It's Good to be Afraid-- 26, October

26,October–Day

Here, now, the leafless trees swayed in the sun on a cool autumn day. The boy paid it no mind. He wished he knew how to summon Dullahan the way the scarecrow had. His friends were all holed up in Ms. Borsala's for the day. William had slipped out.

He had to know.

William turned the corner toward home and was greeted by a changed sight. The entire corn field had been harvested. The farm house, which normally would have been hidden by the golden rows, was a bleak shape at the top of a hill. A cool wind came up and rippled the grass around it.

William pressed onward. He became apprehensive as he crossed the field. The scarecrow had warned him that he could become trapped here. He had to shake the feeling off, though. If he didn't find out now, the fear would eat away at his sanity.

He went directly to a side window and peered into the kitchen. Nobody was around. Hesitantly, William moved to the back door and let his hand rest on the handle. Was he still allowed to do this? Now that he had left, would the bond of the family keep him out like the other creatures of the night?

As he pondered this, the door unlatched and swung inwards. He hadn't even turned the door handle.

This door opened into a pantry. To the left was the door to the kitchen. It was usually locked if nobody was home, but it opened before William just as easily as the exterior door had. He followed the open path around to the refrigerator, then stood before it.

He didn't even need to open it. This time, even the white box of the refrigerator could not prevent him from feeling the call of his old bones. Somewhere inside were boxes of stew containing his former flesh.

As he concentrated, William saw the handle of the fridge depress, and then the door swung wide. Sitting on the top shelf was the familiar white tupperware box, yellowed by the hideous contents inside. Concentrating still, he managed to make the box slide outward inch by inch, making the tiniest scraping sound on the metal shelf.

It was accompanied by a low squeal from somewhere behind. William looked over his shoulder and saw his sister. She had been sitting at the kitchen table the entire time, and he never noticed her. She had been coloring. Now she was staring at a fridge that had opened itself and a white box moving of its own volition. A tiny squeal was coming from her throat. She was too panic stricken to cry.

Then it came.

“MOOOOOOOOM!” she creamed. “The ghost, the ghost, the ghost!”

The words damned him over and over. William covered his ears, but they did no good. It was true. He was a ghost, and he was haunting his old home.

His mother came charging in from one door. His grandfather appeared almost simultaneously from the living room. They both stared at the fridge.

“There's no ghost, honey,” mom said, denying the truth in front of her.

William continued urging the container forward. They had to know. He knew it was scaring them, but the alternative was unbearable. He was still staring at his mother when there was a sloshing bang, and he knew the container had dropped to the floor. It didn't spill open.

He forced himself to look down at it. There was still a seal wrapped around it-- a brown fall ribbon reading “Good Treats for Eats.” Good news. His family hadn't eaten him yet.

Grandfather rushed over and retrieved the box from the floor.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“At the festival, dad,” his mom responded.

“Do you know who this is from?”

His mother ignored the question and tried to distract William's sister with the picture she had been coloring.

“It's from that witch!” grandfather continued on his own. “That old hag that lives on Schaffner Street. She's been peddling shady stuff since I was your kids' age.”

“Dad. . . Witches and ghosts. Halloween is really getting to you guys.”

Grandfather tossed the container into the trash.

“Dad!” Mother went to retrieve it.

As the two argued, William moved around to see what his sister had been coloring. It wasn't a picture from a coloring book like usual. It seemed she had drawn this one on her own. The bottom was a huge square of brown that must have been the ground. In the center was a line of green trees. Cut off midsection in the left margin was half a grave stone. In the middle of it all was a crudely drawn horse and buggy. Atop it was a boy with his arms thrust to the sky.

William looked closer. The coachman clearly had no head.

“I'm sorry I scared you,” William told his sister. “I'm watching out for you guys now. Can you tell them I'm okay?”

His sister stopped coloring and stared off into space. She didn't look at William, exactly, but she didn't look at anything else, either.

“I'll see all of you again, sometime, in a long time.”

William's mother had the white container, and she was carrying it across the room. “We're at least going to dispose of it properly,” she was telling grandfather. She broke the seal on the container, then dumped the contents into the sink. William watched as his remains swirled away down the garbage disposal.

