates of food on the table. It was so rotten I couldn’t tell what it was anymore.
The pungent smell of mold and rotten food was making me gag so I had to open the kitchen window. I listened to the windchimes on the porch and found it rather relaxing. I began to wonder how many summer days my grandparents sat out on the porch, sipped sweet tea and listened to the wind.
Over the windchimes I heard a scream from the field. I shut off the water and letened closer. I heard the scream again. Almost as if someone was howling in pain. I rushed outside and stood at the edge of the corn. My grandfather had waited too long to harvest his crop. THe sun had bleached the corn until it was now the color of bone. The stalks waved back and forth in the wind. The dry leaves rustled against each other as they swayed.
I heard the noise again and began to walk out into the field toward the noise. “Hello?” I yelled. I passed row after row of maize, looking left and right in the eight inches of space between rows. And then, in the distance I saw a figure move. I began to run after it. I caught glimpses of the figure every few seconds as the wind allowed.
After a while, I lost sight of it. I ran faster and faster trying to catch up with whoever it was. And then I ran full speed into the scarecrow. The straw filling did little to dull the impact with the wood post it was mounted on. I fell back onto my back. I grabbed my nose and could feel the palm of my hand immediately filled with warm blood. I sat up and felt dizzy. My head throbbed with each beat of my heart.
When I was finally able to stand up. I looked up at the scarecrow. It was probably seven feet tall and then another two feet off the ground. I was dressed in blue overalls and a red flannel. The head was a burlap bag with thick red string stitched into a jagged mouth and big black buttons sewn on for eyes. Then it was topped with a straw hat stitched on with the same red string used for the mouth. This thing was intimidating to me at six foot two. Those crows must be terrified of it. I thought to myself.
I pinched my nose to stop the bleeding and began to look around. I saw this scarecrow when we pulled in. there was no way I made it to the road already. I tried to hop up to see over the corn. I couldn’t see anything but more corn all the way to the horizon.
And when my feet landed my head felt like it was going to pop. Thick blood began to flow more quickly from my nose. I pinched my nose and held my head back, facing the sky to slow the bleeding. Out of the corner of my eye that’s when I saw it. The scarecrow had turned to face me. I turned to face the oversized doll and figured that it must have been the wind again.
For a second we made eye contact. The big button eyes seemed to be looking right at me. I told myself I was being ridiculous. It was the wind that moved the head. It was just a bag filled with straw. It was the wind that was blowing the stalks and I imagined it was a figure running. It had even been the wind that was howling as it passed through the leaves.
But still, as I stared at it I knew it was staring back. The hair on my arms began to raise, making my arms tingle. My heart began to quicken. And then the scarecrow abruptly lifted its head back up and stared out over the field.
I ran. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I stole short glances over my shoulder as I pushed through the corn. All I could see was a path of broken corn stalks behind me. Soon, I heard a rumbling noise ahead of me. A truck! I thought. I kept pushing on. My lungs began to burn with the effort.
My foot caught in a shallow irrigation ditch and sent me tumbling onto the dirt driveway. The driver of the truck locked up his brakes and skid passed me missing me by inches. I laid there in the dust for a moment.
The driver got out of his truck. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked. His tone was harsh and angry. I stood up to face him. He was in his mid forties with a big beard and an even bigger beer belly.
“I’m sorry .I lost my footing.” I said. I looked back into the field expecting to see the monster coming out any second. The man followed my gaze into the field and then looked back at me. “You high, boy?” He asked seriously.
“I… I was…” I stopped myself. Telling him I was being chased by a scarecrow would only reinforce his accusation. “I hit my head pretty hard.” I said, placing my hand back on my nose.
He nodded and then offered to give me a ride back up to the house. “I would have been here earlier if you knew how to give directions. There wasn’t no scarecrow at the road.” He said.
We pulled up to the house. And began unloading the boxes he came to deliver. “I’ll be back Friday to pick them up once they’re full. Your dad booked a storage shed on the other side of town. You have about two hundred square feet, so keep that in mind as you pack.” The man said. He stared into the field. “My daddy has a corn field in the next county. He didn’t do half as well as they did here. Actually, now that I think about it, I drove past this place last year. I remember they had a rough crop last year. Do you know what they did differently this year?” The driver asked.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t have any idea.” I answered. He nodded and spit. “Well, take care of yourself. I’ll see you on friday. With that, he left.
I went inside and grabbed a clean shirt. I washed the blood off of my face and hands in the bathroom and changed. I tried to shake off the incident with the scarecrow. I must be more stressed out with the loss of my grandparents than I realized.
I needed a distraction and began to pack up the office downstairs. I was putting papers in a trash bag when I came across a letter my grandmother had written:
Son,
I need some help with your father. The dementia is getting worse. The last two days he has been raving like a lunatic. This spring a man came by and offered us a scarecrow as a gift. He said it did wonders for his crop and wanted to pay it forward. Your father told him no at first, thinking the man was a swindler but he insisted he didn’t want anything in return.
Anyway, your father is now convinced that the scarecrow is the reason we had such a great crop this year, but the scarecrow won’t let him harvest it.
I have left you several voicemails about this and you haven’t called me back. So I thought I would write you. Please help. I am worried about your father.
-Mom
I put the letter down and sat in the office chair. I could dismiss my experience with the scarecrow as stress, or an overactive imagination. But my grandfather having similar worries about the same scarecrow? What are the odds? I thought to myself.
I needed a cigarette. I went outside to the porch and lit one. I took a long drag and then exhaled. A cool breeze blew by, bringing the windchimes to life. I turned around to look at them and see if one would be worth keeping.
That’s when I saw it. The scarecrow was now just twenty feet into the field. It hung on its post, staring at me. While I was trying to process this, it fell down. More like hopped down. Immediately the post went up and then disappeared into the field.
It can’t be alive. I thought to myself. Seconds later, the scarecrow came out of the corn. It began running across the lawn carrying the ten foot post like a trojan soldier running with a spear. The scarecrow launched the post. It sailed across the yard and missed me by a foot. It took down the windchimes and impaled the wall behind me.
I turned to run inside but the post was now blocking my entrance. I hopped the rail on the porch and ran toward the old barn. I could hear the scarecrow running behind me. Gaining on me. This straw rustling under his overalls and flannel.
Once I was inside the barn I tried to close the door but it was stuck open from years of neglect. I grabbed the closest thing I could use as a weapon, a pitchfork. The scarecrow entered the room. It’s jagged mouth and button eyes now seemed much more menacing as it marched toward me. I rammed the pitchfork into its chest as hard as I could. It pierced deep into its body easily. But it seemed to have no effect.
With its left hand, or burlap mitten really, it grabbed my arm. The thing was impossibly strong. It used its right hand to pull the pitchfork out and then turn it toward me. I struggled uselessly against its grip. I desperately searched my pockets for something I could use as a weapon.
I took my lighter out and flipped the top open. The flame caught almost instantly. In seconds, the scarecrow was fully engulfed. It let me go and fled into the field.
The field was burned in less than an hour. The fire department said it was overly dry because it wasn’t harvested on time. They didn’t have any interest in investigating the matter further. My father saw the post stuck in the wall when he picked me up. I knew he recognised it as the scarecrow’s post because he didn’t ask any questions about how it got thrown through the wall or how the field burned down.
I know, on some level he suspects that the scarecrow killed his parents. I know on some level that he is grateful I killed it. But I know we will never discuss it because people would think we were crazy.