The March Selected Story is by David Elliott

Please feel free to email David at:

utopia2008@tiscali.co.uk

CROWSCARE
by David Elliott

First, they saw the scarecrow. Then the scarecrow moved. And then the scarecrow screamed …

“Crows-carisily!” A gravel-filled, screeching voice spewed from the creature’s mouth, as it ran straight towards the car.

It was only then that Carl realized it wasn’t a scarecrow. It was a disheveled old man, undernourished, and clearly a candidate for dementia. He’d been standing in the road, forcing Carl to slam on the brakes as he lost control of the wheel. Emily screamed into his left ear, and the car skidded nose-first into a hedge.

“Carl! Are you okay? Jesus, you didn’t him, did you?”

“I’m fine.” It was a lie. He was suddenly stricken with anxiety. Carl wasn’t entirely sure what he’d hit, if anything, but there was only one way to find out. Yanking open the car door, he stepped out into the mud, only half-noticing Emily following behind.

With a great wave of relief, he saw the old man sitting in the middle of the country road, seemingly unharmed. Perhaps he’d merely bumped him with the fender; damaging his pride, no doubt, but hopefully nothing more.

The scarecrow impersonator barely acknowledged them. He was staring down the country lane, clearly transfixed by something unseen. “Crows-carisily’ he muttered. ‘The feathers, the songs, the sweet suffering Jesus. It’s all wrong here. The soil, the air, the people. Take me away, Mr. Holt, please take me away. Crows-carisily.”

Mr. Holt? How did this crazy old freak know his name? Carl knelt down beside him. “Look, calm down, will you? I don’t understand what you’re saying. Take you away from what?”

“Don’t understand?” The old man grabbed Carl’s sleeve and pulled. “Crows-carisily, you imbecile. Crows-carisily.”

Carl noticed Emily’s shadow creeping up behind him. “Okay, call the police,” he said. “I’ve had enough of this fucking lunatic.”

“The police?” The elderly stranger’s face broke into a relaxed grin. “Oh yes, call the police. They’ll fix everything. Crows-carisily, but the police? Ha! Wonderful.”

Emily was tapping the first couple of nines into her phone, when the old man suddenly stood up, and stumbled past the rear of the car in her direction. “And won’t she make a pretty one?” he said. “A nice sing-song, a few hundred feathers, and your beautiful young lady can be preserved forever, Mr. Holt. Oh, yes. Crows-carisily. There’ll be no laughter-lines or tit-sagging for you, Missy. No, indeed.”

“Carl?” Emily was clearly repulsed; not least by the smell emanating from the stranger’s every pore. “Why don’t we just get back in the car and go? It’s only a bit scratched.”

“Go? But what about this nutcase? He caused the bloody thing. I mean, my no-claims bonus is a thing of the past now, isn’t it? I think he should cough up the money, and—”

“Does he look like he’s got the money?”

They didn’t have many arguments, certainly not compared to other couples they knew, but when Emily hit him with her ice-cold logic, Carl knew it was useless to retaliate. He looked for the old man, who was now down on all fours, poking a piece of road-kill with his index finger, and giggling.

“Okay. You win.” He threw up his hands in defeat, marched over to the car, and slipped back behind the wheel. Emily reappeared beside him a second later. “I hope you’re happy,” he said. “That’s one more bill I can’t fucking afford.”

They backed into the road, emerging from the hedge, and reversing through the road-kill that had so recently enchanted their new friend.

Emily looked through the rear window. “I wonder where he’s gone. He was here a few seconds ago.”

There was a loud slapping sound.

“What the hell?” Carl cried.

The old man had leapt onto the hood. He was now completely naked, spread-eagled across the windshield. Carl stopped the car, horrified, as the unclothed geriatric stood up, standing proudly on the front bonnet of the car.

After posing for a while, he stepped onto the roof, skidded down the rear window on his buttocks, hopped down onto the tarmac, and ran away in the direction of the Brimstage Road. Emily watched him go in the rear-view mirror as Carl crunched the gears into first, and drove off at a fast speed, tires screeching like a wounded animal. “Jesus! Does everybody around here have to be so bloody weird?”

“Calm down, Carl.”

“Leave me alone.”

After navigating the twists and turns of the country lane at a speed that was beyond reckless, Carl eventually decided to take Emily’s advice. He forced himself to calm down, started to give the accelerator an easier time, and managed to get his breathing back to a normal rate. They were both silent for quite some time. Eventually they drove past a sign; the first they had noticed on that rural stretch of road.

Thornton Hough annual Scarecrow Festival. Come and join us!

“Well, you wanted to go to the Scarecrow Festival,” said Carl. “Here we are.”

Emily looked at her stressed-out boyfriend. His face had now softened considerably. “How are you feeling now?’ she said. “I don’t blame you for being upset, you know. It was all a bit weird, and...scary, actually. That old guy was really scary.”

