A/N: Halloween approaches, the year is dying and the moon is full in the sky. Gather close my children and I shall tell you a story, a scary story, hopefully one that will make you check for the creatures under your bed that sweep their hands out in the dark of the night to grab at your ankles. Or makes you wonder what the creak and groan is upon the stairs. Huddle close to the fire. Draw a blanket up over your head. Shhhh. It's just the sound in the tree branches scratching at the windowpane, not the ghost of the hanged man pacing in the attic.

Thanks to mattsloved1 once again for looking this over.

Don't own, but if I did, you would have trouble sleeping:)

Scarecrow

Chapter 1. The Shadow of the Hawk

When John was little, he loved visiting his Grandparents' farm in the autumn. Nothing was better, more thrilling, than to race through the tall stalks of corn, listen to the dry, desiccated leaves scratch and rub together as he walked past, his clothes brushing up against them. The heavy smell of dying plant life at the year's end, the scuttle of mice as they tried to store enough fallen grain to make it through the winter and the first nose curling hints of frost; those were the things he loved the best.

But the scarecrow frightened him, just a little. He'd see it in the field, out back and he could imagine the sightless figure tracking him with its nonexistent eyes on old burlap, pale and silvery, bleached by the sun and faded by the rain. There was an old black, curly wig, found somewhere, perched whimsically on its head. The wind would dance with the tattered tails of an old shirt and the ragged ends of his Grandfather's long black coat. It caused his hyperactive imagination to see it move and reach for him. He could hear, underneath the wind and the derisive laughter of the crows, a dark, weighted voice slowly saying his name. 'Joooohhhnn' like a sigh or the ghost of a murmur. He'd turn slowly, so as not to make the scarecrow think he was nervous and he'd walk back to his Grandparent's farm house, quickly, but not as if he were afraid. He could well believe if it thought he was scared, it would rise off of the stake it was tied to and the last thing he would feel before he reached the safety of the door would be the long arms wrapping themselves around his small body and he'd be carried away into the depths of the corn, never to be seen again.

He told his Gran once about his fears, and she ran a hand through his hair, looked at him funny and said scarecrows were there for protection. Always had been, always would be. It was a family tradition. Nothing would harm him if he were under the scarecrow's watchful gaze. Then she gave him a fresh baked biscuit and set him at the table with a glass of milk.

One fall, there was a new hired man, Reubens. Something about him curdled John's appetite and left him feeling uneasy. At twelve, John, city boy that he was, knew not to trust a man who's eyes followed but whose smile never reached the darkened shadows under the heavy brows. Once, alone in the barn, the hired man had held him with his eyes, pinned him in place and watched him with a satisfied smirk as John played with some newborn kittens. He left a sour taste in John's mouth, and he made sure he was never by himself near the man if he could help it.

On a clear pumpkin frost evening, after running wild through the field, dirt clinging to the knees of his jeans, the sole of one trainer beginning to loosen and flap a bit as he jogged along, John stayed longer than he should have. The sky was indigo dark, and the air was a graveyard chill. He could see his breath and the stars glittered harder and brighter than diamonds. He had not worn a jacket when he went for his explorations and goosebumps were raised along his thin arms. He made his way back to the house when he heard the crackle of something being trod upon, a branch or a stalk broken.

He was not alone in the field.

First thoughts reached out to the scarecrow. It had finally come to life and was tracking him down. Second thoughts went to the new hire. The reality of the molten look of unnamed want in that man's eyes outweighed any thought of imaginary monsters. Real monsters were scarier.

He had stopped, a timid creature under the shadow of the hawk, and listened with all of his might. He listened so hard he could hear nothing but the thrum of his blood pounding in his veins. He had just decided he had imagined it or something else had made that noise, and he turned to go, when Reubens strolled out, leaching from between the stalks a silent, deadly apparition, hands in his pocket.

"Hey John," he smiled a fresh corpse smile at him. "What are you doing out here at this time of day? Shouldn't you be up at the house? Your grandparents will be looking for you. It isn't safe being out here at night. All manner of wild things could be creeping up through the field." And his smile became broader and more shark-like at the idea.

John shivered but didn't respond. He turned his back and made his way to the house. As with the scarecrow, he moved as if it didn't matter as if he weren't terrified, but he was oh so very much afraid. His heart was pounding so hard he knew Reubens could hear it shattering against his ribs. John had only managed to walk a few steps when a rough hand grabbed his arm and span him around.

