Corny Field of Dreams

	Two glimmering orbs of obsidian sliced through the darkness peering directly into Benjamin’s bedroom. Although the miserable heat of August clung to his skin like plastic wrap, the boy’s body trembled with icy shivers. He too, stared through the darkness, back into the evil, ebony eyes. 
	Deep down inside Benjamin knew the scarecrow was nothing to fear. It was nothing more than an inanimate object meant to keep the crows out of Old Man Jass’s corn. He broke the uncanny silence with a wistful chuckle. 
	“Bennie, you’re letting him get to you again. Don’t want people to think you’re a chicken,” his own voice comforted him in the loneliness of his noiseless room.  
	Being new to the neighborhood, if one could call the sprawling rural community a neighborhood, left Benjamin devoid of friends until school started in the fall. He had no one to confide in over the issue of the malignant scarecrow, although it was doubtful he would have let those secrets escape. He was at that tender period in a young man’s life when the rough transition from boy to man was about to begin and sharing the wrong secret could be disastrous to one’s reputation. Nevertheless, it still would have been comforting to know the outlet was there. Worst of all, he had no one to help him take his mind away from the accursed creature. No one to help him plot and plan against it. 
	The Dover’s pristine farmhouse sat, very much out of place, at the edge of a sprawling rural community. A boy genius, Ben's father had amassed a large amount of money in a relatively short amount of time leaving him an extremely wealthy thirty-something. Benjamin senior used this techno wealth to build his lifelong dream, a. A farm, and not. Not just any farm. A sprawling, rolling, territorial chewing farm. They had pigs, chickens, cows for beef, cows for milk, soy beans, alfalfa, and yes, corn. But there wasn’t a single scarecrow on the entire property. Not one.  
	The large farm dwarfed the neighboring farms due to Benjamin senior’s having bought out most of the surrounding farmers.  The only others remaining were die hard stones, not to be unturned from their earth. The others, mainly Old Man Jass, would die amongst their meager commodities. And they all had scarecrows. Each and every one of them. Bennie was surrounded on all four sides by malicious grinning scraps of cloth with broomsticks for spines. But Old Man Jass’s was the worst. Not only was it the closest to Benjamin’s bedroom, the one he could see in the stillness of the night, but it had a glint, a gleam in its eye for the youngster. 
	The crowing of a rooster startled Benjamin out of his reverie. He sighed in relief. The thoughtless fowl was signaling the oncoming dawn and his retreat from the venomous dark world of the scarecrow. Today had to be the day! Benjamin thought to himself. 
	The tangy scent of bacon permeated the country air. There were definitely some perks to growing up on a farm. He had never eaten breakfast this fresh in any New York City school, public or private.  He watched his mother, young, pretty and full of life as she happily busied herself with feeding her men. 
	Eileen adored the farm life. Always had. She had been crushed when her parents lost their farm when she was just a small girl, so when her husband had proposed the idea of leaving the city behind for a Green Acres kind of lifestyle she exploded with glee. Benjamin wondered if the scarecrows bothered her. He bet nothing bothered her.  He finished his breakfast while mulling over the possibilities for reaping vengeance against Old Man Jass’s scarecrow. 
	Ben entered the cornfield from the southern end the moment he spied the old man leaving the barn on his tractor. He knew the old man’s daily routine well and the boy knew he would be tending to the crops for at least an hour. Plenty of time to accomplish his task. 
	Ben crept through the rows of corn, his nerves alit with childhood phobias. The hardened earth tore at the young boy’s knees, yet he remained stalwart to his mission. 
	After what seemed an eternity, Ben was finally face to face with his nemesis. Surprisingly the scarecrow wasn’t quite as alarming in the light of the day. The boy wiggled the long wooden broomstick that staked the scarecrow back and forth until there was enough play for him to be able to turn the gruesome creature around. That’s all Ben wanted, just a respite from the cold, staring eyes of the scarecrow.  Finally the young lad succumbed to the butterflies in his stomach and bolted down the rows of corn, retracing his steps back to the family farm. He spent the rest of the day convincing himself that simply turning the scarecrow around was enough to placate his fears.
