The Straw Men

November 2, 1961

I’ve had the most unusual experience over the past two days; something which I am still processing. It’s a strange thing, the Appalachian countryside; full of superstition and folk traditions. In the eyes of those who live there, witches still roam the hills and hollers looking for unsuspecting people to hex. Even still in this modern age of science, in some places of the world, magic is king.

I recently came into possession of a cottage in West Virginia. Heh, “possession” is a good word for it. I feel as though I need an exorcism after all that’s happened over the last two days. My uncle had left it to me in his will, and I meant to go visit the place, but between work and everything I didn’t have time. My uncle was strange, but most of my family were strange. I’m the black sheep, you see. I turned out relatively normal and took up a career in journalism. I’m a man of facts, which is why I’m writing this journal, in the hope that whoever finds it will believe what’s written herein. 

My brother, Marty, and my wife Janet drove out to Crooked Horn, WV on October 30. The leaves on the maples had turned to shades of yellow, red, and orange that made the drive pleasant. The mountains stood glowering over the highway in what could almost be described as a threatening manner if geologic formations could be considered threatening. 

The area roundabout was populated by agricultural land. Large harvesting machines were at work, bringing in the corn. Sheep, goats, and cattle wandered the hill country, grazing peacefully, and in fields the ever-present scarecrow stood guard over the crops. I wouldn’t find out until later how important those scarecrows were.

“What a gorgeous place!” said Janet. “We should’ve had our honeymoon here!”

“Had I known that we could’ve saved a ton of money,” I said.

“Oh, stop it, Peter!” said Janet, slapping my arm playfully. 

“Antigua ain’t cheap!” said Marty. I could see him grinning in the rear-view mirror.

As we approached the middle of town, the locals were busy. They seemed to be preparing for some festival. The next day being Halloween, I assumed it would be some masquerade party. I wasn’t entirely wrong. At the edge of town stood a dilapidated country church of the type one sees in little towns. In the middle of the village stood a pile of lumber and straw. Foks were still piling wood onto it. 

“Looks like a bonfire,” said Janet. “We should go.”

“Seems like a good idea to me,” said Marty. 

We stopped at a filling station and country store to fuel up. As we walked in the front door, the customers and staff seemed to eye us with suspicion.

“Howdy,” I said.

“Afternoon,” said the clerk. “What brings you to Crooked Horn?”

“I inherited the McCormac cottage,” I said.

The man seemed to wilt like a head of lettuce. 

“I don’t recall Old Cyrus having any younguns,” said a middle-aged woman nearby. She eyed me with an expression that sent a chill through my bones. She reminded one of a witch that one might find in a book of fairytales. I would only find out later how right I was. 

“We’re his nephews,” said my brother.

“I see,” said the clerk.

“We figured we’d at least come out and see what we’d inherited,” I said.

“You have a lovely town,” said Janet. “We’re looking forward to spending more time here.”

The clerk looked into her eyes, and grinned. 

“Yes ma’am!” said the clerk. “Nice, quiet town.”

“I noticed they were building a bonfire,” Janet continued, gesturing southward. “Are you having some sort of party?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the clerk. “Have it every year on Halloween.”

“We’d be delighted to come,” said Janet. 

“We’d be delighted to have you,” said the witch.

“We start about sundown, and we don’t quit ‘til midnight,” said the Clerk.

“Sounds like a great time to me,” I said.

We bought some of the local produce and went back out to the car. As we were getting back in, I spied a scarecrow in the field across the road. I swore I saw him move.

We arrived at the cottage as the sun was setting. I pulled into the short, dirt road to the cottage, which lay nestled between two hills, and surrounded by trees. A stream ran alongside it.The caretaker, Howard, sat on a bench on the front porch, strumming an old guitar. He was a black man, tall and lean, his straw hat tilted to one side. He wore stained overalls, a flannel shirt, and well-worn work boots. He lived in the shanty just down the road and cared for the cottage and the surrounding land when it was not in use. My uncle let him live there for free, and he had the run of the land to hunt and fish as much as he wanted. He smiled broadly as we exited the car. 

“You must be the McCormac boys,” he said, shaking my hand. 

“I’m Peter, and this is Marty,” I replied. “And this is my wife, Janet.”

“Howdy,” said Howard, shaking hands with everyone. “I’ll take your bags inside.” 

