Stick Men
By Paul Melniczek

* * * *

Bobby looked at the stone fireplace in wonder. His dreamy-blue eyes reflected the glare from the blaze, and he rubbed his little hands together, feeling the warmth, the scent of charred logs strong but pleasing.

“Hey, sport, ready for the marshmallows?”

The eight-year old nodded, his mouth watering in anticipation of the delicious treat.

“You know, your uncle Fred makes the best ones in the whole world.”

Fred walked over to his young nephew, holding two forks loaded up with puffy white marshmallows. The grizzled farmer smiled broadly, his tan face creased with wrinkles.

“Everything all right in there?” The kind voice drifted in from the kitchen, where Bobby’s aunt Nancy was baking apple pies.

“You bet. Me and Bobby are having a fine toast in here.” Fred turned the long forks, working them like a master.

“Wow, uncle Fred. They look good.” Bobby licked his lips, eyes fixed on the crackling fire.

“I think they’re done. Here you go, don’t burn yourself.”

The two sat down on a throw rug embroidered with autumn leaves, a comfortable distance from the fireplace. “These are great!” Bobby looked up at his uncle .

“I told you. Too bad your parents don’t get up this way more often, I have a lot of tricks I could show you.”

“This farm is all yours?” Bobby felt a piece of marshmallow sticking on his cheek, and was trying to lick it with his tongue.

“You bet, sport. Me and your wonderful aunt out there.” He said it loud enough to carry into the kitchen, and Nancy peered around the corner for a brief second.

“How can you do it yourself? It would take me a million years.”

Fred laughed. “When you grow up on a farm, you learn, Bobby. You could learn to be a farmer just like me someday.”

“Really? Wow. But no one helps you.”

The farmer bent close to the boy. “Want to know a secret?” There was a mischievous gleam in his eye, and Bobby nodded eagerly. “You promise never to tell anyone? Not even your mom and dad, Bobby?”

“Yeah, I promise.”

“Cross your heart, hope to die?”

“Put a needle in my eye!” Bobby exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement.

“Close enough,” said Fred. “You can’t tell anyone, they might get mad at you.”

Bobby frowned. “Who?”

“My helpers.”

“But you said nobody helped you.” Confused, the boy pointed a finger at the farmer.

“You’re right, it isn’t people who help me. It’s the stick men.”

Bobby felt his breath coming faster as he asked, “Who are they?”

Fred leaned closer, and looked out the window as a miniature whirlwind of leaves scampered against the frame, collected by the brisk autumn breeze to a new resting place. “Men, made of sticks and straw. They only move around at night. They work in the fields, cleanup, finish some of the things that I couldn’t get to during the day.”

“How did you find them?” The boy felt chills going down his back, as if someone poured cold water beneath his cotton shirt.

“They were always here. Ever since I was as tiny as you. I don’t understand where they came from; maybe my grandfather knew the truth, he built the original farm. But they make my life a lot easier, so I’m just grateful for them, and never worried about how strange they are.” He poked a callused finger into the boy’s stomach, causing Bobby to jump.

“Does she know?” The youth looked at the kitchen, and Fred shook his head.

“Nope, just you and me. We’re the only ones now.”

“Hey you two, the pies are done. Come and get it!” Nancy called for them, breaking the spell of Fred’s words.

“Time to go eat some more.” The farmer helped his nephew to his feet, and put a finger to his lips.

“Remember, you can’t tell anyone. Right?”

Bobby nodded.

“One more thing - don’t be afraid. As long as you stay in at night, you’ll never even know they’re out there in the fields. But if you listen real hard after midnight, you can hear them sometimes. Working the fields, moving around.”

“Come on you old farmer, the pies will be frozen by the time you stop talking to that poor boy.” Nancy said as she walked around the corner, arms folded around her white cooking apron.

Fred laughed. “See, Bobby, when the boss talks, the farmer walks.” He held his nephew’s hand, leading him out to the offered pasties.

Bobby turned his head and stared out the front window into the waning afternoon, the last of the orange rays now gone, devoured by the creeping hands of approaching twilight.

A cool breeze blew into the guest bedroom where Bobby lay watching the gray curtains as they swayed gently in the breeze. He couldn’t stop thinking about what his uncle Fred had told him.

The stick men. Unseen helpers, busy working in the fields late at night. And now it was late, nearing midnight, as he glanced at the rustic wooden clock hanging on the wall, carved into the form of a cow.

