Hump Day Horror Short Story Sept. 10, 2015
***Since this is a short week due to the holiday we'll say this counts as a Hump Day Horror Short Story!
The older farmer straightened the burlap sack with the black button eyes. He stepped back and looked. The figure had on old jeans with holes in the knees and an old work shirt. Seeming satisfied with it's placement he put the hat on top of the scarecrow and then placed the old rusted pitchfork in the crook of it's arm.
"There we go." he said. "Okay Timothy. It's your job to keep everything out of this field and off this land." He smiled at it and then turned to head back to the barn. There were still chores to do.
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A few hours after the old farmer had gone to sleep two men ran along the old dirt road in a crouch. There was a street light at the end of the lane but they didn't want to take any chances of being seen. Todd was the bigger of the two men and he motioned to Steve to meet up with him by the barn. They ran to the side of the barn away from the house.
"Alright. The tractor is in here. Dump the concrete into the gas tank. I'm going to spread this stuff into the field." He pointed to the sack he had strapped to his back.
"What is it?" Steve asked.
"A special mix. Will kill anything that even thinks of growing in that field. If he can't grow anything he'll have to sell." Steve nodded. "Get going." Todd ran off into the field. He went a few rows in and lugged the sack off his back. Inside was a powdery mixture the color of ashes. He was getting ready to spreading it around when he heard some crunching of old corn stalks. Todd looked around but didn't see anything. He went back to the sack when he heard it again.
"Steve? What are you doing out here" he whispered. "Steve?" There was no response. As he was about to go back to his task a glaved hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head and yanked it back. Todd looked up and saw black button eyes staring back at him. He was about to scream when the prongs of an old rusty pitchfork went through the back of his neck and out through his throat.
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Steve fumbled with the little flashlight. He had checked the batteries right before they had left but of course now it didn't seem to be working. He gave it a shake and banged it on his hand. It finally flared to life. He surveyed the old barn. The old tractor sat just inside of the door. If Steve had been walking while fumbling with the flashlight he was likely to have run right into the bucket on the front. He set down his small bag of concrete and began looking around at some of the tools. Wouldn't hurt to take a few souvenirs if they were running this guy out of business anyway. On the wall were a few of the usual tools that farmers kept on hand. Hand threshers, hammers, etc. Nothing that really excited him.
He climbed up into the hay loft to see if there was anything worth taking up there but only found a half full hay loft. As he was looking around he thought he heard a soft bang downstairs.
"Todd?" he called out and then immediately put his hand over his mouth. "Todd?" he whispered. No response came. He descended the stairs and looked around. Everything seemed to be as he left it. He walked over to the tractor and was messing with the fuel cap when a clanging sound came from one corner. Steve pointed his flashlight at the sound. Nothing. He turned to get back to work when suddenly a pile of dry cement was thrown into his face. Steve began to cough and tried to wipe it out of his eyes. He looked up and saw a figure advancing on him.
"Todd?" he tried to say but the cement as already making a paste in his mouth. The back of his legs hit the tire of the tractor and he fell flat on his back. When he finally got his bearings and looked up he saw someone in a ratty old pair of jeans and an old work shirt advancing on him. It held one of the hand threshers. "No wait!" is what he intended to say but it came out more "Nu Wah". The sickle came down and crimson splashed onto the tractor tire.
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The old farmer pulled his hat onto his head as he walked out the front door. He got to the barn and opened it up. Everything seemed to be as he left it. He grabbed his feed bucket and went out to let the chickens out of their coop. As he passed the field he saw his new scarecrow Timothy standing in the field keeping the birds away from the corn. He stopped for a second as he swore he has left the pitchfork in Timothy's other arm yesterday. He just shook his head.
In the years to come he would tell people that Timothy must be his good luck scarecrow as the corn right around his post seemed to grow the best. Almost like it has been fertilized with something.
*****The object for this story is a pitchfork provided by Rory Abel. For next week give me a location.