	Just before being called down for supper, Ben stared out his bedroom window. The sun was slipping behind the cornrows, bathing the earth in a purple glow. Night birds began their awakening and danced in flight against the bruised canvas. And the scarecrow still showed his osseous backside to the boy. Satisfied, Ben trotted down the stairs, salivating from the aromas of his mother’s latest creation. He hoped she would stay this fond of cooking forever, not like when they were in New York and ate pizza and takeout food all the time. He truly enjoyed the extra love she seemed to slip into her family’s dinner.
	The gentle night breeze blew across Ben’s body as he lay in bed fat and sated from the evening’s supper. The song of the crickets chirped him off to sleep. His dreams took him on a walk through the Elysian Fields, alive with splendor and magic. Waves of soothing warmth enveloped his REM sleep, washing over him like his mother’s soothing voice when he was ill. Then, it came. Calling to him through the darkness with its cold, lecherous eyes. 
	Ben bolted upright in his bed, his sheets soaked with fear. He shivered against the warm night in panic, deathly afraid to look out his bedroom window because he knew it would be looking back. He could feel the accusing eyes of the scarecrow burning through the inky night.  
	“Bennie, you’re just being foolish,” he commented aloud, throwing his legs over the side of his bed in one brave, yet rash move. Staring out his window, it was all he could do to keep from crying out. The evil was once again peering across the cornfield, right into the boy’s window. 
	He dove back into his bed, fighting the desperate urge to run crying to his mother. Instead of succumbing to the intrusive creature, Ben tried to channel his energy into something productive. At least as much channeling as a ten year old was capable of. 
	He wasn’t able to channel enough to alleviate his fears. Ben raced through the quiet hall of the farmhouse, his little feet padding through the darkness to his parent’s room. Not many questions were asked at four in the morning, but Ben was certain they would come with the morning sun. 
	“What scared you last night, Bennie?” His father asked. 
	“You’ll think I’m a big chicken.”
	“No we won’t,” his mother stifled a giggle. 
	“I just heard a noise last night is all. Nothing to get all worked up over,” the boy lied, not wanting to risk his father’s ridicule. 
	Benjamin tousled his son’s hair, chuckled to his wife and excused himself from the breakfast table to do his morning chores.
	Ben sat at the table picking through his breakfast and listening to his mother’s soothing happiness drifting to his ears in a hummed melody. Plans of retribution began forming in his imaginative mind. A roaring fire fed by gallons of tractor fuel with plumes of flame leaping fifty feet into the air.  Or dynamite to detonate an explosion of cataclysmic proportions, blowing a hole in the earth deep enough to send the creature back to hell. Maybe he would even sneak the keys to the combine and truly reap his vengeance, chopping and pulverizing the grinning pseudo-vertebrate into fragments of unrecognizable scarecrow scrap. Finally, Ben settled on a plan. Albeit, it wasn’t the best plan, which would have most certainly involved the use of fire and explosives. Nonetheless, it was a sure-fire plan that he was certain he had at least a fifty-fifty shot at getting away with. 
	He went over the procedures his father followed every time he started the chainsaw to cut wood. He had to prime the motor with the little button, then push another button to lube the chain with oil. Then he had to make sure he pulled out the choke, but not too far, it was summer time and the machine should start fairly easily. Not like in the winter when his father would curse and suffer through several silent cups of coffee before the machine would finally cooperate. And last but not least, pull the rope as hard as he could. Ben felt a wave of triumphant glee rush through him, he was finally going to get even with that scarecrow. He was going to chop it into hundreds of tiny, little pieces. 
	The morning air was cool and the corn stalks were still covered with glistening dew. Ben could feel the cold droplets of water saturating his back. A gentle summer breeze blew across the open meadow and into the cornfield causing the golden tassels to undulate seductively. The swaying corn exuded an eerie sense of being alive. His body shivered with superstitious chills. His arms ached from toting the chainsaw through the cornrows. His father had always taught him to keep the chain out of the dirt to maintain its sharpness.  The dust he kicked up began settling in the creases of his neck, mixing with his sweat to form a thick, uncomfortable layer of gooey dirt. He felt like an ant squirming beneath the fiery heat of a magnifying glass, writhing against the discomfort and pain. Finally, he arrived at his destination, now all he had to do was wait.
