Halloween Ghost Story Contest -- 2000
Adult Winners

First Place

The Scarlet Scarecrow

by
Kevin Joseph Lopes

October is here once again, crisp frosty fall air tickling your nose as autumn's colorful splendor flutters angelically towards the dying earth. Brilliant clear aquamarine skies give way to the coal black night as the harvest moon shines like a Golden Spanish Doubloon from its heavenly perch. Chimneys awake from their summer like hibernation and become furtively active emanating their odoriferous smoky delights of burning birch and pine. Harvest time celebrations abound with a feast of rewards from nature's harvest.

Yes, October exuberant, radiant and vibrant; but don't forget that even such a beautiful month has its dark side and for October the 31st day of the month represents the Season of Death.

October was not splendid for all in fact for the citizens of the hamlet called Devilsfield; October was truly the Season of Death.

The year was 1927 in the small valley town of Devilsfield, population 115. Surrounding the village were the Hopacrichet Mountains named after Chief Hopacrichet of the Untagwa tribe who was known as a mighty and relentless warrior. Tribal lore has stated that the chief became possessed by evil spirits and declared that he and the devil were now brothers. On one full moons night the chief, with many of his followers disappeared into the mountains never to be seen again. When settlers arrived in the valley they named the town Devilsfield. This unique name came from the fact that Devilsfield was so deep into the earth and secluded from outside influences. The story was that the devil must have taken residence there long ago away from the Angels of Heaven thus the name Devilsfield. Devilsfield was a farming village that had a church with an attached church hall as well as a trading post as the town's center.

By now you the reader must be wondering who is telling this story and why he or she is talking about a useless town in the heart of nowheresville.

Well my name is Jonathan P. Dungfellow and I am entering the town I called home seventy-three years ago, Devilsfield now called Stonersville. At the age of 85 years and five months people believe that you start to suffer from dementia and lost thoughts. Unfortunately for me after all these years my mind has suddenly become tortured with the chilling events of that forbidden night of October 31,1927.

On that Hallows eve day I was a boy of 12 years. I stood tall for my age with scraggly autumn brown hair and eyes the shade of bright Kentucky blue grass. Living on a farm my Father Josiah had many chores for me to carry out in a day's light. Father was a tall and lanky fellow grasping about six foot nine into the sky. He worked everyday even when ill from 4am till 10 in the eve.

My mother Francis would work side by side with my father only leaving his presence to tend to laundry, cooking or the children. Momma was a large woman with cheeks of rose and a heart filled with love and nurturing joy.

I also had a sister Sarah of 8 years and a brother of 4 years called Thomas. Sarah had long braided hair the color of daffodils and her voice was always overflowing with demands and complaints.

Thomas, mother said was the spitting image of her younger brother Alexander who had passed in the epidemic of 1891. Thomas lived in his own imaginary world dreaming he was Chief Hopacrichet on a hunt for Buffalo or father Josiah wrestling a famished grizzly bear.

Our family as the other families in Devilsfield worked on the farm and that was the way of life for all.

In the fall of 1927 as the harvest was reaped and the nights grew bone-chilling cold we the children had less chores and more time to play.

Mother would make us rock-sugar candy as Sarah, Thomas and I would play in the fields.

We would start our festivities by kicking and tossing the misfit pumpkins rotting in the fields. After pulling the pumpkin sinew and seeds from our hair and clothes we would make tangled mazes throughout the once vibrant corn stalks. The cornstalks now artifacts of death browning into the earth were perfect for the many games we played. This was our favorite past time for we had built our own world within the heart of the cornfield.

As we grew tired I administered the idea of making a scarecrow for the old straw man in the cornfields had seen many a winter solstice. Thomas and Sarah were thrilled with my thought as they ran to the house to purge some of Father's worn clothing. I made my way to the barn for some paint, twine, an old burlap potato sack and a wobbly stepladder. With all the necessities in hand I proceeded to the old straw man's perch. Slowly rising to the top rung of the rickety ladder I pulled the weathered crow man from the crucifix of wood and discarded him to a frosty tomb in the compost heap. Just then Thomas came running carrying, then tripping over a pair of father's old overalls. Sarah slowly and most ladylike held in her arms a moth-eaten woolen shirt, a hat of straw, two rawhide gloves, a pair of soiled black boots and a eye-stinging orange scarf that was an old Christmas gift from old man Grumpsby the moonshine king. Unfortunately for Grumpsby and the townsfolk he took a liking to the spirits and was his own best customer.

