Knock Three Times

Rusty Jenkins sat in a rocking chair on the porch of the general store. The chair was almost as old as he was, and he was getting on up there. Nigh about eighty now.

He rocked back and forth, listening to the floorboards creak. A man could sit out here all day, chewing tobacco and rocking.

Shame about that Sutphin boy. He’d been sweet on that pretty young thing, that Thomas girl. Well, weren’t gonna be no wedding now.

The screen door flew open and Farmer Brown stepped out onto the porch. The door, worn out by all this activity and excitement, slammed shut behind him.

Rusty spoke.

“What you think ‘bout this weather?”

Farmer Brown looked up. Rusty followed his gaze. The sky burned a bright hard blue. The air smelled of smoke and dead leaves.

“Killin’ frost comin’. Reckon I oughta go down to Tate’s, help him cover his pumpkins.”

Rusty reached down and picked up his Dixie cup, spat a stream of sticky brown tobacco juice into it.

“You be careful out there. Boy got his head tore plumb off out that a way t’other week. They found his body on Ol’ Knocky’s grave. Ain’t found his head yet.”

Farmer Brown nodded and stepped off the porch. Rusty watched him get in his brown pickup truck and pull out of the gravel parking lot, headed down to Tate’s.

Sure was a shame about that Sutphin boy.

———————————————–

Farmer Brown turned left on Redbrush Church Road. The Pleasant Rest cemetery came up on his right.

The spikes on the cemetery’s wrought iron fence leered at him as he drove by.

“They found his body on Ol’ Knocky’s grave.”

The grave was in the far southern end of the cemetery, down by the edge of Tate’s land. Folks said that if you knocked on the gravestone three times at midnight on Halloween, Ol’ Knocky would knock back.

He’d been down there a few times on Halloween with his friends as a boy. None of them had ever had the gumption to knock more than once. He’d gone back when he was older. He and Mae had left Ol’ Knocky in peace, but they’d sure had some fun.

He drove past the end of the fence. The sun tipped the trees with gold.

————————————————-

He parked his truck in Tate’s driveway and jumped out. The house was small, only two bedrooms. Tate had built it himself thirty some years ago.

He walked up the path of square stone blocks to the concrete porch. Leaves crunched under his shoes. When he reached the door he stopped for a moment, inhaling the smell that clung to the house. It was musty, closed-in, the smell of dust motes in a slanted sun beam.

The doorbell was dead. The wires hung loose where the button used to be.

He knocked once on the door.

He stood for a while and waited. A breeze sprang up.

He knocked again, louder.

The breeze shook the branches of the trees surrounding the house. Leaves spiralled to the ground.

Farmer Brown knocked a third time, as hard as he could.

He heard movement inside. Something squeaked, a door closed, and heavy footsteps came from the back of the house. The front door swung open. Tate stood there, silent. Farmer Brown spoke.

“Good afternoon. How are you?”

“I’m doing all right. Can’t complain. How about yourself?”

“Fine, fine,” Farmer Brown answered.

Tate was lying. He was not doing all right. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin under them bagged.

“I’d invite you in, but the house ain’t quite to rights. I ain’t felt too good lately.”

Farmer Brown looked down at Tate’s hands. The thick brown fingers slid across each other, like snakes crawling all over each other in a pit.

Tate noticed him looking. The hands went still, limp.

“You want something to drink? Water, tea? I might have some pop.”

“No thank you, I’m fine. Listen, there’s gonna be a killin’ frost tonight. You got anything to cover your pumpkins? I got a tarp in the back of the truck.”

No answer. Tate deflated, drew back into himself. A crow cawed in the distance. The breeze came again. Leaves skittered across the porch.

Inside the house, something squeaked.

Tate lifted his head. He stepped back into the house, started to close the door. Farmer Brown tried again.

“You got any old blankets in there?”

The door closed. The lock turned. The heavy footsteps receded, a door closed inside the house, and something squeaked.

—————————————-

Farmer Brown walked down to the pumpkin field, carrying his tarp. Wasn’t like Tate to just shut the door on him like that.

The crow cawed again.

He stopped at the edge of the field. The pumpkins were ripe, just days away from harvesting. Normally, this time of year, Tate was crazy about his pumpkins. He’d set up a sign on the side of the road, Tate’s Pumpkin Patch, and sell ‘em for Halloween. Some years he got all up into it, with hayrides and carving contests. Didn’t seem like he had a mind to do any of that this year.

