My Nightmare: The Scarecrow

I feel like I've heard this story before. But last night it was my nightmare to have:

The last time I saw this yellow rope my dad had used it to tie up a stack of old newspapers so they could be easily carried out behind the garage until trash day. Now my mom was wrapping it around his neck.

"That's right, two times around. *gurgle* Good. Heh heh. You've got it."

I was watching, not sure what to do. He'd given me a small knife, a fillet knife I think it's called. For slicing up filet mignon and stuff I guess. But it was strong enough to cut through bone. My father had told me it was an insurance policy. For our family's safety.

"That's right son, it's your mother's responsibility. But if need be you've gotta help. Cuz if she doesn't kill me, I'll kill her. Then you. And then I'll go find your sister."

Two weeks ago my dad came home white as a sheet. For a black dude, that takes some doing. My mom, who on a rare occasion beat him home, had never seen him like that before. That was the first day any of us heard of this man called The Scarecrow.

My dad first spotted him in the rear-view mirror. Slender white man, bare arms, long black butcher's apron over what looked like a black dress. He was sitting, but still looked tall. At least 7'. His black wide-brimmed had been tipped down. But as my father spotted him he raised his head and looked back at him with one blue eye and one blood-red one. My dad pulled over in a panic after spotting him.

"I will kill your family and you can't stop me."

Then he was gone like he'd never been there in the first place.

My dad said he called him The Scarecrow cuz he was tall and creepy as hell, but other than that he didn't know what to call him. My mom and I were freaked out. My sister, on the other hand, didn't believe any of it. Just stress and a wild imagination as far as she was concerned. An interesting assertion for a practical 16 year old girl. But at 17 I wasn't that far removed from believing monsters were under my bed, no matter how much I acted like I didn't.

One week ago was my Dad's birthday and his sister, my Auntie, sent him an antique foot bath and massager. Said it'd been their father's and she wanted him to have it. Auntie was older than him by a few years, so she'd actually gotten to know their dad before he peaced out, unlike my dad. And this was the first time he'd held anything his dad had ever actually owned. He cried like a baby. Real touching, all that.

I walked in on my dad asleep later that night, bare feet in that silly contraption, but fast asleep. Head back, mouth open, snoring like he was choking. I thought to wake him up, but didn't bother. As I turned to go to bed myself, The Scarecrow was looking down at me. Funny, all I could see was the blood-red eye, but I swear he had two.

"Your whole family will die. You will be second."

I looked around, but he was gone as if I'd blinked him away. Maybe I had. For that week I couldn't sleep and my mom kept asking why I looked so tired. "Stress over school" I said. No way I was gonna tell her.

I came home from soccer practice today and my mom was crying. Dad had been sitting in a chair without moving for the last hour, just staring straight ahead. Usually charismatic and energetic, he had just shut down inside. His eyes were open, hands palm down at the edge of the arm rests. Feet flat. Like the statue of Abraham Lincoln in DC. But as I waved my hands in front of his face his expression broke. He looked at me and smiled.

"Hey! You're home! Good. It's time then."

That's when he went out to the garage to grab the yellow rope my mother was wrapping around his neck. She didn't want to do it. She was crying hysterically now, head shaking left to right like it was trying to preemptively wipe the memory away.

"Now, when you start pulling, don't let go!"

She cried her protests in great, heaving sobs, but when he showed her his machete and pointed it at me, she pulled. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto her. Together, they rolled to the floor.

I watched, not sure what to do. My knife was a joke compared to his. I didn't even know where on earth he'd gotten the machete. But he made no move to use it as my mom was trying to choke the life out of him. He just lay there and let her do it. She pulled and pulled at that shiny yellow rope so long I was positive it was done. I don't think she knew one way or the other though. Her strength just gave out and she lay there, underneath my father, sobbing.

I rolled him off of her and picked her up to the couch. After a few minutes we heard him cough.

"Span?"

My mother stopped crying and walked over to investigate. I wanted to call the police, but instead I just followed her. My father's chest was rising and falling, but no sound came out of him.

"Span? Are you"

The machete was in her shoulder, right above her clavicle. Or "CLA-vickle" as my sister loved to pronounce it. I hadn't even seen him move. Odd, blood doesn't really spurt from a wound like you would think. So it was hard to take it seriously for a second. The machete was buried half-way into my mother's shoulder. I don't even think she knew at first. Until she met eyes with my father. And saw where his were focused. And followed their path.

Screaming, she stood up so fast she fell backwards. So hard did she fall that she popped the machete right out of the wound and boy, THEN the blood started to flow. There was no more screaming in her. She just lay there in shock as my father stood up, picking up the machete.

"Alright son. It's up to you now."

I looked at my fillet knife. I looked at his machete. Again, it moved inhumanly fast. I was quick so I dodged, but not fast enough. The machete bit into my right arm and pulled out so fast it took a chunk of flesh away. I dropped my knife and fell to the floor. I didn't know what else to do.

"I told you you were second."

My mother couldn't stop him. No one could as far as I knew. And he stood over my mother with the machete aimed right over her heart.

"...And then I'll find your sister, son."

He looked at me, then smiled. It was genuine. All the happiness we'd shared as a family had born the same smile. Like this was just another memory to heap on the pile. The last one, presumably.

He didn't even see me move. My fillet knife was already tearing into his throat before he threw me off. My mother had recovered enough to see what I'd done. She'd scooted herself over to the couch, but it didn't matter. Blood was pouring from my father's throat with such distance it was sprinkling her shoes, ten feet away.

He fell to his knees holding the machete in one hand and his throat in the other. As I stood up he turned to find me. But he had no strength to fight. I don't think he even wanted to. He just looked at me. And smiled. Something gurgled from his throat that sounded like speech. It almost sounded like "Thank you."

I don't know who called 'em, but police and paramedics were everywhere. The chunk missing out of my arm was really starting to hurt, so I can't imagine how my mom's shoulder was. But she was still crying too hard to feel it I guess. My dad was still in the house. The police would analyze the scene before they moved the body. Funny thing the paramedics said, even as he died my dad never let go of the machete.

Hospital policy wouldn't allow us to be in the same room. Due to the nature of the death we both needed to be psychologically evaluated before that could happen. Whatever. I had had so much morphine in me when they explained this that it could have been my still-bleeding father explaining talking in their stead and I would have accepted it all the same. Thankfully, my sister had spent the night at a friend's house and they were nice enough to let her stay there until everything was cleared up...if that was even possible.

Around three in the morning the morphine started to wear off. My pain was acute, but before they drugged me again I wanted to go to the bathroom and relieve some pressure. The light in there was fluorescent white, like light itself having been bleached clean for the sake of sterility. In the mirror I saw the great mess of bandages on my right arm. "So much for the shot put state championships in the spring" I thought.

As I looked up, The Scarecrow was standing behind me. His hat tipped up just enough for me to see his eyes. But this time I saw them both, and smiled.

That's when I woke up. Ugh. Nightmares suck.