The Scarecrow Competition

Ian watched from the porch as Connie and Esteban gleefully shoved leaves into one of his old shirts. He swelled with pride as the experienced older sister gathered and spun the bottom of the button-up before tying a knot to trap the crunchy stuffing inside. Next year, she’d be helping him carve the head with the knife, he thought.

But for one more October, crafting the face of his family’s entry in the scarecrow competition was Ian’s and Ian’s alone. He’d been doing it since he was 16 — almost two decades upholding the town tradition. He’d even gotten an “honorable mention” in the mad scientist category once for creating a jack-o-lantern Frankenstein’s Monster with neck bolts made out of corn on the cob.

He was warming with pride by the second at the thought of sharing the responsibility with Connie, but at the same time, there was a selfish cell in either his liver or his kidney that knew this was his last chance to win recognition as one of his generation’s great crowcrafters.

The kids were stuffing gloves and attaching them to the end of each sleeve using the staple gun. Last year, he would’ve been inches away sweating. Now, he was supervising from a distance. How great was that, Ian thought.

He sat on the rocking chair and put the pumpkin in his lap. He had specifically selected it for its near-perfect 2.5x scale to a human head. Into its orange flesh, he was planning to carve the face of Elias McBriar, the town’s first pastor, in whose honor the competition had been held since the year following his passing in colonial times. It was the first time such a thing had been attempted, or even dreamed of.

Generally, there were your standard agricultural scarecrows (riding tractors, trapped under tractors, milking scarecrow cows, etc.), your sports-themed scarecrows bearing favorite children’s football or soccer jerseys, scarecrow tableaus of scenes from famous movies (a recreation of the “Check out the big brain on Brad” scene from Pulp Fiction with scarecrow Sam sipping a lemon-lime soda had been a huge hit a few years back), and finally, your truly terrifying horror scenes loaded with bloody axes and semi-satanic imagery.

The simple, understated elegance and historical import of Elias McBride was sure to shine through all that noise, Ian knew. The aldermen would be charmed by it for sure.

The kids had finished with the torso and were beginning to stuff Reverend McBriar’s slacks, which was to say, the pants from the grey suit Ian had worn when he married their mother. He’d wanted to save them for Esteban to wear at his wedding one day, but Maria had told him with a beautiful smile that Esteban would never fit into them because he had her naturally flat stomach. Ian had loved that line so much.

He took the portrait of Elias McBride he’d photocopied from the town history book at the library and held it up next to the pumpkin. With a few deft slices of his knife, the image had been copied perfectly into the oversized squash. The pastor’s muttonchops, rounded drunkard’s cheeks, and piercing serious-minded eyes were all captured in verisimilitude even more lifelike than the portrait Ian had begun with.

“I don’t like it!” Esteban said.

“What do you mean? Why?”

“It’s, like, too real. It looks like a real person.”

Ian took that as a compliment.

“You think that’s boring or something?” he asked Esteban. “Not spooky enough?”

“No, too spooky!” the kid said, covering his eyes and sitting cross-legged on the porch like he did when he was about to throw a fit.

“I like it, Dad.” Connie gave Esteban a little slap on the back of his head. “I like his funny sideburns. I wish the pastor had those now.”

“The pastor smells funny!” Esteban said, seemingly forgetting his displeasure.

Ian and the kids put the various pieces of the scarecrow together and stood it up behind the pulpit Ian had found at a barn sale the previous spring. It was the perfect finishing touch to impress the alderman during their late night judgment rounds.

Judgment night came and went. The aldermen moved through the town by lantern light, viewing each scarecrow and scoring them based on overall appeal and their adherence to any relevant category standards. It was quite forbidden for contestants to interact whatsoever with the aldermen during their rounds, but that didn’t stop Ian and Connie from peering through the blinds every 30 seconds, hoping to see flickering lanterns.

“We can get rid of that thing tomorrow, right?” Esteban asked.

“Well, if we win any of the categories, we have to keep it on display for three days. Then the aldermen take it.”

“What do they do with it, anyway?” Connie asked, her eyes getting big with wonder.

“They take pictures for the town archives — they used to have portraits painted before that. Then the aldermen auction it amongst themselves, with the winning bid being donated to the town school. That’s the tradition.”

Esteban scrunched his nose and said, “If we lose, we can get rid of it tomorrow, though, right?”

“Sure, kiddo,” Ian replied. But he hoped with everything inside of him that that didn’t happen.

The next morning, Ian and Maria were awoken by heavy knocking on the door. Pulling on their robes, Ian ran down the stairs to answer while Maria went to check on the kids.