Well, wasn’t his place to tell Tate what to do. He’d just cover up what he could and go on back home. It was getting on towards sunset. Mae’d be wondering where he was before too long.

He put the tarp down on the ground, found a rock nearby to hold it. He set off down the field, looking for more rocks.

————————————————

He was at the end of the field, close to the cemetery, when he saw a good-sized heavy rock. He bent down to pick it up.

When he stood up, the scarecrow was there.

It had not been there before. He was sure of it. He saw the field in his mind. Rows of pumpkins, grass, dirt, the shadows of the trees stretched long across the ground. Not a straw man to be seen.

Tate had never had a scarecrow, not that Farmer Brown knew of.

He remembered the bloodshot eyes, the coiling hands. Might be a lot about Tate he didn’t know.

The scarecrow was a good six foot. The pole looked weathered, like it’d been standing there in the rain and the snow and the sun for years. A pair of jeans swung in the wind, stuffed with straw. A red plaid shirt was tucked into the jeans, the arms stretched out across the cross pole. Bits of straw clung to the ends of the sleeves.

A fly landed on his hand. He shook it off.

He looked up, past the jeans and red plaid. Saw the white scarf.

It was a fine scarf. He wondered how much it must have cost. Must have been a pretty penny. Too bad about the stains. He stared at them. Listened to the flies buzzing.

In the distance, the crow cawed.

A snatch of song from childhood came back to him.

Knock three times
Three times dead
Knock three times
and lose your head

The scarf uncoiled itself, reared, struck.

It wrapped around his neck and yanked him forward. Dragged him face to face with the scarecrow’s head.

The smell hit him full in the gut. Bile rose in his throat.

Bulging eyes stared at him. Blood dripped from the nose. The half rotted mouth hung open like a tomb on Judgement Day. The swollen tongue twitched.

The scarecrow squeaked.

He pulled hard against the scarf. In response, it tightened around his neck. Cut off his windpipe.

He was going to die and they would find him here in the pumpkin field, stinking to high heaven, and Mae would be alone and he would never see her again.

The scarecrow squeaked again and again, the squeaks rising in volume until the thing was shrieking. Its screams stabbed into his brain.

The scarf cut into his skin and he couldn’t breathe and he felt something hard and rough in his hand.

He was still holding the rock.

He brought his right arm up. Swung it around. Drove the rock right into the scarecrow’s nose.

The thing let out a single high pitched squeak that reached into his bones and turned them to water.

He lifted his arm again, brought it down with the force of a tidal wave. The rock slammed into the scarecrow’s cheek. The scarf went limp.

He could breathe now. He took a deep breath, filled his lungs with the odor of decay and putrefaction. Raised his arm.

Blood flooded through his veins. His muscles burned.

Unable to squeak, its tongue stilled, the scarecrow moaned out a dirge.

His arm whistled through the air and came down like a scythe. The rock smashed into the side of the scarecrow’s head and kept going. Bones crunched. Skin tore and fell away.

The head came off the pole and thudded to the ground. The rest of the scarecrow followed, taking Farmer Brown with it.

The moaning stopped.

————————————

All of Farmer Brown’s bits ached. He could feel bruises forming on top of bruises. He was bleeding. But he was alive.

His hand was empty. The rock had fallen and disappeared.

He rolled off the scarecrow and looked up. It was nearly dark now. The moon was already in the sky. He could see every crater, every valley.

He could hear the footsteps when they came. Heavy and slow.

“I didn’t ask you for no help.”

Tate was coming down the field.

“You shouldn’t have come out here. I didn’t ask you to come out here.”

The footsteps stopped. Tate stood over him. Farmer Brown took a breath, a deep sweet breath, and spoke.

“I didn’t know you had a scarecrow.”

Tate’s face twisted with rage.

“I don’t.”

Tate held something in his hand. Something long and thin. And sharp. The knife glowed in the twilight.

Farmer Brown pulled his knees up, braced himself against the ground. Before he could get up, Tate’s boot came down hard on his chest and knocked the breath out of him.

He watched Tate raise his arm and thought Mae. The knife plunged.

————————————————-

Tate put his arms under Farmer Brown’s shoulders and lifted.

He hadn’t asked the man to come down here. He hadn’t done anything.

He walked backward. Farmer Brown’s boots scraped over the dirt.

Tate hadn’t done anything. It was the voice. The voice that screamed and screamed and never gave him any peace.

He hadn’t done anything. It was Ol’ Knocky. It was all Ol’ Knocky’s fault.