“Tell them everything's alright,” he requested of his sister.

She didn't respond, but she made a final finishing touch on the drawing of the boy. She added two eyes and a smiling mouth.

It's Good to be Afraid-- 25, October

25,October–Day

James Murdock was a set of watchful eyes. He was drifting down Main Street now. The weekend's festival had been a bonanza for him. Unfortunately, rather than fulfilling his desire, it had fed his hunger.

While James had had voyeuristic tendencies in his life, this new plane of existence had presented so many opportunities for him that it became the meaning for his existence. While the human body could no longer stir the sexual desire in him he had felt as a living man, he now found that he thirsted for the hunt. He had spent countless time prowling the streets, unable to enter houses, but able to peer in through every window, watching. Sometimes he would have to wait for hours before finding what he wanted.

The fall festival had made it too easy. Everything was public. Everything was open to the prying eyes of the dead. Public toilets, changing rooms in the shops, they only made him regret that he couldn't be in more than one place at a time.

Now it was over. The sense of having to hunt prey had lost its luster. He supposed after all this time, maybe he didn't want to look so much any more. Maybe he would like to touch, or even talk to one.

His aimless drifting continued. His toes hung inches above the ground. His arms sagged to his sides like dead weights. His head was a wilted flower on a broken stem. Then something grabbed him.

He recoiled in shock, but the grip was strong. James looked down to see a strange creature had him by the right wrist. Its shape was nearly indescribable. Most of it was made up of a series of oblong insectile abdomens, but their connection to each other was transient, giving it the appearance of writhing even as it held still. A single, long, finger-like jointed appendage protruded from somewhere below the mass of bodies, and the end of it was wrapped around James's wrist.

He couldn't discern a face, but he knew the thing was looking at him. James yanked on his arm, but the appendage sent searing pain through his wrist. While he was terrified, he was also exhilarated at this sudden ability to feel things-- even if it was pain.

“Having some trouble there, Mr. Murdock?”

Someone was talking to him from behind. James turned his head to find yet another strange figure. This one was mostly human, but his legs were clearly deformed. He also had 2 small protrusions on either side of his head. Along with his white pointed goatee, they gave his head a triangular appearance.

“I. . . I'm caught,” James said.

“Take my hand. That's all you have to do,” said the old man.

James could see there were more of the strange creatures behind him. He tried not to look at them. The situation felt hopeless.

He reached out. The old man took his hand, and the pain in his other wrist was suddenly gone. James almost had time to smile, but then one by one, everything was gone. Buildings faded away, then color faded out of the world. The road below and surrounding trees fell into a haze, then vanished. At last, the blue sky above became black.

He looked back at the old man. He was James's only link to anything now. His grip on his hand was the one thing suspending him above the black abyss.

“We must be a million miles up,” said James.

“A million,” replied Old Scratch, “And a million more.” Then he let go.

It's Good to be Afraid-- 24, October

24,October–Night

The scarecrow approached the center of the grave yard, alone. The plan had been for William to meet him here. He didn't know if he could count on the boy to show up, but he hoped he wasn't going to waste too much time waiting.

As he passed the rows of stones, he came across a tall, thin figure leaning his back against a tree. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. His features were hidden by the tree's shade.

The scarecrow put his hand to the sickle inside his shirt. He had spent the entire season managing to stay hidden. He could stand stock still and hope, but he knew this man had already seen him. He strode forward purposefully. People usually reacted with fear, but sometimes they chose to fight back on sight. He planned to give the man no time to decide on a course of action.

He was only a few steps away from the man now, and the scarecrow was surprised he had not reacted yet. As he came within arm's reach and raised the sickle into the air, the man took the cigarette from his mouth and tossed it.

“Neat trick,” the man said.

The scarecrow was so surprised by the statement, he let the sickle hang in the air for an extra moment.

The man was gone. Before him stood William, the ghost. “Don't you think?” The boy asked.

“What?”

“Pretty neat trick, don't you think?”

