Nightmare Fuel: The Ultimate Collection of Short Horror Tales (8 page)

“I could help you?” Rachel tested the water.

Clarice shot a suspicious glance at Rachel.

“Really?” Clarice muttered.

Wow, this is too easy. Candy from a baby. Or Candy from a killer.

“Untie me and I will help you take out many people, without drawing attention to us....” Rachel suggested.

Clarice was being swayed, it was written all over her face.

Until... “Okay.”

Yes!
Rachel almost jumped for joy. Now the hard part was finding strength and courage to tackle Clarice and flee this nightmare. Clarice reached around and began freeing Rachel. But as Clarice fumbled with the rope Rachel felt a sharp pain.

“Wh...” Rachel went to speak but was suddenly without the power of speech.

“Did you really think I was that fucking stupid?” Clarice screamed so loud Rachel feared her eardrums would explode.

Clarice retracted her arms revealing a needle in one hand.
A needle?
Rachel wasn't expecting that. A small remainder of yellow fluid left inside. Drops still oozed from the tip.

“Don't worry, you will help me, just not in the way you wanted too,” Clarice grinned.

She continued to converse but soon the words became blurs. Mumbles rang in the air. The blinding light began to dim. The sense of touch faded. The rancid smell vanished. As Rachel slumped onto her back, her consciousness drifted into nothingness.

***

A moderately comfy bed. Thin sheet. Vile stench. These were the first thoughts as Rachel roused to consciousness. A bare room with minimal light, toilet, and desk. A noise tuned in. Banter. Chitter chatter seemed to appear from nowhere. Low pitched grumbles and clashing of metal. This made no sense. Until Rachel looked to the fourth wall of her current confinement. Metal bars. Prison. But this was even more senseless. Rachel was the innocent victim, not the looney who had gone on a killing spree. So why was she the one detained?

Rachel's stomach hurt. Both from injury and starvation. Purple bruises covered her flesh, some already turning a lime green. Until a prison guard walked past. Rachel leapt to the bars, eager to ask for an explanation.

“Excuse me,” she yelled.

The man turned in disgust.

“Wh....why am I in here?” Rachel asked gently.

“What?” he spat in outrage.

“Me, why am I in here? I didn't do anything.”

The guard laughed and scratched his bald shiny head.

“What are you trying to pull bitch?” he growled.

“What? Nothing. I just want to know why I am in prison. I shouldn't be in here!”

“Because you're a psycho bitch!” he spat again. But this time he actually spat. A thick wad of saliva propelled to Rachel and landed on her cheek. The phlegmy consistency made her instantly wipe it away.

“What the hell is going on?” Rachel used her orange jumpsuit to wipe her saliva sodden hand. She felt scared and icky.

Before Rachel knew what was happening the guard rammed his hand through the bars and grabbed a chunk of her hair. He yanked and bashed Rachel's head against metal. Rachel made an indescribable noise at this collision. A pounding came.

“My son was one of those kids you stupid fucking bitch, I hope you rot in here forever.”

He then let Rachel's hair fall free as she rubbed the sensitive welt that was surfacing on her sore forehead.

“But it wasn't me.....” Rachel declared, moving away from the bars, crying uncontrollably, now terrified and even more confused. Had she been set up?

“Stupid bitch...” muttered the prison guard as he patrolled the cells and monitored the other inmates.

Rachel moved to the sink where a grimy mirror hung above it. She initially wanted to determine how bad the welt looked. But what she saw was far worse. She no longer had dark hair, but blonde. And a gaunt, bony face. The face that was reflected before her wasn't Rachel's, it was Claire's.

Scarecrow, Scarecrow

Children frolicked carelessly as the glorious sun beat down. The cornfield was thriving with lustrous crops.  Kids ran down tracks that had been left by the tractor days ago. Giggles and yells echoed through the rows of green and yellow. Acres and acres provided more than enough space for these rambunctious infants to run and play. They were high on excitement, giddy with energy. Which is why at first the screams went unnoticed by their flurry of happiness. But one by one, they came to a halt. Through the crops, they each found one another. But it didn't take long for them to realise a member of the group was missing.

They all stood in their overalls, questioning the absence of Fred. Fred was the youngest of the group, at six years old. Thick golden hair, freckles covering his face, and always wearing a cheeky, mischievous grin. He was unpredictable and possibly the most boisterous of the gang. Greta, the oldest of the girls, at nine years old, decided they should look for him. So one by one they separated, shouting his name. Each walked off in a different direction, scavenging the place for their young companion. They looked behind trees, through the bulky plantation, and Darren was just about to enter the barn in search of Fred. When  another scream rattled in the air. This came from Greta. The other children barged through the crops, being slapped in the face by leaves and corn. Until they came to see her stood, a ghostly pallor lightening her face.

“Greta,” one of the boys said delicately.