Farmer Brown’s head bumped against his chest.

The wind rustled through the trees. Leaves rose and fell in little gusts.

He came to the cemetery fence. Dragged the body through the gap he’d made three weeks ago.

Ol’ Knocky’s grave was in the row nearest his land. He laid Farmer Brown’s body down on it. Knocked on the tombstone.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He sat on the grass in the dark and waited.

—————————————————-

Rusty Jenkins sat in the rocking chair on the porch of the general store. It’d turned cold. Winter was coming on. His daughter didn’t much like him being out in the cold air. He’d have to give up the general store and spend his time at home soon.

The door slammed. Mae Brown stood next to him, shaking and breathing fire.

“They said you was the last person to talk to him. What did he say?”

“Said he was going down to Tate’s. I told him. I said a boy got his head tore off down there t’other week.”

Mae stared at him, wild fear in her eyes.

“He didn’t pay no account. Went down there anyway.”

She didn’t wait to hear more. She ran down the porch steps and out to her Bonneville. She slammed the car door, gunned the motor, and peeled out of the parking lot in a shower of gravel. Headed down to Tate’s, he’d reckon. No one ever paid any account to what old folks said.

Rusty settled back in the chair. Rocked back and forth. Listened to the creak of the floorboards. Maybe he could get his daughter to buy him a rocking chair like this one.

He picked up his Dixie cup and spat a stream of tobacco juice into it.

Sure was a shame about that Farmer Brown.

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38 Responses to Knock Three Times

  1. pinkfiend1 says:

    I liked this, it was nice and creepy.
    Poor Farmer Brown, but he still could be alive right?

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      OMG, first comment! 🙂 Yay! Thank you so much! *hugs*

      Nopers. Farmer Brown is dead. His head may perhaps be possessed by an evil spirit and placed on top of a scarecrow and it may try to kill his wife, but he himself is dead.

      For this story. I may write more stories about him and his world, though.

      Like

  2. raquelaroden says:

    Ooooh…chilling! Very good! What a creepy, creepy scarecrow!

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Yay thanks! Should have had John read it before dinner – he pointed out that Mae was supposed to be italicized when Farmer Brown thought her name before getting killeded [sic] and I was like “It is italicized in LSB, omg!” So that’s fixed now.

      It did get across that the scarecrow’s head was formerly the head of the Sutphin kid, right? If not I can edit, but I was trying to not insult anyone’s intelligence. 🙂

      And chilling and creepy are good to hear about a Halloween story. So yay! *hugs*

      Like

  3. BB says:

    O.O Best Halloween story ever. I swear it. This should be Burton’s next movie.

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      YAY!!! I’m so glad you like it!

      Creepiness and horror are my specialties, you know. 🙂

      I love Tim Burton movies! *happy dance*

      Thank you, as always, for being you and for being awesome.

      Like

  4. Van says:

    YAAAAAY 😀

    Love the idea of the serial possessions. Here’s hoping the wife has better luck :S

    Also, I applaud your use of vernacular here. A lot of times when I read dialogue written for a specific accent, I find it more distracting than enriching, but you made it work here–it flowed beautifully and really helped set the stage 🙂

    Great work, Stacy 😀

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Yay you got it! 🙂 Tate went down to the graveyard one night and roused up Ol’ Knocky, and now he’s in thrall to Ol’ Knocky’s spirit – which Ol’ Knocky has a predilection for possessing decapitated heads.

      And no, that was not my idea at all when I first started the story. I did know there would be a possessed scarecrow, but I just thought it would grab Farmer Brown and dance around with him all night and he’d be dead in the morning – kind of like the Red Shoes story where the shoes make the woman dance until she dies.

      But then I wrote about him going to Tate’s house, and something squeaked. And I swear part of why this took so long was figuring out what was squeaking and why it was squeaking and how to make it relate to the scarecrow idea, because the squeak just came out of my fingers on its own.

      And yay about the vernacular thing! It’s the accent I grew up hearing and the accent I talk in, especially when I’m tired. So it’s easy and natural for me – it’s writing what I know. 😉 This story is pretty much set in my hometown.

      OMG yay I feel all happy and validated now and like it is halfway decent! *hugs and happy dances and rainbows and unicorns and kittens and fire and Seth* 🙂

      Like

  5. galatea0 says:

    Wow! Do you read Stephen King, by any chance? Reminded me of all his creepy short stories. Great work! 🙂

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      I remember reading Christine – and maybe at least starting It? – in elementary school and Misery and Needful Things in middle school, but in general I’m not a huge King fan.