The scarecrow put the sickle back into his shirt. “I see you're exploring your abilities at a fast rate. The ability to appear as who you want, where you want, when you want is more than a neat trick, William.”

“It's fun,” the boy told him. “I can have a lot of fun now. And I can learn a lot of things.”

The scarecrow motioned for the boy to follow, then began to lead the way through the rows. “What else have you learned since our last meeting?”

“Things,” the boy said. “Like, I learned the witch didn't need to eat me for survival.”

“Oh?”

“She's selling me, I mean my body, at the fall festival.”

The scarecrow stopped. He had things he wanted to show William, but this was more important. “What do you mean?”

“She had these boxes of stew, and she was selling them to the people in town. I could tell it was made from me-- I could feel it!”

“I'm sure you could,” the scarecrow said, pondering. “The spirit and body are a marriage made at birth, a bond not easily broken. Was she selling to a lot of people?”

“She was pretty busy. It's over now, though. The festival ended this afternoon.”

“A town full of cannibals,” the scarecrow said, mostly to himself. “Unwitting, but still. It may be why this town was chosen.”

“Chosen?'

“For the Harvest. I'll tell you more later, but I'll need to look into a few things first. For now, come with me, please. I have something I wanted you to see.”

The boy followed the scarecrow through row after row of tombstones. Upon a hill was a small growth of trees. The scarecrow took a position in their shade and pointed to the graves below.

William followed his direction, but the night was so dark, he could barely see what was happening. Vaguely, he could make out movement below the gravestones.

“Go closer,” the scarecrow told him. “They can't see you.”

Curious, William descended the hill. The scarecrow was probably right about them not being able to see him, and even if they could, they wouldn't be able to harm him. Still, he couldn't help but feel nervous and kept his distance.

There were three creatures over a grave. They were almost like small, twisted men. They were bent far over their work. Their spines stood out from their gaunt, pale backs. Two long, thin arms supported them as they continuously dipped their faces to the earth. They almost looked like birds hunting for worms.

One of them heard something and raised its head to look around. As much as their bodies looked like those of men, their faces were as far removed as possible. Their eyes were close enough together that they were almost joined. Their brow protruded in a hard, sharp edge. Their mouths were an open round hole surrounded by tentacles that nervously plucked at the air.

William turned and ran back up the hill. The scarecrow met him with a smile.

“Nothing to fear, dear boy.”

He knew the scarecrow was right, but he also knew that if he still had a heart, it would be hammering away. “What are they?” he asked.

“Ghouls,” the scarecrow answered. “I thought you ought to be familiar. You know, ghosts and ghouls. Halloween creatures,” he said, savoring the term.

“What are they doing down there?”

“Looking for corpses. In their attempts to get to the bodies below, their actions provide a valuable service in loosening the soil.”

“Bodies? What do they want bodies for?”

“Oh, well, much like your townsfolk, they have a taste for the flesh of the dead.”

“They eat them?”

Suddenly a new voice spoke up from the shadows. It was low and gravely. Whoever was speaking was mumbling so badly, they were hard to understand. “Among other things,” the voice added.

“Jack,” the scarecrow acknowledged with a very short nod.

The old man stepped out of the shadows. He had a handkerchief tied around his head. It held a packing in place against the side of his mouth.

“What happened to you?” William asked.

“Our friend Henry decided to exact a toll on Jack for his little trickery at the asylum,” said the scarecrow.”

“Oh,” the boy said. “Good. Maybe he learned a lesson.”

“Maybe I did, wee one,” Jack said. “Maybe I learned not to leave my tools laying around after a job. Next time I'll put them away properly before they can come back and hurt me.”

“I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Jack. I'm already dead, thanks to you.”

“Ye shouldn't be afraid o' me, boy,” Jack mumbled. “Ye should be coming to me for help.”

“How could you help me?”

“I could help ye stay out of the pit, seein' as none done it but me.”

“Jack, what are you on about?” The scarecrow had been planning on having a fun evening, and Jack's sour attitude was ruining it as usual.

“There's a new player in town. Old Scratch, he come up from below, looking for prey. Young, untarnished pray, like ye present company.”