	Ben felt the tugging desire to fire up the saw and commit his dastardly deed, but he knew he had to be patient. The morning air was still too calm and the sound of the chainsaw would carry to all ears. No, he had to wait until the day’s hubbub had begun when people would be mounted in the seats of lumbering tractors or whistling happy tunes while scenting the home with love. He could feel the eyes of the scarecrow as it sat perched above him. It was as if the creature was daring him, taunting him into premature miscalculation. 
	The sounds of his father’s wood shop carried across the open expanse. Ben’s father had taken up the hobby as a way to pass time, damn good thing it wasn’t to feed the family or they would have surely starved. Ben junior chuckled to himself as he recalled the monstrosity of a chair his father had built. It wasn’t sturdy enough for a doll, let alone big Aunt Bessie. The laughter escaped his lips, recalling her sprawled out on the floor in the kitchen while everyone was laughing too hard to help her up. Uncle Keil waited until everyone was finished belly laughing and wiping the tears from their eyes before commenting they should all start calling her “topple.” “Topple Dover,” the room was once again erupted into a flurry of laughter. Aunt Bessie never found the humor in it, but then again, she wasn’t a true Dover. 
	Ben was ripped from his daydream by the sounds of Old Man Jass’s tractor firing up. He watched the old man bouncing down the lane, headed for the edge of his property. Ben watched the old man until he was well out of sight. 
	The chainsaw roared to life, a little easier than Ben would have thought. It scared him at first, the stainless steel teeth searching for anything they could take a bite out of. Ben held the machine for several minutes until he was used to the power of the beast and knew he could control it. And then he went to work.
	“Die, you bastard!” He cried, cutting into the broomstick holding the creature up. 
	Once the scarecrow was on the ground he flew into a frenzy.  Sawdust and pieces of scarecrow flesh were thrown into the air. Within a few short moments, the object of his malice was nothing more than a pile of mangled up clothes, straw and wood. Content with his accomplishment, Ben withdrew back along the edge of the field and back toward home.
The mirthful boy lulled the afternoon away with thoughts of triumphant warfare and the promise of a peaceful, restful, fearless night of sleep. He lay in the grass watching the puff ball clouds gracefully dance across the sky while listening to a concerto being played specifically for him by the denizens of the farm. The sweet bouquet of his mother’s cooking drifted over the summer breeze, teasing his senses and making his mouth water.
The telltale sounds of Old Man Jass’s tractor came rumbling over the hill signaling the farmer’s return. Ben knew the time for jubilant daydreams of the Scarecrow Killer had come to a close. Soon he would be in bed, enjoying the first good night’s sleep in a long, long time. 
“What’s that boy up to now?” The old man commented from the seat of his tractor as he spied the young lad bounding over the last hill that separated the two farms, “Crazy little bastard.”	
He turned the tractor onto the lane leading past the cornfield to the barn. He sensed something was amiss, yet, just couldn’t quite place it. As he passed the corncrib, it dawned on him, the scarecrow was gone. 
The old man put the tractor in neutral and climbed down to investigate the scene. As he came upon the wreckage that was once his corn’s guardian he tucked his grotesquely large hands in behind the flap of his bib overalls and just shook his head in wonderment and dismay at the sight, “Crazy little bastard,” he commented once more, picking up the scarecrow’s remnants and placing them into a grain sack and tossing it up onto the tractor. 
Hugh Jass poured the contents of the grain sack onto a wooden workbench in his barn. The old man stared down at the pile of sawdust and burlap shreds in disbelief, “I ain’t never done nothin’ to that boy to make him behave this way toward me,” his voice echoed off the empty wormwood.  
Soon the sun began its descent beyond the horizon and the earth was blanketed with a comforting darkness, a darkness that would bring with it, peaceful sleep. Ben gazed out his window before heading for bed. The farm was such a restful place without that abominable scarecrow. Old Man Jass’s barn light was still on, something that struck Ben as odd, but not alarming. The boy climbed into bed beneath the soothing coolness of his sheets. 