"I'm talking to you! Don't you know it's not polite to treat someone like that? Come on John. I just want to be friends." The grip on John's arm tightened with bruising force, and the man brought him closer. John tried digging in his heels, but he was outweighed.

His mouth dropped open to yell and scream for help when a work-callused hand clamped down across and prevented him from calling out. The hand on his arm moved and was wrapped around the front of his t-shirt, and he was dragged forward and up into the air.

John kicked out at the older man and managed to connect with a kneecap and an unguarded stomach. There was curses and yelling. He bit down hard on the hand across his mouth and tasted blood. John was smacked hard across the face. The expression 'seeing stars' had always confused him until that moment. He could feel the slow, steady drip of blood running out of the corner of his mouth and the taste of his own mixed with that of Reubens. He was lugged over the shoulder of the farm worker, and they began to make their way to the heart of the field. John was feeling the effects of the abuse and being carried head down across a solid shoulder didn't help. He felt dizzy and nauseated.

They walked longer than John thought was possible before they stopped. Dumped onto the ground, the dirt blew up from the impact, and he hit the back of his head on a stone left in the turnings of the soil. He was sure he had passed out for a moment because when he looked again, Reubens was in the process removing his sun-faded shirt. He had just put his hands on his belt, looking at John with an expression he had never seen before, but which spoke of dead things and unspeakable secrets. Just as Reubens managed to pull the end of the belt through the metal ring, John thought he heard a noise, another rustle and snap. He was feeling very sick to his stomach, and he wondered if he imagined things.

But Reubens looked too. After a moment he shrugged and continued what he had been doing, evil grin stretched, and John was sure his eyes gleamed red.

There was a sudden flurry of movement out of the corner of John's eyes and an explosion of sound and corn stalks. A fierce growl and a manlike shape pounced upon Reubens. It was hard to see in the gloom. John's vision was blurred from the pain in his head and the real and figurative dark that bound him, but he could see the figure wrap long arms around Reubens. The arms were strong, stronger than steel bands and soon Reubens couldn't move. His face mirrored the look that had been on John's moments earlier. He could just make out indistinct features on the figure and sightless eyes as Reubens was dragged screaming back through the corn. John's heart felt like it was going to explode as he continued to hear muffled thuds and unnatural cries, the reverberations of something wet been torn apart and disturbing squelching noises.

And as quickly as it had begun all was still.

The corn rustled again, and a tall, thin man came back thought the stalks, arms and legs lanky and slender, but floppy as if filled with something lighter than blood and bone. He wasn't sure, but there seemed to be shiny patches on the material of the clothing worn by the approaching figure.

John's eyes widened. It wasn't a man. All of his nameless terror came rushing up through him. He felt his head turn, and his eyes rolled up. He had been saved from whatever evil Reubens had planned only to be sacrificed to the scarecrow. He passed out just as it reached him.

As if no time had passed, he awoke from a troubled sleep. His eyes lit upon his Gran sitting by his side, a worried expression on her face.

"Oh, John dear, thank goodness," she cried. She placed a cool hand on his forehead and kissed his brow. "We've been so worried."

John never did hear all of the details of what happened that night. There were whispered conversations and murmurs that stopped abruptly if he walked into the room, but no explanation was given except that Reubens had tried to do…something. John, as he grew older, was pretty certain he knew what the something was. He had told his version of events just once, and looks were passed back and forth. John wondered at those looks. In his mind's eye, they were more like the glances people give one another when a truth is revealed or a story long thought to be legend, ends up being true. And not necessarily in a comforting way. He was shushed, told he was still recovering and reminded he had hit his head awfully hard. Someone must have come and hauled Reubens off of him, but no one knew who and nothing was ever seen of the farm hand, no trace found.

On the last day of his visit, John gathered up the necessary courage to trek out to the scarecrow where it stood solitary and alone. At the base, he looked up into the weathered featureless face.

He blinked slow and solemn and said two simple words.

"Thank you."

The wind chose that moment to make an appearance and a shudder passed through the frame of the scarecrow.

John titled his head, and he could have sworn there was a specter of a smile in the old burlap face.

He turned and left. That was the last year he spent on the farm. His Grandparents, old and tired, frightened at what could have happened, soon sold the property and moved into a small cottage in the nearby village.

At the time, John wondered what happened to the scarecrow.

But it wasn't the last he saw of him.

Far from it.