Scarecrow

By Kinola J Williams

He is haunted by a memory. A memory of a night that claimed the lives of many. Can he find a way to end this nightmare? Or will the nightmare end his life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kinola J Williams
• Release date: Nov 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301852017

Book preview

Scarecrow

Copyright © 2012 by Kinola J. Williams

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by Cary L. Williams

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, places, events or locales is purely coincidental.

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The hedge walls seem to be closing in on him. Very little light penetrates the thick clouds that clutter the sky. He can barely see in front of him. He feels around blindly, the sharp thorns that grow within the hedges scratch his hands repeatedly. His feet stumble on the unseen, uneven path. A thick, gray mist surrounds him. His quick, short breaths cause swirls of fog to twirl away from him, only to be replaced by some more.

Behind him, he can hear It breathe. But It couldn’t really breathe…could It? Craning his neck around, but still trying to hurry and not fall, he cannot see anything behind him.

Sweat pours down his face, even as a cold wind cuts through his bones. He has to get out of here. Icy needles of panic dig into his brain. Violently shaking his head as if to physically push off the terror, he stumbles on, knowing that It is close behind, waiting for Its chance to strike.

Left at this fork, right at the next. All the while branches whip and slash his face. How the hell do I get out of here? he silently screams. He can hear himself whimpering, but cannot stop. Please Lord, just let me get out!

Up ahead, he can see something in the fog. The closer he gets to it, the more solid the object becomes. A door! A door? In the middle of a maze? It does not matter. It has to be the way out.

The door looms in front of him. Scratches marred its smooth, dark wood. Most of the scratches looked as if someone tried to scratch their way through. The other scratches were deeper, thinner, like a knife cut. Splotches of gooey, brown jelly paint the door. They faintly smell like copper.

The door has no hinges, no knob that he can see. Nothing to show that it can open. He pushes on it first with both hands, then with his shoulder. It does not move. From all around him, he can hear a dark sinister laugh.

He starts banging on the door, his fists landing in the brown copper smelling jelly making it splash onto his face and clothes. The laughter gets louder.