Estimated reading time — 9 minutes

Farmer Adams was a grumpy shell of man. He treated anyone who trespassed on his property as hostile enemies. He wasn’t the violent type to pull out a shotgun or pitchfork. His bark was worse than his bite but his bark was powerful. His angry yells traveled miles and his neighbors knew to stay out of his way if they heard them. To the community he was a nuisance but his fellow farmers had an understanding of his pain. Adams had his own challenges.

His main crop was corn and he was very proud of his bounty. Adams corn stand was a community staple every summer. However in recent years his crops had been diminishing. This was almost entirely due to 2 pests that had tormented him for years.

The first was the crows. A common annoyance to any farmer but Adams had it worse than most. The crows flocked to the field by the dozens to feed on his great tribute. No one wanted to buy a cob of corn with half the pieces missing. He had tried, shooting them, poisoning them and even invested in high tech sonic technology. None of it made a difference and the birds continued to devour his livelihood.

The second menace was more complicated. It was the Byron boy from down the hill. That boy had been a hellspawn since he was in diapers. He was always full of mischief and mayhem. The whole town knew he was a bad seed, except for his parents. They saw him as a golden child with a case of monkey shines.

No one was a bigger target for the boy than Adams. He would often break stalks, pull pranks on the man and mess with his farm equipment. Everyone hoped that when the boy turned 18 his chaotic impulses would diminish, but they didn’t, they magnified.

He would douse the corn in beer, salt parts of the field and last year he went too far. He started a fire that took out over 20% of Adams’ crop. The action nearly cost him his house. When Adams confronted the boy’s parents they instantly believed his lies. With no real evidence Adams was forced to let it go. Though this did not stop fantasies of placing his sickle through the boy’s jugular.

Another summer came upon Adams and it had become do or die with him and the bank. He needed a good season and couldn’t afford any more setbacks. He would deal with the crows first in the most old fashioned sense. He decided to build a scarecrow. It may be old fashioned but it was a tried and tested farm tradition.

He gathered supplies to build his protector. He used a traditional burlap face but included rusty pieces from an old saw to give him triangular fangs. The body was traditional straw and sticks under an old brown jacket. For one hand he used a tree branch specifically because the ends truly looked like long clawed fingers. The other he stuffed a glove and tied on a rusty sickle for intimidation. In every stitch he poured his desperation and his anger. All the while he worked he kept telling the scarecrow to “protect the crop.” It was silly to be talking to an object but his mother always said that words had power and he needed power desperately.

When he was finished with the scarecrow hanging, he took a moment to admire his work. The overall effect was quite frightening even to a rational adult like himself. Its felt black eyes stared down at him and he couldn’t fight the chill that went through him. “You will do a good job. Maybe you will even scare off the Byron boy. Remember, protect the crop.” He said and then left his Sentinel to do its work.

A few days later he came out to check on the scarecrow and what he saw was a chilling sight. In a full circle around the scarecrow were dozens of dead crows. They had no injuries and all bore a single look of utter terror on their faces with their beaks hanging open in shock. To a normal person this would be a horrific sight but to Adams it felt like triumph. The scarecrow had done its duty. Looking at all the dead bodies, a sick idea crept into his mind.

He gathered all the corpses and took them to his barn. With a needle and thread he went to his mad work. He sewed the dead birds together in the shape of a new scarecrow, one made of terror and death. He put up what he called “crowman” in the southern part of the field. “Looking handsome fellas. Now this is what I call a murder.” He said and then uttered a cackle not unlike the prey before him. He would keep the crowman up until the flies did away with him.

But the flies never came. Days went by and the crowman was untouched. Not only that but no crow had been seen anywhere near the field. Adams felt elated as he watched his corn grow golden and beautiful. One day Adams was in the field next to his scarecrow, he saw the Byron boy drive by slowly with a sinister grin on his face. Adams knew that look and knew the boy would try to ruin his perfect crop. “I’d love to see that boy get what was coming to him.” He said to himself. As if in answer a powerful and ominous wind blew through the field and the scarecrow’s head bobbed up and down almost as if he was nodding.

That night Adams had horrible nightmares of being chased through the cornfield. He never saw what was chasing him but the sound of wood and branches cracking filled his ears. He tripped over a patch of tilled earth and fell hard to the ground. The sound of a scream echoed loudly forcing him awake. He laid there for several minutes trying to convince himself that the scream was only a dream. He never fully did.

That morning he walked through his cornfield and for the first time in his life he felt claustrophobic in the tall stalks’ midst. Without the constant cawing of crows the field felt too quiet and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong. Then he came to the clearing where the scarecrow was and his feelings were confirmed. He had to bite his lip tight enough to draw blood just to stop himself from screaming.

Laying at the foot of the scarecrow was the Bryron boy or at least what remained of him. He was covered head to toe in blood. His throat had been slit and his stomach had been sliced open. Embedded in his skull was the sickle that had been in the scarecrow’s hand the day before.

This time he did feel fear, hell he felt absolute terror. Here was the body of a 19 year old boy, murdered in cold blood. He had disliked the boy but he never wanted him dead. But was that true? He asked himself. Had he not had fantasies of jamming that very sickle into his skull? Had he not wished just yesterday that he could end this once and for all.

“Could I have done this?” He asked himself. He had read about people doing crazy things in their sleep, but murder? No it couldn’t happen, besides he would have been covered in blood too. There had to be a murderer in the area. He needed to call the police but how could he? A body was found in his field, and his tool was the murder weapon. Not to mention their long history together. He would be on his way to the electric chair before sundown.