The old farmer was just about finished with his task of resurrecting the scarecrow. He sewed the thing back together with a surgeon’s care, albeit, not a surgeon’s expertise.  He stuffed the last of the straw into the torso of the creature, fluffing and punching it back into shape. He picked up the final scrap of burlap and filled in with straw, placing it upon the neck of the scarecrow. With callused hands he sewed the final stitches around the neck. Stepping back to admire his handiwork he gazed into the cold, obsidian eyes of the scarecrow. The thing had an evil, malevolent look about it with its criss-cross stitches creating gruesome scars across it face. But the eyes. There was something about the eyes.
Suddenly, the old man had a premonition, a warning flare in his nerves so to speak, “So the boy was onto something?”
He felt fear washing over him as the hateful eyes seemingly watched his every move. Paranoia began creeping into his very soul. He sensed he had done something terribly wrong restoring this creature. 
He reached for the pruning shears hanging on the wall, but his arm was frozen. An explosion of pain ripped through chest. The old man struggled to maintain his balance but soon toppled onto the cold, hard earth. With his dying breath he saw a gleam cross over the coal black eyes. Hugh Jass could have sworn that the scarecrow’s crudely stitched mouth was smirking at him. 
Ben shot up in bed, awakened by a symphony of chaotic noise. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness and slowly began to focus upon red and blue lights dancing off his walls. Then the siren’s wail became familiar as well. Darting out of bed the young boy raced to his window just in time to see an ambulance, police cruiser and a paramedic unit pulling into Old Man Jass’s driveway. They sped past the house and out to the barn. The boy watched the uniformed men disappear into the barn. He stared intently at the large sliding door, but no one exited the aging edifice. It seemed like an eternity, but finally two of the men exited the barn pushing a gurney. They loaded the gurney with its black plastic cargo into the rear of the ambulance. Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, the emergency personnel left the scene. All was quiet once more. 
Ben stared out the window, lost in deep contemplation. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. He wasn’t even sure if he wasn’t just dreaming the whole episode. It seemed so unreal. Why would the police come to take away a black plastic bag? Then, just as he was ready to return to bed, something caught the boy’s eye. A stirring in the corn. Something was moving in the cornfield. 
His heart pounding with fear, Ben raced back for the comfort of his bed and pulled the covers over his head. He lay awake most of the night, thinking, trying to figure out what he had been witness to. He wasn’t certain when he finally fell asleep, but he was being awakened by the sweet smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns. Maybe it was all just a dream. 
“Son, we have to talk,” his father’s voice embraced him across the table.
“Yeah, dad?” The boy was confused. 
He knew the tone of concern in his father’s voice. His mind raced through the myriad of possible alibis for any troubles he may have caused, “I have some bad news.”	
Oh, oh, here it comes.
“Our neighbor, Mr. Jass, died last night. He had a heart attack.”
“Oh,” relief washed over him, “I thought I was just dreaming about the police cars and ambulance last night.”
“No, son, I’m sorry to say that you weren’t dreaming. But just remember, Hugh, has gone to a much better place now.”
“I know, dad. He’s in heaven with Aunt Topple, I mean, Bessie.”
His father laughed.
“Can I please be excused?” The boy asked nervously, not wanting to listen to another discussion about death and how it affects the living. Sometimes his dad was such a nerd.
“Sure, son.”
The day passed without further incident, nor was there too many thoughts about Mr. Jass. Just a couple glances toward the barn that was the epicenter off the previous night’s ado. Soon, the day after Hugh Jass’s death was coming to a close. The sun winked over the horizon and the blackbirds began chirping out their evening lullaby. 
Ben climbed the stairs to his bedroom. His belly was full of mom’s homemade blueberry pie. He was so full he thought he would burst. He lay down in bed and pulled the cool sheets over his body. The hum of the electric fan kept time with the slow churning of the boy’s brain. The last thoughts of the day were frolicking through waning consciousness. Then it dawned on him. He had seen it in the field.
The boy bolted from bed and cautiously peered out his window. Scanning the rows of corn he soon spied the scarecrow standing defiantly amongst the yellowing ears. Ice water flowed through the boy’s veins. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. The scarecrow was back, and by the look on its face, it was pissed.