But the young girl remained frozen. Strands of red hair blew up in a gust of wind as she was glued to the ground. The only part moving was that of her hands. Fingers trembled and wrists twitched. The kids wandered to their oddly still friend, only to see what had caused this lack of motion in her. A tractor was just beyond them. With a mangled, dismembered child caught in the blades. Red splatters painted the metal. Body organs were tangled in machinery, some sprawled on the floor. Each limb was spread out, pulled taught. Arms, legs, torso, and head. All separate now. Bones tore through the flesh. Crimson pools were below each limb, catching droplets of blood every few seconds.

“But I didn't hear the tractor.... how did we not.....” Greta mumbled, still in shock.

It was then that she saw something odd. Floating above the crops, suspended on a wooden plank, was a scarecrow. Evil dark eyes, straw bulging from mouldy clothing, a hat leaving an ominous shadow over its face, and a sinister smile. Greta had never liked the scarecrow, or scarecrows in general. They gave her the creeps. How their only job was to scare. How it hung from the wooden planks making a cross, reminded her of the suffering that had been inflicted upon Jesus. Which was ironic, as Jesus was a sign of everything good and pure. But this heinous creation looked malicious.

“Has that always been here? I thought it was further into the field?” one of the younger boys asked anxiously.

As it turned out, he was asking about the scarecrow. Their gazes had slowly drifted from the massacred young boy, to the straw constructed person high in the air, looking down. It then occurred to Greta that Todd was right. It shouldn't be there. Greta's father, who owned the fields, had placed him directly in the middle of the crops. They had just been playing in the outskirts. No where near the scarecrow. And Greta knew her father wouldn't move it. Also, before they started playing, she remembered seeing it far out into the field. Which meant only one of two things had occurred. Someone had intentionally moved it. Or it had somehow moved by itself.

Eager to get away from the dismembered body of their friend and the creepy scarecrow, they ran to Greta's father. They barged through the kitchen of the rustic farmhouse. The mother was chopping vegetables by the sink, while the father was reading a newspaper whilst enjoying a hot mug of coffee. Both of them jerked at the abrupt appearance of the children.

“What the hell is going on?” Heisel could read their panic stricken faces.

The mother quickly dried her hands with a kitchen towel and paced over to the kitchen table Heisel was sat at. The bundle of children were breathing heavy and tears lined their eyes. But Heisel and his wife Gertrude really started to worry when they saw specks of blood on their clothing.

“Greta! Answer me this instant!” Heisel ordered, nervous.

That's when Gertrude noticed the absence of the youngest of the group, Fred.

“Hold on, where's Fred? Wasn't he out there playing with you?”

And by the wave of grief creasing the infants faces, Gertrude got her answer, just before her daughter Greta mumbled through an eruption of hysterical tears.

“He's dead mummy!”

The next hour was madness. Children screaming in sorrow, the parents trying to get hold of Fred's family, calling the police, and being taken to the location of the accident. Soon enough the relaxing Sunday afternoon had become bedlam. Cop car sirens, forensic investigators, child physiologists questioning the children, and Heisel being told he was not allowed to work on that field until all his tools and machinery had passed vigorous safety tests. Which didn't matter as his stock was ruined. Tyre treads, holes in the ground from analysis tents, and other equipment had destroyed his only source of income. Business was already slow; this would bankrupt Heisel if he didn't think of a way around it.

By the end of the day, Greta and her parents simply sat in silence. They all toyed with their food, unable to eat, appetites destroyed as a side-effect of the dead boy. The day lingered in their minds. The interviews, cop cars, alarms, shrieks, flashing cameras, yellow tape, and of course, the massacred body. But what really clung in everyone's mind, was the mystery behind this crime. Nobody could figure it out. It was practically impossible for a young child to start that tractor, and even more so, move the cylinder. But that was the only explanation Officer Brentworth could come up with, for now. The investigation was still ongoing, until the real answered was determined. How the tractor had been started, and a child had managed to get mangled in the cylinder of it.

“More coffee?” Gertrude asked Heisel.

“Yes...” he groaned.

Neither had a craving for any food, but knew it would be a restless night. Coffee was required. So Gertrude poured the steamy black liquid into two mugs and clonked them onto the kitchen table.

“Honey, would you like some water?” Gertrude asked her daughter sympathetically.

Greta simply shook her head, looking down, miserable.

“You really ought to eat something sweety,” she said, feeling very hypocritical.

“I can't mummy, I just.....can't....” Greta chewed her lip to keep from crying.

“Okay, well go get ready for bed, it's getting late,” Gertrude took a swig from her mug, at the same time her husband did.

“It's the scarecrow who did it...” Greta grumbled, but both parents heard.

“Stop this nonsense right now young lady!” Heisel yelled, thudding his cup onto the table and sloshing coffee everywhere.

“But dad,” Greta tried to speak gently, as to not anger her father, who looked as if he was bordering on a mental breakdown.

“Enough! Now go and get ready for bed!” he ordered.

Greta scattered away and ran upstairs as Gertrude grabbed a kitchen towel and dabbed at the pool of coffee on the table.

“You know Heisel...” she lifted his mug and wiped beneath it.

“It is odd how the scarecrow was near the tractor, you have never had it so close to the edge before..”

“Oh for God's sake! You too?” Heisel screeched the chair across the linoleum as he began to stand.

