Chapter 18. Beyond the pasture the trees shivered and were bent low in a howling gust of wind.

Mary called again.

Beyond the pasture the trees shivered and were bent low in a howling gust of wind.

The man didn’t move.

Trembling from the cold, from the horror, Mary took a reluctant step toward him. Then another.

The wind picked up and swirled around her. The rain swept over her like cold ocean waves.

Her shoes sank into the mud as she made her way closer.

He was standing so still, Mary saw, squinting through the heavy curtain of rain.

As still as a statue.

A statue?

It is a scarecrow, she realized.

Of course. That is why it doesn’t move.

A scarecrow.

As she ventured closer, she saw rainwater rolling off the brim of its black hat, saw the dark sleeves of its long coat flutter in the sweeping winds.

Who put a scarecrow here? Mary wondered.

Then her next thought made her stop short: Why would anyone stand a scarecrow in the middle of a grassy pasture?

She shielded her eyes with one hand and squinted hard.

And took another step closer. Then another.

Finally through the heavy downpour she recognized the face under the wide-brimmed black hat.

“Uncle Benjamin!”

Once again Mary stared into the blank-eyed face of death.

Benjamin Fier was the scarecrow.

His body was propped up nearly as straight as if he were standing. His arms hung lifelessly at his sides.

His face was bright purple. His hair spilled out from the hat and lay matted against his head.

He gaped at Mary with blank eyes, deathly white eyes, the pupils rolled up into his head.

“Uncle Benjamin!”

The wind gusted hard, shaking the body, making the limp arms swing back and forth.

The body turned again. Benjamin’s mouth dropped open, as if he wanted to speak. But the only sound Mary could hear was the heavy groan of the wind.

Mary’s body convulsed in a cold shudder of horror. She spun away from the ghastly sight, the dark grass tilting and swirling wildly around her. Her stomach heaved, but there was nothing left to vomit.

Rebecca. Benjamin. Both dead.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

The word repeated in her mind, pounded into her thoughts, pounded against her brain like the cold rain.

The cold, cold rain that poured off her uncle’s hat. Cold as death.

Is everyone dead?

Has my whole family been killed?

Mary stared toward the house. It seemed so distant now. So dark and distant. Far away, on the other side of the storm.

Has everyone been killed? Mary wondered.

Everyone?

And then: Will I be next?

Дата добавления: 2015-07-20