“Old Scratch,” the scarecrow mused. “So it is true. However, I think you may be wrong about his intent, Jack. It seems the old witch has been feeding the townspeople their compatriots.”

“What in hell does that mean?”

“The people visiting the town's fair. Their dead friends and neighbors have been hidden in her stew, and it sounds like they've been buying it by the gallon.”

“Abomination!” Jack said, happily. “No one's safe after an act like that. So, they pig out on each other, then 'e comes up and has himself a smorgasbord on them.” Jack made a sound then. It was a bubbling gurgle coming from deep in his throat. The old man winced and held the packing tighter to his face, then started to make the noise again.

William couldn't believe his new laugh was even worse than the old one.

It's Good to be Afraid-- 23, October

23,October–Night

Fifteen miles southeast of the town center lay 25 acres of abandoned land. It was overgrown with tall grass and thorny wild flowers. Woods surrounded it on almost every side. From the road, only the narrowest path was visible leading up to where a house had once stood. The only thing breaking up the foliage was a rectangular patch of concrete. Only it was left to tell the story of the building it had once supported.

In point of fact, several houses had stood on this land. Pioneers erected a log cabin here in the early days of America. In a rare act of desperation, bravery and hunger, a pack of wolves slipped silently in through their open windows one night and devoured them all, down to the last trace of blood.

The land was forgotten about for many years, until the town itself was first established in the early 1800s. The cabin was an overgrown ruin by then. It was demolished entirely and replaced by a modest farmhouse and barn.

On a fine summer day, the weather turned sour. Heavy clouds drew over the region and a funnel cloud formed. Before the first drop of rain could warn the family within, a tornado reached down from the sky and crushed the home with everyone inside.

Towns are quick to rebuild, though, especially in those days as the industrious moved west. More families moved in, more houses were constructed. Families feuded with neighbors and amongst themselves. Houses were abandoned, rotted, rebuilt.

For the last family who lived in this home, everything went perfectly fine for 15 long years. Children were born and grew up. The oldest was ready to move out and begin a new life elsewhere. One night, the doors locked themselves. Open windows fell into place, and heavy wooden shutters blew closed over them. The fireplace blazed to life, and the flames spread to every corner of the home.

In the morning, a blackened circle surrounded a concrete square, and somewhere miles below, Old Scratch smiled. After blood spilling on the ground, human misery, misfortune and fire, the sigil etched into the ground forever by the heat of the blaze was the last step required to ready the land for his return.

As the hour passed midnight, a crack began to form in that patch of concrete. As it deepened, dust and chips of cement fell into it. The crack doubled in surface size, then doubled again. It became a fissure. Entire chunks of concrete dropped into an abyss, until at last the rectangle was a gaping maw.

Scratched climbed hand over hand, just as he had for the last 10 years. The way had been long, but he was tireless. Nothing had occupied his mind this past decade but the climb, and, rock by rock, he was now here.

His hands grasped the edge of the concrete, and he pulled himself up. One cloven hoof touched the Earth, then the other. His crooked, bent knees struggled and eventually pushed him to his full height. He looked all around and smiled at the night. Then, looking back down into the hole he had crawled out of, he spit into the abyss.

That was when the first of them made itself known. Low to the ground, the thing crawled out of the woods. It paid no mind as its belly dragged through the thorny brush. More followed, approaching from all sides. Skin dark as the night sky, they were twisted creatures whose appearance made no logical sense. Warped and mutated by the tainted land they lived on, the creatures belonged to him.

The first one to show itself, the bravest one, drew near his leg.

“My loving servants,” Old Scratch said with a smirk.

A nine-fingered hand reached out of the brush and began to caress his cloven hoof. Scratch reared back and crushed the thing's hand under foot. The servant squealed in horrified joy.

Scratch took in another lung-full of crisp air. He had a week and a day to enjoy. It was so little time, but he intended to make it feel like a lifetime.  

It's Good to be Afraid-- 22, October

22,October–Day

The sun was out. The boy couldn't feel it, but he could see the amazing things the sun's rays were doing. After the past couple of nights touring alongside his friend, the scarecrow, the boy had learned much. The world was at least 10 times as vast as it had ever been before. Now that he was dead, he was more awake than he had ever been in his life. He had no need of sleep any longer. He could wander day and night with no fear. Not only could he leave his home without permission, but, much like the event he had experienced in the graveyard, the geography of the world was changed to him.