Carl reached for the gear-stick, his hand trembling. “Are you okay?” he said. “Sorry, I should’ve asked sooner. He didn’t freak you out too much, did he?”

“I’m fine.”

Carl turned to look at her. “He called me Mr. Holt.”

*****

If they hadn’t known which village they were entering, they certainly could have made an educated guess. There were scarecrows everywhere. As soon as they’d passed the ‘Welcome to Thornton Hough’ sign, it was as if human life had ceased to exist, and the straw-men had taken over. It was exactly what Carl had come to expect from the stories he’d heard of the place; scarecrows of wildly varying sizes, dressed in different costumes, in people’s front gardens, outside of shops, pubs, cafes, everywhere he looked and even on the periphery of his vision: scarecrows. 

Carl pulled into the car-park of the Ring O’ Bells, a pub on the opposite side of the road from the village Methodist church. He noticed, with some distaste, that there was a scarecrow nativity scene, located just to the left of a path leading up to the church doorway. But it wasn’t the nativity scene that gave Carl his sense of unease, it was what was on the other side of the path.

To the right of the church doorway, hung upon the wall, was a scarecrow crucifixion; straw-filled sack for a head, carrot nose, eyes stitched closed, and a circular mouth; a mouth that seemed to be screaming, begging the villagers to let it die rather than endure the torture. It was the juxtaposition of this and the nativity scene that Carl found disturbing, the image preying on his mind as they entered the car park.

They parked and Emily exited the car, looking around. The windows of the pub were boarded up, the door was barred. It certainly didn’t look open.

“Let’s walk back down the road,” said Carl. “Jesus, it’s like the Wicker Man around here.”

They left the car behind them. Carl let out an involuntary shudder as he saw the church again with its heathen scarecrows, and immediately turned right; partly to head back into the heart of the village, but mainly to get away from the suffering scarecrow Christ before it really started to scream.

It was eerily quiet. They walked past terraced cottages, shop-fronts, all of which seemed to be deserted. Probably all out enjoying their weird fucking scarecrows, thought Carl. And where are the cars? Nobody’s driving on the roads, no cars parked outside houses, parked in driveways. Nothing.

And, despite his self-assurance that the shopkeepers and homeowners were out admiring scarecrows, they hadn’t seen a single person. Thornton Hough, as far as Carl could make out, was something of a ghost town today.

Today? Yes, of course. It could only be today. People live here, don’t they?

There was obviously some kind of event going on, something to do with the festival, an event set in a central location that most people would have to travel to; hence the lack of cars, human beings, and general noise. And that was another point. For such a rural location, with no car engines, no factories, no visible human beings, there didn’t seem to be any sounds of nature. No birds singing, no cattle mewing or mooing, no insects in the grass.

Nothing…

As they walked, buildings, houses, shops, everything started to thin out. Emily began making protestations about turning back, but Carl insisted they keep moving in the same direction. They walked for another half a mile, until they found themselves walking alongside a set of railings clearly bordering a primary school playing field.  

And then they heard the music.

It was faint at first, barely audible, drifting towards them on the breeze: singing, but from where they couldn’t be sure. Every part of the school field was visible before them, and nobody was there. From inside, perhaps? Maybe that’s where everybody had disappeared to. Some kind of school play, with scarecrows as the main theme.

Carl started to comment but Emily raised a finger to her lips. “Ssshhhh.” She was looking over towards the school building, transfixed. “I’m trying to listen.”

Soon enough, they could make out the melody, the intertwining harmonies. Carl had never had much of an interest in music, had always considered it somewhat of a waste of time; an attitude that Emily, in her capacity as a music teacher, had always found unbelievable. He simply saw it as pointless, a distraction from what he considered the finer things in life; literature, journalism, and theatre. But even he was awestruck by what they were hearing. It was beautiful. Breath-taking. Miraculous …

He turned to look at Emily. There were tears in her eyes. One released itself and headed down her cheek, hanging to her quivering bottom lip like a tiny crystal ball. “Oh, Carl,” she whispered. “Carl, can you hear it? It’s so wonderful. It’s so, so, so wonderful.”

No words, at first. Simply voices; angelic, unearthly voices.

And then, the words came. Unlike the music, they were simple, almost childlike; words to a never before heard nursery rhyme.

Crows-carisily, so do you
Feathers of black, and skies of blue
Men of straw, will never do
Crows-carisily, but so do you…

Carl found tears welling in his own eyes. He looked at Emily again. She was still gazing at the schoolhouse, eyes red, nose running. She was mouthing along to the words, like a schoolchild in assembly who can’t quite bring themselves to sing. It was as if she’d known them her entire life…

Crows-carisily, come and play
After all the things that have happened today
We’ll make you happy
Forever you’ll stay
Crows-carisily, come and play…

As soon as she’d mouthed the final syllable, Emily grasped the railings and started to climb over the top; her feet scrambling for purchase on the cold slippery metal. Carl’s own tears had started to flow now, cascading down his cheeks, over the stubble of a day’s beard growth.