      I am, however, a huge Edgar Allan Poe fan. 😉 Wore my copy of his short stories out in middle school, and now I have several copies floating around. Including a very nice one I got recently with stories I’d never heard of. And my favorite poem of his, Alone – it’s hard to find that one in a collection for some reason.

      Yay! I’m glad you liked it and I’m really all happy and bouncy now. I love all of you so much! *hugs*

      Like

    • galatea0 says:

      Btw, I’ve written a blog post about this one, I was that impressed. http://galatea0.wordpress.com/

      Like

      • medleymisty says:

        Oh wow, thank you! 🙂 I certainly feel better about it now. 🙂 I’ve been working on it in bits and pieces all month, but the second half was thrown together this weekend. Nothing like an externally imposed deadline to light a fire under you, lol.

        I really do appreciate that. *hugs*

        Like

  6. Kiri says:

    It’s not half-way decent….. It’s goddamn AWESOME!!!!

    Great story Stacy!

    It has a fantastic rhythm to it, slow but rising. I love the phew! feeling you get when Farmer Brown wins against the scarecrow, but then Tate turns up and it’s ‘Oh no!’

    I totally got that it was Ol’ Knocky’s spirit – especially when Farmer Brown had to knock three times to get Tate to the door. My danger, danger, Will robinson senses were tingling!

    The language was perfect, fit with the slow and steady way people live in those parts, but not too much that us foreigners didn’t understand it.

    And that was a most perfect ending line! Like a litany 😀

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      YAY! 🙂 Man – I’m going to have to go look up the Double Rainbows song and cry about you guys being so intense and vivid and beautiful now. What does it mean?! LOL.

      I was totally listening to Requiem for a Dream and O Fortuna while editing the scarecrow fight. 🙂 It was not anywhere near as epic in the first draft, but when you’re listening to that music you can’t help but round house kick Chuck Norris in the face!

      I originally meant for Farmer Brown to die, but then I could see that the story wanted him to win against the scarecrow. So I thought he might live. But nope – it’s just that the story wanted Tate to kill him, lol.

      And oh yeah – the three knocks had to be a repeating theme. I am all about me the number three and some repeating themes. 😉

      I’ve written in this style before, for the Riverblossom Hills NPCs and playables in my second legacy. I exaggerated it there for the comedic effect. Here, I wrote it straight. And because I grew up with this language, I know how it actually sounds so I didn’t strain to fit a stereotype I’d picked up from movies and TV.

      OMG, speaking of foreigners – at one of the shows at the Ren Fest yesterday we were sitting in front of a group of people that included a dude from Ireland. It was so funny to hear his Irish accent and then hear his local friends reply in deep Southern accents. Yay contrasts!

      And oh yeah, about the ending – it had to end on that line. It’s all about patterns and threads. Nothing in the story that doesn’t serve some purpose (you may not know the purpose when you write it but the story will reveal it to you), and come back around to the beginning but with more insight. That’s how I roll. 🙂

      Thank you so much for being the mostest awesome new friend ever! I am so happy that you joined VSS and like hanging out with us and making smilies of mooses smooshing smiley faces for us. *hugs*

      Like

  7. SB says:

    Neighbors do offer to help cover with something like a tarp, a blanket. I’m trying to start slow here before I scream…THIS IS INCREDIBLE!!!!

    Every single word, every single step. Death done before him and death done after him. The crows, and they do follow death, black predators. The scarecrow and the detail with the scarf, cost a pretty penny indeed and why put it up to scare crows off a pumpkin patch?

    and the vernacular is a language I was born hearing so I does not sound foreign to me at all.

    wonderful, wonderful writing and stunningly scary! I mean it.

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      You know – my family had gardens but I don’t even remember covering anything for frosts, much less neighbors helping. But that just seemed natural and like it would make sense.

      And the scarf – did you notice that Tate’s hands are like snakes and then the scarf attacks like a snake? 🙂

      Yay! Country girls represent! 🙂 *hugs*

      Thank you so much! I’d say more but I already said pretty everything in chat. 🙂

      Like

  8. ~Drew says:

    Medley, I love this, like Poe and Stephen King tossed in a blender with a touch of your own unique storytelling, making a frothy, rich Halloween treat. From the splat of tobacco juice to the creaking rocker, your descriptives set the creepy mood. The fight with the scarecrow was particularly well done!! Having ‘frost on your pumpkins’ has taken on a whole new meaning.
    Cheers to you!!!