We walked up the porch steps and entered the cottage. The walls were wood paneling except on the wall of the fireplace, which was made of field-stone. Taxidermied animals and antlers lined the walls, and an old grandfather clock stood in the corner. Rustic wood furniture was the only furnishing. I turned around to see an old horse-shoe over the door frame. I soon found that all three of the doorways of the house were adorned with horseshoes. Knowing my uncle’s propensity for superstition, I wasn’t surprised. The man always had a rabbit’s foot in his pocket.

“How charming,” said Janet as she looked around the cottage.

“Nice place,” said Marty. “How's the hunting in these parts?”

“Mr. Cyrus and I were usually successful,” said Howard as he entered with the bags. “You packed quite a lot.”

“We’re staying a week,” I replied.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” replied Howard. 

“Why not?”

“This ain’t a good time for out-of-towners,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” asked Janet.

“This time of year, with harvest and everything, it wouldn’t be a good time for out-of-towners.”

“The locals seemed friendly enough,” said Janet. 

“They seem that way,” said Howard. He spoke no more on the subject, though I pressed him during supper. 

I woke up the next morning, October 31, to a horrific scream. I leaped from the bed in the master bedroom and raced down the hall, to where I found Janet standing outside staring in shock into the bathroom. She was soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel. Marty came bounding down the hall. I shielded Janet. Marty turned his back once he realized Janet was unclothed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I saw someone looking in the window!” she said pointing at the bathroom window. The curtain was pulled across it.

“Maybe it was an animal,” offered Marty.

“It was a person, I swear!” said Janet emphatically. 

Marty went outside to look around while I helped Janet get dressed. 

“There was definitely someone at the window,” said Marty when he returned.

“Who would do that?!” said Janet. “Spying on a lady while she’s trying to take a bath! The nerve!”

I heard the front door creak and Howard’s deep voice.

“Breakfast!” he said. “I hope I ain’t too early.”

We all entered the dining area, where Howard stood, carrying a basket of eggs.

“Fresh eggs!” he said, bouncing his eyebrows.

“Howard, you wouldn’t happen to have seen anyone creeping around the cottage?” asked Marty.

“No, sir,” said Howard. “Why? Didja see someone creeping around?”

“I did!” said Janet. “There was someone at the window while I was trying to take a bath!”

Howard furrowed his brow and his lips lowered to a frown. His eyes widened in a sort of horrified expression which he was trying to hide. 

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Positive,” said Marty. “I found tracks.”

“Folks around here tend to be curious of outsiders,” replied Howard. 

“Oh, sure, very curious!” said Janet. “Perverts!”

“You talk about the locals as if you’re afraid of them,” I said. “Is there something I need to know, Howard?”

“Nothing you would believe.”

He left it at that. My reporter instincts told me to press him on it, but I didn’t want to be rude to the man. I should have. I should have demanded answers.

That afternoon, Marty and I decided to go out for a hike in the hills while Janet went to town to do a little sight-seeing and shopping.

“Do you suppose Howard was the one spying on Janet?” I asked.

“Naw,” said Marty. “The tracks were the wrong size. Howard has big feet. Whoever was spying on you was smaller, lighter.”

I trusted Marty’s tracking skills. If he said Howard didn’t do it, then he didn’t.

“Maybe some teenage boy,” I offered.

“That’d be about the right size,” said Marty.

We came to a hollow between two hillsides, where a little stream ran. There were strange markings carved into the trees. Bits of rags hung in the branches. Animal skulls were placed at certain strategic locations.

“What a weird place,” said Marty. 

The place was eerie in a way I can’t adequately put into words. We decided then we should turn back to the cottage.

When we arrived, Janet was nowhere to be found. Surely, a brief shopping trip to the village couldn’t have taken this long. It was then that Howard entered the cottage with a basket of fruit.

“Afternoon, gentlemen!” he said.

“Howard, have you seen Janet?”

Howard wore a concerned expression on his face. 

“You left her here alone?” he asked.

“She went into town,” said Marty.

A look of alarm spread across Howard’s features, such as I’d only seen on the face of shell-shock victims.

“What in the world has you so spooked, Howard?!” exclaimed my Marty. 

Howard heaved a heavy sigh and sat down in the old rocking chair. 

“I suppose I can’t hide it from you much longer. Back in 1861, Crooked Horn went through a run of bad luck. First there were the locusts, and then came the blight, then the Yankees came and burned the crops and pastures. The town was on the verge of total starvation. Then an old farmer named Jonah O’Toole started dabbling in black magic. His grandmother had been a witch back in Ireland, and some of her knowledge had been passed to him. He... conjured a familiar spirit that he contracted to protect the town; they call him the Corn Man.” 