The land of the dead was labyrinthian and made no logical sense. He could enter the cemetery and emerge in the woods on the other side of town. He could follow a straight path north and wind up 30 miles to the east. The world of the dead was, ironically, a living thing, and a constant mystery.

The boy had plenty of time, though, so he wandered.

So much went on around the living that they had no idea about. William passed family homes that were full of spirits. They watched him from the windows. Most of them were indifferent. Occasionally one was pleased to see him, and they would wave through the glass. More commonly than that, they hated him. These figures were usually warped, their features torn apart by anger. They would stand at the windows and lash at him like a caged animal.

The boy knew he had nothing to fear from them. He couldn't reach them, and they couldn't reach him. Within a house, the bonds of family and relation created a home. A home was a barrier to the supernatural without. The beings inside were bound to it like gravity.

Without the scarecrow's help, William wondered if he ever could have left the farm on his own.

The boy found himself at the town center after a while. It was Saturday, and a huge fall festival was being held. There were a few carnival rides at the middle of the intersection. Around them, on all 4 joining streets, were various stalls.

One street held tents for local churches, and a farmer's market was set up, selling corn, gourds and apples. Another had tables set up for the red cross and other local nonprofit organizations. The third street was full of food vendors-- which were unfortunately no longer of any interest to William.

The fourth road, Hammond Street, housed tents and pavilions of people selling arts and crafts, t-shirts, jewelry, flowers, pumpkins and home-made baked goods.

William wandered through it all. A little ways away from everything, a row of Porta-Potties were set up. He appreciated not being able to smell this area. He watched as a woman emerged from one, then went to join her waiting friends. Moments after, another spirit emerged from within, watching the woman leave.

“I knew it!” William said. “They do watch you!”

The spirit grinned at him toothily, then slunk off into the crowd.

Even if William had the ability to inform the woman, he wondered whether he really should. Perhaps she would be better off never knowing what was really going on around her.

The boy forgot about it quickly, as there were so many other sights to take in. He stopped at every art stall to see what people had made. Most of it was pretty boring. One pavilion was stocked with home-made stuffed animals. They had certainly been sewn together with a lot of care, and yet they were boring and featureless.

Eventually he reached Hammond Street and its food vendors. It was on this road that he felt a strange pulling. There was a familiar sensation, like something lost, a plan forgotten. He didn't know what was drawing him, but he followed it.

He came to a black tent. Only a few people were around, but he heard the sounds of business being conducted within. Shortly, a woman emerged, placing a Tupperware container into a bag. William peered around the tent flap. There were 3 more people within purchasing the same containers. He could see they all contained some sort of reddish brown liquid.

Once the three of them made their purchases, he could see her: the witch. She sat behind a table, looking satisfied with her recent transactions. She was surrounded by piles upon piles of containers holding her stew.

It was here that the pulling sensation was coming from-- not the tent, but the dozens of boxes. He knew it was the pull of his bones, ground up, mashed, liquefied.

The witch looked at him, smiling. She could see him. She nodded slowly, confirming his horror. Pint by pint, she was selling him.

It's Good to be Afraid-- 21, October

21,October–Late Evening

The boy found himself traveling in the most fantastic manner. The night before, the scarecrow had insisted that they head to Count Borsala's residence at once. William had been reluctant to make such a journey so soon. In fact, he had found more and more, as time passed, that the idea of leaving the family home was nearly unbearable.

“Spirit's agoraphobia,” the scarecrow had named it. “Those who die with great fear are often infected with it. It deepens over time, until the spirit is anchored to a place like a ship crashed on the rocks. It can be broken, though, if you act early enough and are willing to resist its power.”

He had taken the scarecrow's hand without a second thought at that point. The idea of roaming that single cornfield forever was far more frightening than anything that lay without. Before he knew it, they were standing on the side of the road. The rows of corn were behind them, waving in the breeze. William did not return the wave.