A cold realization came over him, he had to hide the body. A brief image appeared in his mind of the boy strung up like a new scarecrow. The image made him laugh for a moment but he jammed his hand over his mouth to stop himself. This was no time to laugh. With the clock ticking he began to work. He grabbed a spade and dug fast and deep into the dirt. He buried the boy deep in the ground with the scarecrow above like a macabre tombstone.

The police came by in the days that followed, of course they did. He simply told the officers that he had not seen the boy for many days. With all evidence six feet under, the police were forced to move on. Besides Mr. Adams might have been a grump but he was no murderer. Adams himself had to tell himself that daily. With nothing to go on the people decided that the boy likely ran off to the city. It would seem that no one beyond his parents truly missed him.

Adams didn’t have much time to dwell for a few weeks later it was time to harvest the summer crop. This year’s corn was more bountiful than any that came before it. He would have enough to pay off the farm and then some. Despite the horror of the last month he was ready to get back to business.

He went into the barn to discover a horrible sight. His combine had been sabotaged beyond repair. The wires were all cut and the engine had been torn apart. Had Byron still been alive he would have assumed it was him but he was long gone now. Could it have been his parents? Some sick take on revenge? He didn’t know but there was no time to wonder. He had to get as much corn done as possible and now he had to do it the old fashioned way.

He grabbed a large scythe and began cutting down the stalks one by one. The work was extremely slow and exhausting. However something strange happened. He could swear that he could hear some type of branch cracking between cuts. He looked around but no one was around. He decided that he was getting paranoid.

The work took him the whole day and into the night. Thankfully there was a big full moon to help light his way. His body was sore beyond belief but he continued to work relentlessly. He made it to the clearing with the scarecrow and the whole time he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

He cut down a large stalk and he saw something that sent his blood cold. In the light of the moon he could see the shadow of the scarecrow and it was moving. It wasn’t blowing in the wind, its arm was moving on its own accord. Those long claw-like branches were reaching for him and starting to close. He started to move to the side, unable to look upon the horrible thing.

He suddenly bumped into something hard. With shaking limbs he looked up. Standing there over him was the crowman, far from his southern perch. He shook while staring at it. Suddenly all of the crows’ heads moved and stared back at him. The beasts all cawed at the same time, sending Adams reeling backwards. He looked over to the scarecrow who without question was moving. The Sentinel leapt from his perch and began inching towards Adams. Every step a snapping twig that sounded so much like bones.

“Protect the crop.” The scarecrow whispered. Adams shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing and hearing. The scarecrow took a large aggressive step towards him and repeated “protect the crop.” All at once he knew what had killed the boy. He had brought this thing to life with his mad desire and hatred. “You have protected the crop. You have done all that I have asked. Now please stop.” Adams pleaded. The crowman gave a mighty caw, silencing Adams. “Protect the crop!” The scarecrow said with anger. It was the anger that made everything clear. They would protect the crop from all threats and what bigger threat was there than the farmer?

He had no choice but to run. He ran through the fields of corn as fast as he could manage. His body protested the whole way but he no longer cared about minor things like physical pain. All he cared about was getting away. He dived around a corner into a patch a few rows down and hid low. He could see the scarecrow approaching slowly. Adams tried not to scream, to not even breathe. The scarecrow limped past him, his head on a swivel. Tears leaked down the old farmer’s face and he sent up a prayer that the fiend wouldn’t find him.

Finally the scarecrow moved on and Adams let out a sigh of relief. Suddenly from the other side of the corn, dozens of red eyes appeared and began getting closer. The dead faces of the crows stared at him and if possible they seemed to smile. The horrible caw of the crow man echoed through the field causing the scarecrow to turn around and run towards the sound.

Adams got up and charged through the field. All the while he could hear those horrible cracks behind him. He was reminded of his nightmare and he realized that this is what the Byron boy must have experienced in his final moments. “I’m sorry boy, I am truly sorry.” He said into the night. As if in response a hand erupted from the ground and grabbed the farmer’s leg.

He fell to the ground hard and flipped around to see what had tripped him. He wished he had never looked. Rising from the dirt was Byron. His flesh was a sickly green and peeling off in several places exposing bone. His eyes had vanished from his skull and there were dozens of worms crawling around in his skull. The boy rose to his feet and began limping towards the old man. “Protect the crop.” The boy whispered.

Adams began backing up slowly as the boy advanced. He was now flagged by the scarecrow and the crowman. They all repeated in unison “Protect the crop. Protect the crop.” In the scarecrow’s hands was some burlap and needle with thread. Dark realization rolled over Adams on what they wanted to do to him. He let out one final scream that the wind picked up and was heard by the entire county. It would be their one and only warning.

The disappearance of farmer Adams remains a mystery to this day. Though to be honest the police spent less time searching than they had for the Byron boy. The bank that had been so tenacious in squaring the Adams farm, had suddenly given up and let the property be. The house stands empty, going rotten from neglect. The cornfields are also a mystery. Every year they grow and blossom brilliantly. They stand until they eventually rot and every year they are planted anew. No one knew who planted and tended the fields. There are some things a person doesn’t want to know.

The field is adorned with 4 guardians. One in each of the four directions. The scarecrows became something of a tourist attraction. Many people stopped to take pictures, especially of the one with the oh so human-like eyes. However no one, not man, bird or beast ever set foot inside of that field again.

Credit: Tenac