“Just think about it for a second will you?” Gertrude pleaded.

“No I won't! Do you hear how ridiculous you sound? Taking the word of a child,” he pitied her.

“Not just a child. Children,” she corrected him.

“What?” he questioned, curious, now standing near the sink.

Gertrude fussed and tidied the table, “All the children said the same thing when interviewed by the detectives and psychologists.”

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“I was told by the detectives,” she piled the dishes and took them to the kitchen counter, aside the sink.

“Yes but... what are you suggesting Gertrude?” he asked, now believing her, but still perplexed.

“I don't know Heisel, I am just saying we shouldn't dismiss this.”

Gertrude scraped food from the plates into the garbage disposal. She couldn't help but notice the silence and lack of movement from Heisel.

“Heisel?” she asked, piling dishes in the sink, running the hot water.

He stood, staring out the window just aside the sink, unusually still. Gertrude became suspicious and as she washed the dishes with apple scented dish soap she also glared outside. Just under the glow of the moon, far out into the field, was the scarecrow. But something was odd about its location. The tractor could be seen, along with the police tape, and the scarecrow was no longer near the crime scene. Somehow, it had moved further out into the crops.

“Oh my god...” Gertrude uttered as she half-heartedly rubbed a sponge over a plate.

“Its moved!”

“No...no....there has to be some mistake..” Heisel prayed, clearing his throat.

“There is no mistake, it has moved Heisel. I don't know how, but it has,” Gertrude said, foam filling the sink.

“What do we do?” he asked, undeniably nervous.

“We have to go out there,” she advised.

“Are you kidding? We need to call the police!” he shouted.

“And say what? That a scarecrow moved on its own? That would just get us locked up and you know it.”

“But what good would it do to go outside?” he asked, convinced they should stay inside and away from it.

“I don't know. Investigate? See if something looks unusual? I mean what if something is wrong with that scarecrow?” Gertrude asked the question Heisel had hoped she wouldn't.

He couldn't believe they were even having this conversation, let alone contemplating the existence of a supernatural entity.

“I.....just....” he stammered, unable to think of anything to say.

“Let me put it this way Heisel,” his attention refocused on her words.

“What if we do nothing, and the next time a kid dies under suspicious circumstances, it's Greta.”

A lightening bolt of bravery and courage suddenly shot through him. Alongside the paternal instinct to protect Greta. Gertrude turned off the tap and dried her hands yet again with the fluffy kitchen towel.

“You know what we have to do, we have to go out and see what's wrong,” she insisted.

Considering the fate of his daughter, and that of innocent children, he went to the back door and began stepping into his work boots. Gertrude followed him and slipped into a pair of brown leather shoes. Both threw on a jacket and unlocked the door. The moment it opened a violent rush of wind howled into the house. Both took a deep breath and left the warmth and safety of their home, and entered the cold uncertainty of the field.

They crept through the crops, alert and aware, tingling with anticipation. The edge was lit by the light coming from the house. So for now they were bathed in unnatural house light projections, giving the false impression of safety. Because as they both knew, the minute they entered the swarming darkness, fear would soon follow. Crops crunched underfoot, and brushed by them like passengers rushing off a train. Gusts blew hard, as if acting as a warning of the turmoil yet to come. Gertrude slipped her hand into the trembling grasp of her husband's. Both were now close to total darkness, the moon betraying them by emitting very little light. Then it came, blackness. The occasional glint of the moon bouncing from the green, and the tractor not to far in front. As they approached, the yellow police tape shook ferociously in the wind. Steady steps eventually got them to the tractor and the mayhem it had brought that very day. Blood still polluted everything. Red splotches staining crops, and the soil at their feet moist with various body fluid's from Fred's mutilated corpse. Not forgetting the blades of the tractor caked in it. Never would Heisel be able to look at that tractor again, without reliving the memory of discovering the child's mangled body. He dread the next time he got into that thing. Gertrude was less focused about the area they were in, and concentrating more on the scarecrow floating above the crops in the distance. The moon was its ally, blessing the horrific creation with spooky and disconcerting shadows.

“Come on,” she urged her husband onwards.

Both of their grips tightened considerably, as their nervousness excelled. They shuffled around the tape and entered more darkened plants. Wind continued to whistle, forcing its way through the cornfield, harassing everything it could. Green swayed, trees in the distance quivered and the barn aside the field creaked. Its wood being tested. They were in a void of mystery, the only visible object in their visions was that of the scarecrow. It was a silhouette given a dark shape by the moon just behind it. The straw body nailed to the wood. Tattered and dirty clothing hung from it. What Heisel noticed scared him more than he cared to admit. Everything in sight was bowing down to the admirable force of the powerful breeze, except the scarecrow's clothing. He knew what materials attired the creepy crow scarer. There was cotton, thin denim, corduroy, and other lightweight fabrics. They should be flipping and flapping every way. But they remained still. Dead-still. In fact, every inch of it was motionless. He wondered if Gertrude had noticed that. But he didn't want to alarm her further if she was oblivious.