path. The scarecrow’s ghastly painted grin didn’t move.
It’s just a scarecrow,
I told myself, giving it one last kick that sent straw falling out from the jacket front.
Just a scarecrow that Sticks tossed onto the path.
Mark and I could have been killed,
I told myself.
We’re lucky we weren’t.
Sticks. It had to be Sticks.
But why?
This wasn’t a joke.
Why was Sticks trying to
hurt
us?
18
Stanley and Sticks weren’t at lunch. Grandpa Kurt said they had to go into town for supplies.
Mark’s wrist was only sprained. Grandma Miriam put an ice bag on it, and the swelling went right down. But Mark was groaning and complaining. He was really making the most of it.
“Guess I’ll have to lie on the couch and watch TV for a week or so,” he moaned.
Grandma Miriam served ham sandwiches and homemade coleslaw. Mark and I gobbled down our lunches. All that excitement had made us really hungry.
As we ate, I decided to tell Grandpa Kurt everything that had been happening. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I told him about how Sticks was making the scarecrows move at night. And how he was trying to frighten us, trying to make us think the scarecrows were alive.
I caught a glimpse of fear in Grandpa Kurt’sblue eyes. But then he rubbed his white-stubbled cheeks, and he got a faraway look on his face.
“Sticks and his little jokes,” he said finally, a smile spreading across his face. “That boy sure likes his jokes.”
“He’s not joking,” I insisted. “He’s really trying to frighten us, Grandpa.”
“We could have been killed this morning!” Mark joined in. He had mayonnaise smeared on his cheek.
“Sticks is a good boy,” Grandma Miriam murmured. She was smiling, too. She and Grandpa Kurt exchanged glances.
“Sticks wouldn’t really hurt you,” Grandpa Kurt said softly. “He just likes to have his fun.”
“Great fun!” I muttered sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
“Yeah. Great fun,” Mark groaned. “I almost broke my wrist!”
Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam just smiled back at us, their faces frozen like the painted scarecrow faces.
After lunch, Mark slumped to the couch, where he planned to spend the rest of the afternoon staring at the TV. He
loved
having an excuse not to go outdoors.
I heard Stanley’s truck pull up the drive. I decided to go find Sticks and tell him how fed up we were with his stupid scarecrow tricks.
I didn’t think his jokes were all in fun. I really believed he was trying to frighten us or hurt us — and I wanted to find out why.
I didn’t see Sticks or Stanley out in the yard. So I made my way across the grass to the guesthouse, where they lived.
It was a warm, beautiful day. The sky was clear and bright. The air smelled fresh and sweet.
But I couldn’t enjoy the sunshine. All I could think about was letting Sticks know how angry I was.
I knocked on the guesthouse door. I took a deep breath and tossed my hair behind my shoulders, listening for signs of life inside.
I tried to think of what I was going to say to Sticks. But I was too angry to plan it. My heart started to pound. I realized I was breathing hard.
I knocked on the door again, harder this time.
There was no one inside.
I turned my gaze to the cornfields. The stalks stood stiffly, watched over by the motionless scarecrows. No sign of Sticks.
I turned to the barn, across the wide grass from the guesthouse.
Maybe Sticks is in there,
I thought.
I jogged to the barn. Two enormous crows hopped along the ground in front of the open barn doors. They flapped their wings hard and scrambled out of my way.
“Hey — Sticks?” I shouted breathlessly as I stepped inside. No reply.
The barn was dark. I waited for my eyes to adjust.
Remembering my last creepy visit to the barn, I stepped reluctantly, my sneakers scraping over the straw on the floor. “Sticks? Are you in here?” I called, staring hard into the deep shadows.
A rusted baling machine stood to one side of the straw bales.
It’s just a scarecrow,
I told myself, giving it one last kick that sent straw falling out from the jacket front.
Just a scarecrow that Sticks tossed onto the path.
Mark and I could have been killed,
I told myself.
We’re lucky we weren’t.
Sticks. It had to be Sticks.
But why?
This wasn’t a joke.
Why was Sticks trying to
hurt
us?
18
Stanley and Sticks weren’t at lunch. Grandpa Kurt said they had to go into town for supplies.
Mark’s wrist was only sprained. Grandma Miriam put an ice bag on it, and the swelling went right down. But Mark was groaning and complaining. He was really making the most of it.
“Guess I’ll have to lie on the couch and watch TV for a week or so,” he moaned.
Grandma Miriam served ham sandwiches and homemade coleslaw. Mark and I gobbled down our lunches. All that excitement had made us really hungry.
As we ate, I decided to tell Grandpa Kurt everything that had been happening. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.
I told him about how Sticks was making the scarecrows move at night. And how he was trying to frighten us, trying to make us think the scarecrows were alive.
I caught a glimpse of fear in Grandpa Kurt’sblue eyes. But then he rubbed his white-stubbled cheeks, and he got a faraway look on his face.
“Sticks and his little jokes,” he said finally, a smile spreading across his face. “That boy sure likes his jokes.”
“He’s not joking,” I insisted. “He’s really trying to frighten us, Grandpa.”
“We could have been killed this morning!” Mark joined in. He had mayonnaise smeared on his cheek.
“Sticks is a good boy,” Grandma Miriam murmured. She was smiling, too. She and Grandpa Kurt exchanged glances.
“Sticks wouldn’t really hurt you,” Grandpa Kurt said softly. “He just likes to have his fun.”
“Great fun!” I muttered sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
“Yeah. Great fun,” Mark groaned. “I almost broke my wrist!”
Grandpa Kurt and Grandma Miriam just smiled back at us, their faces frozen like the painted scarecrow faces.
After lunch, Mark slumped to the couch, where he planned to spend the rest of the afternoon staring at the TV. He
loved
having an excuse not to go outdoors.
I heard Stanley’s truck pull up the drive. I decided to go find Sticks and tell him how fed up we were with his stupid scarecrow tricks.
I didn’t think his jokes were all in fun. I really believed he was trying to frighten us or hurt us — and I wanted to find out why.
I didn’t see Sticks or Stanley out in the yard. So I made my way across the grass to the guesthouse, where they lived.
It was a warm, beautiful day. The sky was clear and bright. The air smelled fresh and sweet.
But I couldn’t enjoy the sunshine. All I could think about was letting Sticks know how angry I was.
I knocked on the guesthouse door. I took a deep breath and tossed my hair behind my shoulders, listening for signs of life inside.
I tried to think of what I was going to say to Sticks. But I was too angry to plan it. My heart started to pound. I realized I was breathing hard.
I knocked on the door again, harder this time.
There was no one inside.
I turned my gaze to the cornfields. The stalks stood stiffly, watched over by the motionless scarecrows. No sign of Sticks.
I turned to the barn, across the wide grass from the guesthouse.
Maybe Sticks is in there,
I thought.
I jogged to the barn. Two enormous crows hopped along the ground in front of the open barn doors. They flapped their wings hard and scrambled out of my way.
“Hey — Sticks?” I shouted breathlessly as I stepped inside. No reply.
The barn was dark. I waited for my eyes to adjust.
Remembering my last creepy visit to the barn, I stepped reluctantly, my sneakers scraping over the straw on the floor. “Sticks? Are you in here?” I called, staring hard into the deep shadows.
A rusted baling machine stood to one side of the straw bales.
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