My mind reeled. Witchcraft? Familiars? This didn’t belong in an age of science and reason. But modern man is not so far removed from his primal ancestors as he would like to think, and there are still things in this universe that science cannot adequately explain. Howard continued his story.

“Things got better. The crops improved. The animals stayed healthy. There were no more plagues. But once the minister at the church caught wind of it, he wanted to have O’Toole thrown out of town, but O’Toole used his powers against him. He was the first victim of the straw-men.” 

“Strawmen?” asked Marty.

“The straw men are living scarecrows. The minions of the Corn Man. They do his bidding and the bidding of the witch of the town. Right now that’s Morrigan O’Toole, Old Buggard’s granddaughter.” 

“After that, no one dared cross Jonah O’Toole, or Old Buggard as he came to be known. That minister was Hezekiah McCormac, your great grandfather.”

“What does this have to do with Janet?” I asked. “Where is my wife?!”

Howard continued:

“The Corn Man exacted a terrible price for his services. Every ten years, the citizens of Crooked Horn must perform a blood sacrifice. The victim must be a person with green eyes.”

I stared in horror as I thought of Janet’s flashing emerald irises. 

“This is crazy,” said Marty. 

“It’s all true. Every word,” said Howard. 

“Then what do we do?!” I demanded.

“We interrupt that party,” said Howard.

The fire roared brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark night. The band played lively dancing tunes on fiddle, banjo and washboard. All the townsfolk had gathered to celebrate the harvest. All of them were wearing elaborate masks and costumery. It resembled one of those medieval paintings depicting demons in Hell. 

Marty and I entered the revelry. We had pistols concealed in our jackets, should it come to violence. We hoped it wouldn’t. 

We split up, looking through the crowd, calling Janet’s name. I grabbed one of the revelers by the arm. Something was wrong; it felt too soft. The creature looked at me with button eyes. I tried to pull the mask off, but there was nothing underneath. I held in my hand the creature’s head; a sack full of straw! The headless thing just stood there. I dropped the head. The thing leaned down, picked its head up and placed it back atop it’s torso. To my horror, I realized that a large number of the revelers were not human at all. 

I staggered back, shocked. I heard Marty’s voice calling my name over the music and pressed through the throng toward it. There he stood near the center of the jubilant party, staring in astonishment. There was Janet, wearing a white dress and dancing among the masquerade, if one could call it dancing. She staggered back and forth in a drunken fashion. Clearly they’d intoxicated her somehow.

I lurched forward and took her gently by the arm.

“Peter!” she said, eyes lighting up. “Am I glad to see you.”

She tapped me on the nose with her finger.

“We need to get you back to the cottage,” I said. 

“Why?”

“Janet, you’re drunk,” I replied, brusquely. 

“Oh, Peter, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy! Have some punch! Enjoy yourself!”

“Janet, we’ve got to go!” I shouted. 

The music stopped. The partiers turned to face us, and closed in about us in a tightening circle. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, came to the forefront. Marty drew his pistol.

“Stay back!” he commanded. The mortals obeyed. I took Janet around the waist, picked her up and carried toward where we’d parked the car, Marty Leading the way. The straw men blocked our way. They each were armed with sickles, pitchforks and other farming implements. They marched toward us, slowly. Marty fired his pistol, hitting one in the chest. Nothing happened. He fired again and again. To his horror he realized that you can’t kill something that was never really alive. 

“Leaving without saying goodbye? That ain’t gentleman-like!”

I spun around at the sound of the voice. There stood Morrigan O’Toole, grinning wildly at us as the straw men closed in. A shot rang out, and one of the straw men fell. Just on the edge of a nearby cornfield stood Howard, a shotgun in his hand. He fired again, and another straw man fell to earth. I found out later that the shells were filled with rock salt, which is detrimental to evil spirits. The straw men distracted, we raced to the car. I loaded the inebriated Janet into the back seat. I looked out the window to see the gruesome circle tightening around us, as straw men and masked townsfolk gathered. Marty was nowhere to be found. Howard could only do so much against so many. We couldn’t get out.

I thought this was the end. Then Marty came running in, a firebrand was in his hand. He threw it at the straw men, setting them ablaze. Howard had evidently followed Marty’s lead, setting fire to the ranks of the evil beings. The witch screamed. Marty jumped into the passenger’s side. I floored the gas, and we drove out as fast as we could.

Two days later, I found out that the fire we’d started ravaged Crooked Horn, leaving little left to salvage. The witch, Morrigan O’Toole, had apparently died in the fire, and with her, the terrible reign of the Corn Man had ended. The cottage was still intact. I wished the place had burned down too. I have no desire to return there.