At first, Bobby didn’t want to believe the story. But why would his uncle lie to him? Why make him promise not to tell anyone? It didn’t make much sense. Any of it. How could men made of sticks walk, anyway? His uncle probably just wanted to scare him, maybe to keep him from getting into trouble. An owl hooted somewhere far off, and a tingle of fear shot through Bobby’s neck, quickly spreading down his thin frame under the warm blankets. Gooseflesh covered his arms and legs, and he shivered. The stick men. What if they were real? What did they look like? Mixed emotions clashed in the boy’s young mind. Fear of the unknown fought against a strong desire to discover the truth.

Shut your eyes, he told himself. Go to sleep.

But he couldn’t. Bobby was wide-awake now and sleep was a long way off. Excitement kept his mind fully alert, not permitting his body to relax. He propped himself up, lifting his legs from the comforting blankets. The house was silent, the only light a milky splash from the harvest moon, nearly full in its white radiance. Bobby crept towards the window.

Still afraid, he opened the window. The boy stuck his head out as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. A sudden noise came from the side of the house and he jumped in fright.

Relief crossed his face when he recognized it as the eerie call of a raccoon, searching for a mate. It had to be near, and he strained his eyes, but the elusive creature remained hidden. The landscape was illuminated by the moon’s glow, and the sky was clear overhead. The twinkle of a billion stars filled the heavens, and the boy gazed up in amazement.

Feeling a little braver, he crawled through the window. Scattered bushes grew along the side of the farmhouse, and grass carpeted the surrounding yard.

Bobby snapped his head upwards as a shooting star flashed through the night sky then was followed by a second.. His dad had taken him to a small hill the previous summer and the two had sat on the grass, faces skyward, staring up at an incredible meteor storm. Maybe there was one tonight.

Not wanting to go too far from the house, he walked to the stone well in the backyard. An open space lay apart from the host of oak trees, which lurked in thick clumps, and allowed a better view of the sky. It was several dozen yards away, and his courage increased at the prospect of seeing more shooting stars. He reached the well and sat on the rim. The clearing was perfect and he craned his neck skyward, trying hard not to blink much and miss anything.

Bobby sat peacefully for a few minutes, glimpsing two more shooting stars, when he heard a noise and froze. 

Again - a quiet, rustling noise. He looked around the yard, his heart beating wildly. Bobby’s wide eyes drifted further to the right, where he was sure he’d heard the sound. Something was definitely moving. It was in the near cornfield. A wave of horror filled his small frame as the words of uncle Fred came back to him.

The stick men.

They were out, only at night. Working in the fields. There was no question that something was moving around in the cornfield, a few dozen yards from where he sat. He slowly stood, terrified and numb. He wished with all his heart that he never wanted to see a stick man - not now, not ever. Please, let it go away, he prayed. Please.

The boy’s teeth were grinding together and his legs felt weak. He needed to get back to the house. He didn’t want the stick men to see him.

Backing away, Bobby forced his resisting body to move. The noise was unmistakable, at the edge of the cornfield. Some of the stalks were now moving - it was almost in the open. Gasping for breath, his eyes were riveted on the corn stalks. Cold sweat moistened his brow. Rustling, stalks bending. Something was at the edge, nearer.

The cornstalks exploded and Bobby thought it was the end of the world as a huge creature came crashing into the open yard. He stumbled backwards, landing on the turf, his legs going straight up in the air as he caught a completely different view of the sky. Quickly righting himself, he saw the creature standing in the moonlight.

It was a huge buck. The boy sighed deeply, thankfully. Something familiar and friendly. It had certainly been feeding on the ample supply of field corn which stretched for acres in all directions.

A deer. Bobby clutched his chest, trying to calm himself.

“Only a deer,” he whispered.

The buck looked at the young boy, wary as to any threat that he might pose. A small apple tree sat nearby, and Bobby inched towards it, keeping his eyes on the animal, avoiding any sudden movement. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll get you something to eat.” He saw the fallen shapes of numerous apples lying on the ground, and he slowly bent down, grabbing several.

The buck had wandered further back behind the house, and Bobby cautiously approached it. He threw an apple close to the deer, and it immediately stiffened, ready to bolt. After pausing for a few seconds, the buck went toward the fruit and put his nose to the grass. A small smile crossed the boy’s face as he watched the animal take the offering.

Without warning, the deer snatched its antlered head up, stomping a thick hoof in aggravation.

Bobby opened his mouth in surprise as the buck bounded away, plummeting back into the field. A feeling of renewed dread came over the boy and he turned around, too late discovering that a shadowy form was almost upon him. The scream never left his mouth as a rough voice cut him off.

“Bobby, what are you doing out here?”

It took the boy a moment to realize that it was his uncle Fred who approached, dressed in a bed robe and slippered feet.