The boy was ready to move off down the road, but the scarecrow held him by the shoulder. “You have another mode of travel available to you now, William,” he had said. “Look now.”

William followed his direction, and indeed there had been something moving at them down the road. His jaw had dropped in awe.

And now they were in it once again. They had spent the day at Countess Borsala's residence, as the scarecrow had suggested. The countess herself was not seen, being asleep in the basement within her coffin. Jack was nowhere to be found, and Mr. Uzor was as quiet as ever. It had been a long day of waiting, while William was once again anxious to go on that fantastic ride.

The scarecrow had some way of calling it. It appeared this night before the stairs leading to the countess's abode. It was a black coach. The walls, which were minimal to allow as much visibility from within as possible, were inlaid with white intricate designs. It was only noticeable on closer inspection that the white was, in fact, bone. The roof was mounted with human skulls at every corner. Two huge black steeds, larger than any William had ever seen, stood at the front. Behind them, in the driver's seat, rode a massive man in a black overcoat buttoned tight to his collar. He wore no hat. In fact, one might notice on closer inspection, he had no head to seat one on. Instead, his head road in the seat beside him. It said nothing and moved not at all. Only its eyes would roll around to follow any action in the vicinity.

“Dullahan!” The scarecrow had called. “We have need of your service once again.”

The headless man-- this Dullahan, had waved toward the coach, then picked up his riding crop. It appeared he was as anxious as William to be off into the night once more.

Now they were hurtling through the wooded lanes surrounding town. Despite the ancient wooden wagon wheels, the vehicle traveled smoothly, ghostly across the rough ground.

“I must say,” said the scarecrow, “It is a pleasure to have your company once again, William. It could get quite gloomy around here without you.”

“Yeah. . .” as much as he was enjoying the ride, William couldn't quite respond the same to the scarecrow. “I wish I hadn't had to die to do it, scarecrow.”

“Every man must die.”

“Even you?”

The scarecrow looked at him squarely. “I am no man, William. I am the scarecrow. I ask you not to forget it.” This was the first time William had seen the scarecrow appear remotely angry. “Many of my supposed friends seem to be doing so, of late.” He seemed to grow calmer after this, but an edge had crept into his voice. “You were a part of the Harvest. Early, no doubt, in season and in age, but you will come to appreciate it in time.”

“The Harvest?” William asked.

The scarecrow nodded. “Imagine if your grandfather were to plant a field, water it, and then watch it rot away into oblivion. Has he ever done that, dear boy?”

“No, of course not.”

“He takes from it what is valuable before it can decay into nothingness. A golden ear of corn is produced from what would otherwise be a dry stalk, rotting in the sun. The spirit of man is planted. It grows strong in knowledge and becomes robust with life. One day it must be harvested, to become something new.”

“So you let the witch kill me so I could be harvested?”

“I didn't let the witch do anything, mind you. If you recall, you disappeared with no way for me to follow.”

“Jack lead me away,” William corrected.

“Nevertheless, the witch did what she does to survive.”

“To survive!?”

“Witches eat children, you know. You are aware of that, are you not?”

“I am now that I was eaten by one. I just wish she would have been 'harvested' before me.”

“She may wish that, as well. She made some deal to the contrary long ago, and now her spirit decays.”

Decay,” the boy tasted the word. “Is Jack. . .”

“Jack is an enigma. He has secrets, kept from us all. Even if he told us one day what they were, likely no one would believe it was the truth. His spirit, if it can be called that, is as solid as it ever was.”

“So what is it like for someone like the witch?”

“You saw for yourself in that house: Her stooped form, her advanced age, her disproportionate frame. . .and besides how she appears. . . the long, slow descent into madness. But you are not entirely wrong, my dear boy. Had I been there, she would have known you were protected, one way or another.”

“Are you going to get her for me, now, then? She's just an old rotting witch, so what good is she doing anyone?”

“As I said, she has done what she has done to survive. You simply needn't worry about her again. She is from your past life, and it is best you move on from that.”

“I don't feel dead, though. Maybe there's some way you could make her help me. If she has spells, or potions, or my bones. . .”