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Yay!!! I’m all happy that you liked it and all twirly and sparkly. 🙂

      I did like the scarecrow fight bit – was listening to epic music while writing it and I admit my own pulse went up, lol. Took that as a good sign.

      Hmm. I shall have to google this “frost on your pumpkins”. 😉

      Cheers back to you! Yay! *hugs*

      Like

  9. sleepypie1212 says:

    Eek.
    I never, ever say this except when truly moved, and it totally belongs with this story: OMG.
    It was like poetry. Terrifying, blood-curdling, Edgar Allan Poe poetry.
    That scarecrow! When he appeared, I actually jumped! Sitting down, no less. It was such a strange, otherworldly, completely unexpected thing.
    But I have to admit, I am now officially curious as to why Ol’ Knocky haunts people in such an intriguingly Headless Horseman manner. What happened to his original head that he feels the need to steal everyone else’s?

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Haha – I say OMG all the time. But I am often truly moved. 😉 Thank you – that’s a great compliment.

      I wasn’t going for the poetry so much here as I do in 10, so wow – that means a lot. *hugs*

      I’d like to see a drawing of the scarecrow – and yay jumping! 🙂 I was scared of the scarf myself – I have a phobia of snakes.

      OOOHH!!! Thank you so much for being curious about that. 🙂 I am going to write more stories in this universe, and you just gave me the idea for the next one. Ol’ Knocky’s story. 🙂 Rusty knows some of it, more than Farmer Brown and his wife, but it fades with each generation.

      Man, what is it with me and prequels? LOL.

      I’ve got to write at least two 10 chapters before then and plus the first Glitterface the Necrofairy story, but then we’ll do Ol’ Knocky’s story and find out just what happened to his original head. Thank you so much! I’ll dedicate it to you. 🙂

      Like

      • sleepypie1212 says:

        Haha, well, that’s because prequels are amazing.
        I’m looking forward to Ol’ Knocky’s story, and am honored that I have been a help. 🙂

        Like

  10. This is quality stuff! What a wonderfully rich read you created here, chock-a-block with vivid imagery and intense characters. Definitely my favorite Halloween story. I take my hat off to your wordskillz Misty. *hatoff*

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Yay Shadey! *loves Shadey*

      Thank you! Also thank you for taking the time to comment – I know you’re busy at the moment. *hugs*

      I’m all about intense characters, lol. 😉 Speaking of which – Seth kept trying to worm his way in here. I’d write a sentence and be like “Umm, Farmer Brown wouldn’t say that” and then I’d realize who would and I’d be all “Dude, I’m coming back to 10 when I get done with this. Wait your turn!”

      I are a wordninja! 🙂

      Like

  11. tipix7 says:

    Love, love, LOVE it! I’m printing this out and placing it nicely along with my Stephen King collection where it belongs. Let me know when you start publishing so I can add. 😉

    The circular story-line was very effective, although I giggled a bit at the ‘squeaking’ scarecrow. I’m probably going to have a heart-attack and look for scarecrows the next time I hear a mouse squeak, since that’s what I imagined each time. Worst part of this story is that I live down the road from a pumpkin farm, which I shan’t drive by without fretting now.

    Thanks for sharing your Halloween special!

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Awww! *blushes* Thank you for reading it!

      Also thank you for reminding me that I need to print out a copy for my mother. 😉 She grew up in Oklahoma but when it came to assimilating to North Carolina foothills culture, she didn’t mess around. So I think she would appreciate this story. Maybe. We’ll see.

      Yay for liking the circular storyline! It’s something I try to do a fair bit (the first paragraph of 10.01 is really quite meaningful) but I think it especially fits with an entire story squeezed into a bit over 2000 words.

      LOL at the giggling! For some reason I never saw the squeaking that way. That’s my favorite part about sharing my stuff, seeing how other people see it and react to it in different ways.

      I don’t think I’ve ever heard a mouse squeak IRL. Hmm. And yeah – yesterday I saw people cleaning up Halloween pumpkins and it was a little eerie. 😉

      Yay! *hugs* You’re all awesome and stuff.

      Like

  12. Connor says:

    Ooooh.
    I want to be as good a writer as you someday.
    Seriously though, I’m writing a novel for National Novel Writing Month and it’s nowhere near as good as this.
    Nice job.

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Thank you!