I placed Sarah and Thomas upon a rotted stump and convinced them that we should make the scariest of all scarecrows for the purpose of a scarecrow was to keep the crows from devouring father's corn. We all laughed as we first stuffed the legs of Father's overalls with leaves, straw, and fallen cornstalks. Placing the now stuffed woolen shirt onto the overalls we tied the two body parts together with twine and wire. Then fastening the hands and feet to the straw figure we now had a headless man of straw lying at our feet. Thomas and Sarah filled the burlap sack as I readied the twine and wire to tie off the burlap head. Putting a small oak post into the head and torso I placed the burlap head onto the mannequin of straw. Sarah and Thomas sat once again upon the crumbling stump as I like a Mad Renoir painted an evil masterpiece upon the burlap face of the scarecrow. As I painted I pretended to put an evil spell on the strawman .

I began to Chant, "Arise the Season of Fall for this scarecrow is and will remain the most frightening of all. With Eyes of scarlet that worship the devil, a nose of coal black to release the abyss of death and a twisted mouth of rusted wire that will bind you to the walls of hell. Arise the Season of Fall for this scarecrow is and will remain the most frightening of all."

As I wrapped the hideous orange scarf and placed the straw hat upon the straw demons' head Sarah as well as Thomas began to stammer then outwardly cry. Slowly I dragged the immense man filled with autumn's relics up the stepladder. Resting for an instant upon the top rung I slung the scare-demon onto his final resting-place. With the remainder of wire and twine I fastened the large crow person to the cross of oak. I stepped back to marvel at my inhuman creation but the straw man's head hung low. Wire and twine diminished I looked around for anything to keep the strawman's head aloft as Sarah and Thomas sobbed impatiently. My inquisitive eyes were drawn to a distant object shining deep in the pumpkin field. I reassured Sarah and Thomas I would return quickly and that I would only be leaving their sides to retrieve the shiny object. As I drew closer to the object Sarah and Thomas followed me like a starving wolf. There in the soil was a piece of long thin metal protruding from its earthly tomb. I began tugging at the glaring ornament. Struggling with the earth to release its gilded prize I twisted and pulled until much to my surprise the soil released its desperate clench. The object had two long dagger-like protrusions arising from a metal base. My discovery was as shiny as a silver teapot with no signs of rust or wear. What I believed the object to be was the remainder of a pitchfork but one tine was missing. This was fact remained strange for Father had made his pitchforks of hard oak from the Hopacrichet Mountains. I also believed that not one of Devilsfields' inhabitants had the means to afford such a beautiful tool of labor.

As I walked toward the scarecrow my silver reward in hand the wind began to grow stronger. Picking up a large stone I climbed the old stepladder and proceeded to hammer the silver prong into the strawmans hat adhering his monstrous head to the oak post. As the north wind grew stronger the tines of the pitchfork seemed to wail an eerie tune. Sarah and Thomas cried uncontrollably as I looked into the scarecrow's face. Sarah in a trembling murmur demanded that I cover the straw beast's face. Looking once again into the damned burlap face I also gained a symptom of ill ease and agreed to Sarah's wishes. Retrieving a large pumpkin from the field, I began hollowing the insides of the orange gourd out. I cut a joyful face into the pumpkin and placed the new orange head over the burlap head of fear.

Sarah and Thomas stopped crying almost immediately and began laughing at the friendly pumpkin face of the scarecrow. I laughed and jokingly extolled that this was a joycrow not a scarecrow and all the crows will feast on Father's corn. We danced around the jolly straw man until the golden autumn sun tucked itself below the covers of the Hopacrichet Mountains.

That evening Momma rushed us through our supper, bathing, and getting us ready for sleep. Tonight I, 12 year old Jonathan P. Dungfellow would be in sole authority of my siblings Sarah and Thomas while Momma and Father would celebrate the this years bountiful harvest at the church hall.

As Father announced that a storm was heading over the mountains I kissed mother goodbye extending her assurance that the children would be secure. Sitting by the fire I read to Sarah and Thomas who were lying in bed. The storm outside began to increase in its ferocity. The wind twisted the weeping willow in the front yard braiding the tree's branches like Sarah's hair. From the blackness of that last night of October shards of lightning ripped through the ghoulish black abyss. The weathered barn doors tirled then creaked, eventually ripping from their hinges. Sarah, Thomas and I went to the window as moist leaves flew violently past some pasting themselves to the pane of glass. Suddenly the destructive wind began to make an ear-piercing wail as an orange haze enveloped the cornfield. An enormous bolt of lightning dropped from the heavens and struck our new scarecrow in the cornfield. Fire and multi colored sparks flew from the straw man as he fell to the muddy earth. The orange haze grew brighter as the man of straw lay burning in the field. As the fire burned in the cornfield Mother and Father arrived home early for fear of the violent storm. Father rushed to the barn to retrieve some water as mother grabbed an old horsehair blanket and began beating the treacherous fire down. Suddenly as father arrived with the water mother stood back from the burning man of straw.

