Dear Creepypasta [#Wattys2016]

Grandmother

My grandmother was a witch.

To be fair it runs in the family, through the women, I think. My dad's not magical, unless you count his ability to be a loud racist fuckhead at the worst moments, ensuring the embarrassment of anyone near him; that's kinda magical, in its own way. It's also another reason I haven't answered his phone calls since July. I'm waiting until the election is over. If I have to hear one more time how I should vote--never mind, not important.

My grandmother was a witch.

She grew up in the 20's, in Mobile, AL, married young and moved to a small county to be a farmer's wife. Five boys and an abusive husband wore her down, and her talents went dormant. There were little things sure, like her ability to charm snakes out of the driveway and back into the fields, instead of beheading them with a garden hoe and letting the bodies twitch until sundown, as was her husband's wont. Or her skill at cleaning a catfish from the pond and having it boned, breaded, and fried up in record time. I think she charmed the fish as well, right onto the line, enchanted liver on the hook beckoning them to their deaths. I didn't mind; that fish was good.

But she was a quiet, sad woman, with little sense, and a deadened predilection to speak with ghosts. Her house was full of them.

Sometimes I think it was the evilness that her husband harbored. Or maybe it was the loneliness that set in after her 5 sons left home and no one was there to distract her from the abuse. But whatever it was, and whatever talents she had, ghosts flocked to the house, attracted by something.

Some were friendly, I think. Most were not.

She made acquaintance with them all, though; The fireplace haint, who blew sparks in the winter when the hearth was lit, the hallway spirit that lived in the hanging light and stared at me as I napped on the couch, the attic menaces that raced the length of the house with loud stomping that interrupted all conversation below them, and the cornfield scarecrows.

Yeah, yeah, scarecrows, so overdone. But it's nothing except the truth.

The cornfield stretched a football field or longer, or so it seemed to me at five years old. Bordered by the house on one side, the highway at the front, and miles of forest on the other two ends, to a small child, it was a jungle to be lost in. I loved running in the stalks. The saddest times were when I visited in the winter and early spring, when the stalks were dead and gone, and the tract sat empty.

The scarecrows, though, they stood tall year round.

Poor farmers make scarecrows out of rotted fence posts or long tree branches, torn clothing too ripped to be patched, and straw and grasses. The only bit of talent in making the things, other than the skill at foraging materials, is the burlap faces. My grandmother's talent at embroidery was unparalleled and I think her magic eked into the stitching. Her scarecrows, despite their uneven bodies, and strange limbs, had real features on their flat sack faces.

It was terrifying, each time I ran through the stalks and came upon one without warning. He would tower over me, high on his tree branch, arms outstretched, as he warded his kingdom. Each time I came upon them, I'd freeze, look up the long length of the straw-filled body, and offer a little prayer. "Sorry Mr. S'Crow, didn't mean to bother you." And each time, those black stitched features would shift a little, becoming more real, as the scarecrow smiled down at a young child playing make-believe in the cornfield.

There were five of them in total. From the kitchen window, I could see over the corn, see them all on their long poles. But no matter how often I checked, no matter how I tried to memorize where they stood so I'd stop coming across them when I played in the field, once I was among the stalks, they seemed to move, coming out of nowhere to surprise me. Their faces, so real and serene, were never anything but benevolent, but still, after the adventures in the haunted house, I found myself unlikely to mess with anything on the property.

Maybe it was good thing I was so respectful of the cornfield guardians.

My grandmother's abusive husband was quick to anger. Maybe the sons forgot, or maybe they never told their wives how their father beat them, but for some reason, that haunted house was always full of grandchildren visiting. Sometimes I attended church with them, and stayed at the house afterwards until early evening. My parents would show up for Sunday supper and I'd leave afterwards with them. Only once did I see what my grandmother suffered through.

It was a Sunday when his anger flared.

My grandmother had started her cooking, flour, meal, and spices along the counter. I helped in the kitchen, with my little apron, flowers embroidered along the bib. It kept my Sunday school dresses clean. I think it must have been the smell of of burnt cornbread, or maybe it was the hell fire and brimstone sermon that'd been delivered earlier in the day--being reminded that succumbing to wrath was a surefire way to sit at the devil's table for eternity probably didn't help his temperament--that set the man off, but as he stomped into the kitchen yelling, my grandmother seemed to shrink. She clapped the extra flour off her hands and turned towards her abuser. He grew taller, his yelling louder. I pressed my hands over my ears, and hid behind my grandmother. She would protect me.

He must have struck her. She fell back against the counter, knocking me down. I didn't hear her cry over the ringing in my head. I did feel her shift, scoop me up, and shoulder past her husband. I was outside in the next moment. "Run into the corn," my grandmother whispered, as she set me down. I grabbed her hand and started to the field, but he loomed out of the door and snatched at my grandmother's hair, dragging her back into the house by the gray strands. She screamed. I ran.

I didn't quite understand what was happening. I only ran. Red drops fell onto my apron, marring the embroidery. I'd cracked my temple on the counter as she'd fallen on me.

Out of the stalks, he appeared and I knelt before him. Looking up into his stitched face so far above me, I repeated my prayer. If ghosts were real, maybe I'd be safe.

"Please Mr. S'crow. Help." I laid down and cried into the soil.

There was a cracking noise, like limbs breaking, followed by a rustling. Terrified, I buried my head in my arms and refused to look. Something moved near me and then away through the corn. Across the field, four more cracks sounded, like gunshots in the air.

I still don't know what happened. Scared, and dizzy, I laid in the dirt until my grandmother found me, asleep in the field, hours later. She followed the trail of broken stalks. She wiped my bloody face with my ruined apron, and said everything would be alright now. Above us the scarecrow hung. He winked at me as she carried me away.

Her black eye eventually healed, but she never burned another loaf of cornbread. The ghosts in the house grew more numerous, and the Sunday Suppers were happier. She never spoke of that day again, and I never asked.

She still let me help in the kitchen, even made me a brand new apron to protect my little dresses. As I measured flour, and kneaded dough, my eyes would wander to the window, and the scarecrows that loomed over the field. All six of them.

My grandmother was a witch.