He wanted to reach out, stop her, and tell her “No.”

Somehow he knew that if she headed into that school field, things would always be different. Everything would change from that day on. He quite simply knew. It was a knowledge that was profound; a knowledge with no source. But he knew. Oh, yes. He felt it stronger than anything he’d ever felt.

Yet he just stood there in the lane, transfixed and immobile.

Emily was over now, her eyes remaining on schoolhouse, the source of the music, at all times. She stood up, zombie-like, and walked towards the building, hands limp by her sides, back straight.

She was over. Their life together was over.

Carl knew what needed to be done. He couldn’t let Emily go there alone. There was another life that waited across the fence. The urge to go to the new life was too strong to resist.

Following his wife, he climbed over the railings. As his feet landed on the grass of the school field, he could feel himself being led across the grass, following Emily towards the school building, towards his new life.

Emily was still crying; he could hear her, and was surprised to feel his own wet tears on his cheeks. The singing became louder, more heart-breaking, more beautiful. He could hear her, the woman he loved, sobbing with a gut-wrenching intensity.

But instead of gaining on the doors of the school, he and Emily shifted to the right, away from the building, and headed for a low set of walls. There was an opening in the front wall, with steps leading downward.

A large sign had been erected by the steps:

DO NOT PLAY IN THE SUNKEN GARDEN

They moved along, towards the steps, down the steps. They were going to play in the sunken garden. Yes, they were. Because that’s where the singing had come from. The sunken garden, not the schoolhouse. That’s where the singing had alwayscome from. For centuries, the singing had come from the sunken garden. That’s why you weren’t allowed to play in the sunken garden. It was…

Crows-carisily, for the few
A sunken garden welcomes you
With feathers of black, we’ll Christen you
Straw devours inside of you
We’ll suck the soul right out of you
Crows-carisily, for the few…

It was dark in the sunken garden. Black, grey, green, murky. They had to tilt their heads back, had to fight against the glare of the sun, before they could see the crows perched on the walls; tens of them, scores of them, hundreds of them. And more arriving all the time; looking down at them, singing at them.

Not singing to them, but at them.

The crows started to ruffle their feathers, one by one, the volume increasing until it matched their singing; the singing that neverstopped. The walls of the sunken garden were an oppressive inky black, framing the sapphire blue of the sky above …

Feathers of black, and skies of blue...

As they shook their bodies, feathers came loose; floating down into the sunken garden, closing in on Emily and Carl; hundreds, even thousands of black feathers, descending on them, blocking out the blue sky, blocking out the light, blocking out their lives. They were consumed by crows’ feathers.

Carl’s paralysis finally gave way to panic. He tried to scream, tried to reach out for Emily. As he opened his mouth, a multitude of feathers flew down his throat, plastering the inside of him, choking him, preserving him. And Carl knew why. As his life ebbed away, he knew, with an intense clarity, with a second sight, what the crows had in store for him.     

Straw devours inside of you…

And suddenly, Carl stopped caring. There were changes occurring inside him. Things were disappearing, hardening, taking on a new constitution. He was vaguely aware of something piercing what used to be his skin; piercing it from the inside; piercing him from every point.

Straw, he thought, with barely concealed delight. This must be my straw.

There was no such thing as pain anymore. Pain was a concern of his old life. He was beyond it, embracing his new existence.

His metamorphosis was almost complete. Faintly, from what seemed another time, another place, he heard a scream. It was a scream he’d once recognized as belonging to a woman, something called an Emily, but he no longer knew what that meant.

Crows-carisily, he thought. Crows scare easily, and so do we.

And then, with one, horrific metaphysical rip, his consciousness left him.

Carl was gone.

*****

The Thornton Hough Scarecrow Festival always has two new scarecrows, every year. Atleast two. And if you decide to pay a visit this year, if you decide to take an unmarked turn off the Brimstage Road, you’ll notice something before you reach the outskirts of this quaint Wirral village; a scarecrow scene, which should give you an idea that you’re on the right path.

An old rusting car has been driven into a hedge, at the side of the road. A female scarecrow sits in the passenger seat, using her mobile phone to inform somebody of the accident. Emerging from the open driver’s side door is a male scarecrow, with an angry look on his sackcloth face, his eyes stitched into a frown. He’s pointing his finger at an ‘old man’ scarecrow, standing at the side of the road, folding his arms and looking pleased with himself; clearly the cause of the scarecrow couple’s unfortunate accident.

Strangely, the elderly scarecrow isn’t always part of that particular scene. One day he’ll be there, the next he’ll be absent. He moves around, you see. He has other work to do for the village. Important work.

The Thornton Hough Scarecrow Festival always has two new scarecrows, every year. At least two.

David Elliott is a musician and writer living in Cheshire, United Kingdom. His short fiction has appeared in Linguistic Erosion, Flashes in the Dark, MicroHorror, Twisted Tongue, Whispers of Wickedness, and Delivered. He is currently working on a dark fantasy novel.