Sarah and Thomas ran to their mother's side as I followed quickly behind. Father stood frozen in horror as the scarecrow began to move then rise. Mother grabbed Sarah, Thomas and myself and pushed us into the corn stalks for the beast of the crows blocked the path to the house.

I hesitated and looked back as Father faced off against the fiendish man of straw. Father swung his pitchfork at the pumpkin head of the strawman splitting the gourd open and revealing a hideous face of death. From a half-lidded gaze the straw devil's eyes opened wide revealing bright beams of scarlet. The once twisted mouth of wire now revealed rotted fang like teeth that emitted a froth of red and green mucous. The nose of death had become one gruesome nostril filled with the same reddish-green fluid. As the straw beast seemed to breathe it would blurt-forth-small flames from the immense nostril. Father heroically stood his ground as the straw demon looked away from Father and fixed his hellish eyes upon the pumpkin patch. The crow demon raised his burning arms as a devilish tune arose over Devilsfield. This was the same horrid collection of sounds that had come from the gilded pitchfork found in the fields that day. The pumpkins began to roll then rise from their final resting-place. Then as if a warhead had been placed in each pumpkin they began to burst into fiery red flame and force skyward hovering over the skies of Devilsfield. The straw messenger of destruction then returned his demonic glance to Father. Dropping his burning limbs to his sides the flaming gourds fell one by one to the earth, setting the town afire in a burst of horrific flame.

Father overcome by fear sought shelter between the rows of corn stalks as the pumpkins fell from the blackness of the night. I was now separated from Mother, Sarah, and Thomas running deep into the cornfield following the mazes we had played in just hours before that day. I looked and listened as the cornstalks were ablaze and the black sky grew bright with a pumpkin colored hue.

I made my way out of the Devil's inferno to the base of the Hopacrichet Mountains. Waiting for my family to safely reunite the hellish tunes of the pitchfork appeared to make the flames within the October night dance a hellish jig. As the fires grew closer I could hear my family members pushing through the cornstalks and I called to them desperately. As the corn stalks separated I prayed Father, Momma, Sarah and Thomas were safe. Rubbing my eyes from the stinging smoke of the burning corn stalks I held my arms out for my family reunion. As I reached for their embrace the heat grew more intense and I pulled back my painfully singed arms in time to be face to face with the straw demon of death.

This monstrous being that I had so created peered deep into my eyes with his Murderous blood-red eyes. His burning body emanated a horrific stench as he raised his flaming arms towards his straw hat. Lifting the burning hat from his head the autumn beast pulled the remnants of the silver pitchfork from his burlap head. As he pulled the prongs out from within, the monster of straw began to transform. Green trails of light surrounded his straw corpse as his eyes grew a brighter shade of scarlet. With a fiery explosion the monstrous demon of the fields had recreated itself into what appeared to be a large Indian dressed in buffalo skins and eagle feathers. His eyes still a glaring scarlet red and the once broken pitchfork was clenched within his right hand now a gold monument to death. Could this have been Chief Hipocrichet giving truth to the tribal lore? Was the chief undeniably the Devil's brother?As the huge Indian chief raised the pitchfork skyward and began to chant I shot like an arrow deep into the mountains. The devil's lightning reigned down from above as I took shelter amongst the birch and pine.

Weeks later I was found wandering on an old logging road and spent the rest of my childhood in St. Maria's orphanage. I never saw my family again and for the citizens of Devilsfield I believe they met the same horrific demise. It has taken me all these years to remember what has been buried in its own personal hell with in my mind.

As dusk fades into night and I look out over the Hopacrichet Mountains. I wonder if what I now recall at 85 was true at all. I have no proof as a new thriving community lies on the damned soil of Devilsfield. Maybe it is old age and dementia that has twisted my thoughts. Darkness has fallen and the evidence of that horrible October night remains cloaked in darkness. Driving away from my haunted past the road seems to shift and shiver as I head into a deluded future. The pavement has become extreme and I pull to the side reaching to retrieve a flashlight from my glovebox. Walking to the rear of the car the wind begins to increase its frosty force. Shining the light on one of the rear tires I notice the tire is deflated. A shiny shard of metal sticks from the wall of the tire. As I grasp the metal and pull the destructive object from the wheel the wind violently blows and the childhood song of hell begins to wail. I slowly lift my head and look to the Hopacrichet Mountains viewing many pairs of scarlet red eyes. Frightened I try to get back to my vehicle but the music grows more intense as the red beams of death grow closer. Looking into my hand I realize the metal piece from my tire is the devil's tine of the pitchfork from long ago. Unable to release the now golden tine I falter with acceptance. I look into the eyes of my scarlet future embracing my family and all of the disciples of Devilsfield.