“Dear William!” The scarecrow boomed very loudly. “Allow me to speak plainly. Of life and death, my boy, you stand not upon the precipice. You stand plainly on the side of death, of the night, of mystery and fear. There are many small wrongs in one's past, and while they may have fed one's spirit, to dwell on them is to lose sight of the greatness before you. Do not tread back into shadow of memory. Stride forward. Understand that you have risen above what ailed you in the past, and give those ails no regard now.”

“Stride forward,” William considered the words. “Or ride?”

The scarecrow grinned. “Dullahan, dear fellow! I believe the boy requires more speed.”

A whip crack was heard from ahead. The horses' hooves crashed into the path below them, sending up plumes of earth behind, and the coach hurtled into the night.

It's Good to be Afraid-- 20, October

20,October–Late Evening

The scarecrow went traveling. He marched through the town center. A few houses had Halloween decorations up. This was usually his time to reflect and relax. He was a planner, and everything for this year's Harvest was in order. Normally he would just sit and watch things unfold, but this time he had another death on his mind.

He hadn't personally killed Henry Talbot, and yet he could nearly feel the dagger in his hand. He had to wonder how much Jack really was rubbing off on him. A deceit here and a murder there; he was doing it in the name of a shared cause, but how long before he was betraying for personal gain? The truth was Henry would recover in time, angrier and with more knowledge than before. The real regret the scarecrow felt was over the personal road he had taken, and how long he had been on it.

And then there was the boy, and what had become of him. Hope for his safety was a lark. The truth of the matter was there was likely very little they could have done for him, even at the house under Countess Borsala's care. Yet Jack had stripped him of even that measure of safety and turned him away into the world.

How much blame did the scarecrow share? He knew Jack perfectly well, and he knew he would never have followed the scarecrow's own plan to the letter. Being straightforward wasn't in the man's nature. The fact of the matter was, the scarecrow was dooming decent friends for the sake of a liar and in the name of an ancient goal.

Perhaps that was why here, now, he found himself at the edge of the old farmer's field. Corn stalks hissed lightly in the breeze. The scarecrow took a deep breath of the crisp air, remembering what it was like to revive here all those nights ago.

He waded into the corn and began to move amongst the rows. The soil had grown hard and packed. He walked up hill until he reached the clearing where his old station had been. Indeed, the pole was still there, unoccupied, and there was something crouched at the base of it.

Quietly, the scarecrow drew his sickle and approached. The thing was barely more than a shape, and yet it gave off an aura of familiarity that disturbed the scarecrow. He reached forward with the sickle and touched it gingerly.

“You again,” suddenly the thing spoke.

The scarecrow leaped back agilely.

The thing in front of him seemed to reconfigure in size and shape. It transformed in front of him, going from something that could have passed for a rock in the earth to a humanoid shape, then at last, the boy.

“William,” the scarecrow said. “Dear boy, I guess I was hoping to find you here, in one form or another.”

“You didn't find me. I'm dead. Nobody can even see me now. I tried and tried to get their attention, but then when I start to, they just get scared. So, I stopped trying. I've just been hiding out here in the corn, because I don't want to scare my mom any more.”

“William. . . you are a creature of the night now. The living will fear you from now on, because you have the shape of death. I'm sorry, but you are one of us now.”

The boy pondered this. He thought about the long lonely days he had spent roaming the house and drifting through the corn fields. At times, he wondered if it was really so different from his living existence.

“It's just. . .” the boy said, “I can't go back. It's all gone.”

“The land of the living is closed to you,” the scarecrow agreed, “But a thousand new worlds have opened up.” He gestured grandiosely into the night. The moon was a gash in the sky surrounded by stars. Naked tree limbs jabbed up at them like spears. An owl called from the darkness, and a frightened rat dashed through the field. The scarecrow held out his hand to the boy. “Come with me, William.”

The boy regarded the scarecrow's gnarled hand. He stared particularly at the stub of bone protruding where his pinkie should have been. “Are you going to be able to protect me better this time?”

“Dear boy, you don't need protection. You are, after all, a ghost. You need not fear again. Now, you are fear.”