When Ian opened the door, it was Mr. Cavendish of the aldermen.

“Congratulations,” he said, tipping an old-fashioned hat.

Over the next three days, absolutely everybody in town dropped in or at least drove by slowly to see the incredible likeness of Reverend McBriar on the Smith-Mercado’s front yard. Some of the town’s older and more prominent residents — including Mrs. Englethorpe whose late father had petitioned President Eisenhower personally to prevent the highway being built nearby enough for fast food restaurants and convenience stores to be built — sent elaborate calligraphy letters and generous three-figure personal checks for Connie and Esteban’s college funds.

Yes, indeed, Ian thought to himself, he had finally won his family some renown and the approval of the right people.

At sunset on the third day, Mr. Cavendish arrived again, carrying an envelope that had been sealed with an old-fashioned wax signet.

“I shall collect the good Reverend and prepare him for the proper documentation and auction,” he told Ian. “This really has been quite a special year — quite a special piece,” he said, looking at the scarecrow in real awe. “We hope you will join us for the occasion.”

“Join you?” Ian said back. All the aldermen’s meetings and functions were completely sealed.

“Well, your family’s been here long enough, and none of us are getting any younger.” (It was very evident that Mr. Cavendish wasn’t getting any younger.) “We need to take on some new blood and, given your incredible dedication to our town traditions, we’d like to invite you as a prospect.”

Ian couldn’t speak because it was an unspeakable honor.

“Please be on time tomorrow night,” Mr. Cavendish said like Ian had accepted. “It’s quite disqualifying not to be. All the details are laid out in your invitation.”

He passed the sealed envelope.

“Of course, Mr. Cavendish. I’m truly honored.”

Following the instructions of the invitation required Ian to take a half-day from work so he could drive an hour to rent a tailcoat, patent leather shoes, and a dress shirt with detached cuffs and collar.

It was no problem for him, though. He was practically floating all day, thinking about his future, the town’s future, and the increased love and respect he’d get from everyone from Esteban to the lady at the library once he became an alderman. He thought about the influence he might have on the direction of the scarecrow competition itself in the coming years. What about a new “town pride” category? What about a historical category? What about creating age brackets for competitors? His head was buzzing with great ideas.

After dinner, he changed into the bizarre outfit and tucked the kids into bed.

“Daddy, if you become an alderman, can you still help me carve the head next year?” Connie asked.

“No, honey,” Ian said, kissing her forehead. “Aldermen can’t participate at all, but your mommy is so good with a knife it scares me sometimes.”

“Okay,” she said like she wasn’t thrilled. “Good luck, daddy. I love you!”

“Make sure someone gets rid of that thing!” Esteban shouted from across the room, hugging his knees to his face. “Don’t bring it back.”

“No problem, slugger,” Ian said with a laugh. “You’ll never see Reverend McBriar again. I promise.”

Ian smoothed the tails of his coat and double-checked that his cufflinks were rotated exactly the same way as he waited at the door of the meeting hall. The building had stood for over 250 years, but only a few dozen people had ever been in it. The stained-glass windows had actually been designed to be viewed from the outside, so when the aldermen were not assembled, the building would remain lit, brightening the windows for all to view but rendering it completely impossible for anyone to see inside.

Mr. Cavendish’s manservant Ruggles pushed the tall wooden door opened and gestured to Ian.

“Mr. Smith-Mercado. Welcome, and may I commend you on your most excellent crowcrafting?”

“Thank you, Ruggles,” Ian said, hearing how strange it sounded in the air. Ruggles’ first name was Jim. They shook hands at church every week. That would be over soon, though, with the town church giving way to the exclusive weekly ceremonies held for the aldermen themselves, so it made sense that the time to call Ruggles “Jim” was over too.

“May I say, sir, how wonderfully the mantle of tradition sits upon your shoulders.”

“Thank you, Ruggles.” It sounded better that time.

Ruggles led Ian to the main hall. His eyes instantly darted upwards to the high steam-bowed beams that held up the steeple of the meeting hall. Just below their point hung a gigantic mobile of chandeliers, each at least 20-feet across, which had been fitted with electric bulbs to light the stained-glass windows. This was Ian’s first taste of secret knowledge.

“Quite beautiful, isn’t it, sir?”

“Yes,” Ian said faintly, feeling his throat go a little dry. He cleared it and corrected, “Indeed, Ruggles.”

“The aldermen are holding the documentation ceremony in the vestry. Shall we?”

