Scarecrows

Trigger Warning: Mental health and violence.

I knew someone would call them eventually.

Who called them?

Everyone is suspect.

They are making their way through the trees now. Black suits, black shoes, black ties over white shirts, burlap head coverings with painted on smiles, pitchforks in their hands. The Scarecrows. Dark web assassins for hire.

Three are now standing in the back yard. Three more stand in the street. They’re taunting me, tormenting me.

Waiting. It’s like ants marching up your spinal cord to pick away at your brain. The grinding of your teeth, the twitching in your eye, the trembling of your hands, the sweating, the ache in your shoulders, the stiffness of your neck, the pounding in your head, the racing of your heart, and your sporadic movements are all telltale signs of the anxiety it induces. Lights are brighter, sounds are louder, smells are intrusive; you feel disassociated from your body. The room becomes elongated. Stretched like taffy. It rocks. It spins. Every blink of an eye flashes and hisses like someone is changing channels on an old analog TV in your mind.

Maggie’s huddled in the living room floor with the girls. All of them are crying.

“Get upstairs! Lock yourselves in the bathroom. Don’t open that door for anyone but me,” I tell them, fear and trepidation in my voice.

I double check all the locks and dowse the lights.

I sit under the living room window with my shotgun pressed to my chest. I take a few rapid breaths to call upon some courage and raise my head to peek out.

One is in the window staring down at me.

I fire at him and blow out the window.

He’s gone.

The doorbell rings.

I cautiously unlock the door. I wait to see if he barges in.

He doesn’t, so I fling open the door, ready to shoot.

All three are standing in the street. One cocks his head at me.

I hear banging on the back door like someone’s trying to force it open.

I race to the door and sit on the floor, digging my heels in.

“Go away. We didn’t do anything.”

The banging stops.

I go back to the front of the house. One is in. One is coming in. One is just on the outside.

I shoot the one that is inside, knocking him back a good five feet. I pump my shot gun and fire at the one coming in, but I miss.

He disappears with the one standing just outside.

I hear a thud out in back.

I go to the master bedroom and look out.

They found my ladder.

I run upstairs to Kennedy’s room and pop open the window.

I shoot the one coming up the ladder then shut the window, locking it.

I go into Sadie’s room and make sure her window is locked too.

I knock on the bathroom door. “You girls alright in there?”

“Jesus, Noah, we’re fine. What the hell is going on out there,” Maggie asks.

“They’re trying to break in. I’m holding them off. Do you have your phone?”

“No, it’s on the table downstairs.”

“I’m going to go get it. Do not open this door unless it is me.”

I make my way down the stairs as one is making its way up. I shoot him and knock him back down to the landing.

I go into the living room to retrieve my wife’s phone and the first one I shot is gone.

I look over my shoulder. The one I just shot is still lying there.

I grab the phone and run upstairs.

One has come through the upstairs window and is trying to get into the bathroom.

I shoot him, and I hear Maggie and the girls yelp.

I go to Kennedy’s room and the window is open. Two of them are still in the back yard looking up at me.

One waves.

I knock on the bathroom door and the girls scream again. “It’s me. Hurry up and open the door.”

Maggie cracks the door. She’s frightened.

“Here,” I say, “call 911.”

I get to the stairs and notice that there is no body at the bottom.

Bulletproof vests. Great.

I run down the stairs, and one comes out of the dining room and tackles me.

We wrestle and I come out on top.

I continuously punch him in the face until the handle of a pitchfork catches me between the eyes.

He comes at me with his pitchfork ready to run me through.

I found my shotgun next to me and sent him flying.

One comes down the stairs.

One comes out of the dining room.

One is coming in through the window with another behind him.

The two I just knocked out get up.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my last two shells, load my gun, and give it a pump.

I shoot the closest one. Then the one behind him. I grab my shotgun by the business end and start swinging it like a baseball bat.

There are too many of them. They overtake me, ripping the gun from my hand, beating me to the floor.

I come too on the couch with a cold compress on my head. A man is sitting in a chair directly across from me with two officers behind him. The room is filled with flashing red and blue lights. Maggie and the girls are sitting together on the stairs. It takes me a moment, but I recognize the man in the chair and try to sit up.

“Easy, Noah, you took a nasty spill,” the man says.

“Dr. Hoover, what are you doing here?”

“Your wife called me. You were having another episode. You’re schizoaffective, Noah, you cannot deviate from your treatment,” Dr. Hoover says.

“It’s not entirely his fault, doctor, we can’t afford the medication,” Maggie tells him.

“Well, for tonight, these officers are going to escort you to the hospital where you will be admitted, and your treatment will continue. Once we deem that you are no longer a risk to yourself or others, we’ll get you back home,” Dr. Hoover tells Noah. Turning to Maggie he says, “I suggest you find a way to get the medication he needs to get this under control. He didn’t hurt anybody this time, but next time, who knows.”