“Uncle Fred! You scared the death out of me,” Bobby said. “I was trying to feed that deer, but he ran away.”

“Shh, you shouldn’t be out at night. Come on, let’s get you back inside.” The farmer put his arm around the boy and they started walking back.

After a few feet, Bobby winced in pain as his uncle’s grip tightened, his voice speaking low - dark and laced with terror.

“Wait, don’t move.”

The words sliced through the boy like a spear of ice, the hand of fear once again clutching his heart. “Do you hear that?”

A faint rustling came from the cornfield, originating in several locations. They both gazed at the dimly illuminated stalks, sections of them swaying from the approach of something unseen.

“Oh no, they’re here - they know! Bobby, run to the house and don’t look back.” Fred’s voice trembled as he shoved his nephew away.

Bobby ran faster than he’d ever run before, as his uncle issued a dreadful warning.

“They know that I told you. Bobby, you can’t tell anyone. Never, or they’ll find out. Remember!”

The boy sprinted to the open window, the words of his uncle echoing in his head. He reached the bedroom and scrambled inside, not looking back. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a choked shout, gone so quickly he thought he imagined it.

Bobby was shaking so badly that he couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. He pulled the covers over his head and felt the heat from his own breath as it moistened the blankets. The minutes went by without a sound. He was too afraid to uncover himself, imagining that he would find the room filled with the stick men.

He knew beyond any doubt that they were very real.

They had come after his uncle because he’d told Bobby about them, making them angry. Uncle Fred had said that no one else knew, it must be kept a secret. He failed to keep the secret himself, and the stick men had crossed the fields looking for him. Tears streamed down Bobby’s face and he covered his mouth, trying not to make any noise.

The terror was still strong, but now he felt paralyzed. The walk in the yard was now a nightmare, and he half hoped that his eyes would open and everything would be fine. Just a bad dream.

But he knew the truth. And uncle Fred - poor uncle Fred.

Very gently, Bobby lifted the edge of the blanket, peeking into his room. It was empty. He was alone. He pulled the blankets down a few more inches and stared at the window.

Something was standing there, gazing directly at him.

A dark, sinister figure, wearing a straw hat. Dead, orb less eyes pierced his own as a scarecrow stood outside in mute silence, gazing in at him.

Bobby did not breathe in that short span of time as he locked stares with the creature, unable to move. No feeling of horror could compare with that moment in his life, when he looked upon a thing which was utterly alien and terrible.

He blinked his eyes and the scarecrow was gone.

A soft rustling drifted into the room for a moment, then the night was quiet once more. Bobby drew the blankets back over his head, his overwrought body succumbing to sleep.

The next morning, Bobby woke to the noise of his aunt Nancy, sobbing and holding onto him. The farmhouse swarmed with police, neighbors, and the town doctor, as everyone tried to make sense as to what had happened. Bobby walked about in a daze, speechless and stunned by his surroundings and what was taking place.

Later on, Nancy held her nephew’s hand, telling the boy that his uncle Fred had wandered outside late at night, suffering a heart attack. Bobby cried along with her, staying silent the entire time. Nancy had phoned the boy’s parents, and they would be picking him up that afternoon, canceling the rest of their plans for the weekend.

A flurry of neighbours stopped by that day as word spread swiftly around the countryside concerning the farmer’s passing, and Bobby received countless hugs and sympathetic claps on the shoulder. They would all miss his uncle, and Nancy had no choice but to put the farm up for sale. She couldn’t go on living there without Fred.

Bobby’s parents came over later in the afternoon, and decided to get the boy home without delay. All the excitement and sorrow was overwhelming for such a young child, and he needed rest at his own house. It was a chilly sunset by the time Bobby and his parents drove down the dirt lane, having said their farewells, the evening promising of frost and nightmares.

They pulled onto the main road and Bobby looked into the cornfield, where a scarecrow hung on a wooden stake.

As they went by, Bobby saw the head move ever so slightly, an ominous warning against him telling anyone about the secret of the stick men.

* * * *

Paul Melniczek

Paul Melniczek is a small business owner and a college graduate, with a degree in business management. He also teaches a part time class at a local college, is married with two children. In year 2000 he began writing, and since then has had over seventy stories published or accepted for publication in a wide variety of markets, including print anthologies, print magazines, e-zines, and e-anthologies. Some of these include sales to Fangoria, Black Rose, Cold Storage, and many others.

He is also a musician, playing classical piano and electric guitar. In his free time he enjoys the outdoors, weightlifting, golf, and tennis. Living in the country lends much inspiration to his writing, and he is currently working on another short story collection, a fantasy novel, and a children’s book.