Ruggles led Ian back to a room with no windows and one door. It smelled like old tobacco smoke and spilled liquor that had never been properly cleaned. Mr. Cavendish and the other aldermen were wearing their ceremonial robes (an off-season treat for Ian to witness, as they only wore them publicly on Easter and the summer solstice) and standing around a chalk circle on the floor.

“Ian Smith,” Mr. Cavendish said warmly. “Welcome to the inner sanctum. And may I say, you are the first scarecrow competition winner to ever have the honor of witnessing the documentation ceremony.”

“Thank you so much. It’s quite an honor.”

“Of course, it used to be a little more interesting before we switched to photos,” one of the other aldermen said, rolling his eyes. “Last year, Anders ‘documented’ with his cell phone.”

“I didn’t have my lens. I didn’t want to drive home,” Anders objected, the tails of his formal coat dancing below his robe with irritation.

“Oh, I’m not offended,” Ian said, not wanting to be a source of tension between the aldermen. “You could really draw a picture of it with a crayon. It’s the recognition and your invitation to come here that’s really the honor.”

Mr. Cavendish gave Ian an impressed look, which shot around the room like a game of telephone, getting more eager to please and less authentic looking as it moved to the next face.

“Quite so, Mr. Smith.”

“Smith-Mercado,” Ian said carefully. “It’s on my Social now.”

“Ooh, she got you good, didn’t she?” one of the aldermen said with a belly laugh.

“Like it or not, the year is what it is.” Anders shrugged. “Beside, his name has no bearing on our vision for him.”

“Vision?” Ian asked.

Just then, Ruggles reemerged with the Elias McBride scarecrow, placing it in the center of the circle. All the aldermen began chanting a sort of excited but harmless sounded nonsense and had expressions of great glee on their face.

Anders produced a camera bearing the massive lens he had forgotten last year and took pictures of the scarecrow from a variety of angles.

“Care to jump into a shot?” Mr. Cavendish asked. “We’ve never included the crowcrafter in the documentation before, but given the incredible circumstances, let’s make an exception.”

All the other aldermen agreed that was a good idea.

Ian nervously stepped forward, smoothening out his tailcoat again.

“Should I just stand next to him?”

“Close as you can to the Reverend, yes please,” Anders said.

Ian stood shoulder to shoulder with the scarecrow, admiring how well the arms Connie and Esteban had crafted filled out the tailcoat the aldermen had placed on him to match the rest of the assembly. Anders snapped a few photos.

“Let’s make just a few changes to the scene,” Mr. Cavendish suggested. “I have a brilliant idea!”

He produced a piece of chalk from his pocket and began adding lines inside the circle until they formed a rough star, with Ian and the scarecrow standing in the center.

“Spooky!” Ian said, looking down at the pentagram surrounding him.

“Indeed,” Mr. Cavendish said. “Anders, continue.”

Anders continued to take photos of Ian and Reverend McBride, although the angles at which he held the camera were increasingly askance and, even to Ian’s limited understanding of archival photography, ill-advised. At the same time, Mr. Cavendish led the rest of the alderman in their excited gabble chant. Ian wasn’t sure if he understood the significance of the aldermen’s rituals yet, but he didn’t mind being the center of attention for the town’s finest men.

Suddenly, Ian started to feel tired all at once, and as he looked down, the ground seemed fuzzy below him. He went to say something to Anders, but just as he opened his mouth, he drifted off into a very strange sleep.

Ian woke up the next morning alone in the vestry. He rubbed his head. He didn’t remember drinking, but he felt lousy. He could tell he needed a shave. He got his legs under himself and stood up, walking back into the main chamber of the meeting hall where the giant candle holders hovered over his head. He looked at the backside of the stained glass windows in the morning light and realized how dull and artless they looked from the inside.

Ian staggered home. His legs didn’t feel right. It was like they were suddenly a different length than his brain remembered. When he opened the front door, he came face to face with Connie.

She screamed.

“Who are you? Get out of our house! Mom, call 911!”

She ran up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

“Honey, stop! I’m just a little ragged is all,” Ian said, following her.

When he got to the landing, he could see into Esteban’s open bedroom.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, walking in.

“No!” Esteban shouted. “No! No! Daddy promised. Daddy promised you wouldn’t come back!”

Ian looked into the mirror atop Esteban’s dresser and realized he had rounded drunkard’s cheeks, muttonchop sideburns, and piercing serious-minded eyes.

This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.

Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong

Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost

Day 3: The Portal Potties

Day 4: The Household Accident

Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition

Day 6: The Cursed Father

Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree

Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween

Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth

Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach

Day 11: Pampered