      And oh, don’t judge your NaNoWriMo by this! The point of NaNo is a crazed rush to finish a first draft. This story took a month of writing and editing and plotting (yes, in that order sometimes) and its wordcount is about the amount of words you have to write each day to finish NaNo. So it’s like taking what you wrote on the first day of November and polishing it for a month.

      Which that’s why I don’t do NaNo, lol.

      But I’m glad you are. It’s good practice, and the way to get better at writing is to keep doing it. *cheers you on*

      Like

      • Connor says:

        Hehe, thanks. 😀

        NaNoWriMo… it’s mixed. It gets me writing, but it’s stressful sometimes. My novel has taken so many twists and turns, it has a mind of its own. 😛

        Like

  13. TheLunarFox says:

    Wow. You’re very powerful with the imagery. I could see the white scarf in my head like a scene from a movie. Creepy. When Farmer Brown won against the scarecrow, I was all, “Yay!” But then when Tate came– well Farmer Brown’s last thought of his wife, that connected.

    So when Mae hears that her husband went down to Tate’s farm and she goes tearing off that way, I could see how it was the only way to react, but at the same time how sad it was too late! Oh what she’ll find when she gets there though. I really hate to think of it.

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Yay imagery! 🙂 I am indeed learning how to write without pictures from the game to show what’s going on. 🙂

      Yeah – it really surprised me when the story wanted him to win. Surprised me even more when it wanted Tate to kill him. But I like how it turned out – but then the story wants what it wants for a reason. 🙂

      Oh my gosh, you just gave me another idea! Okay, so third Farmer Brown universe story will be the story of what happened to Mae after she left the general store. Thank you!!!! *hugs*

      Like

  14. lhasa says:

    That.

    Was.

    Awesome!!!!!!!!

    Sorry to spam you with all those exclamation points, lol. But I have to say it again: Awesome! The vernacular, the concept, the setting. All amazing. I could picture everything happening in my mind. Like others have said, the vernacular seems so…natural to me. That’s really hard to do in writing and you pretty much nailed it. I’m going to recommend this to my non-simming friends.

    Once again: Awesoooooome!

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      I certainly don’t mind exclamation point spam, lol!!!!

      Thank you! 🙂 *hugs*

      Yep – I grew up hearing the vernacular. Still hear it, when my momma calls. Even though she grew up in Oklahoma, lol – she talks just like she grew up here.

      And I start to sound more and more like that when I’m tired. Even in typing, apparently – I’m pretty tired right now.

      And yay recommendations! Thank you so much! *blushes* *hugs* *happy dances* 🙂

      Like

  15. Great work! Fantastic…I look forward to reading more of your stuff!

    Like

    • medleymisty says:

      Thanks! I do feel like I might be able to write again soon – 2011 was a tough year and I had a lot to process, but I am nearing the end of processing it. 🙂 And I do have a prequel to this story in the works.

      Like

  16. RipuAncestor says:

    Ooh, nice atmosphere. It was nicely creepy, and i was really expecting something awful to happen pretty much all the time. There was just something off about even the normal things depicted here in just the right way. That’s my favourite kind of horror. Then when the awful things did start happening, it was actually less creepy than the build-up, although the scarecrow did make me think of the scarecrow my grandparents used to have guarding their berry bushes. It scared me a lot when I was a kid. It didn’t have a possessed human head, thankfully, but it did have something like a mannequin head, and I thought mannequins were creepy even before the Silent Hill series taught me that they are REALLY creepy.

    Anyway, this was spooky and I liked how it all came full circle with the kind of desensitized old guy just casually being like “oh, sucks for them” about the horrible things happening. And it was all well-written, as always. 🙂

    Also, I read in one of your comments that you love Tim Burton films. So do I (Well, the older ones, at least)!

    Liked by 1 person

    • medleymisty says:

      I haven’t seen the newer ones. 😉

      And awww, I’m glad I was good at doing the normal things all creepy-like. The scarecrow fight felt more…active than creepy to me? I don’t think active is the right word. Maybe I’m looking for…action? Like that part was more action, less horror.

      Awww, I’ve seen very few actual scarecrows IRL!

      I do like it when my stories come full circle. Thanks for noticing that! 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      • RipuAncestor says:

        I actually haven’t seen much of the newer Burton films either. I wasn’t a big fan of his Alice in Wonderland, and mostly I just haven’t been interested in his later work. But the older ones like Nightmare Before Christmas, Edward Scissorhands, and Big Fish are still some of my favourites.

        Like

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