The Last Scarecrow

5 | Scarecrow Workshop

Erin woke from the strangest dreams of her life. Dreams in which one of her scarecrows had come to life and agreed to help her build a boat and escape the watery prison of Coldharbour Farm.

She blinked away the sleep and focused.

Across the room Number Twelve was sat in her Pa's armchair, a family photo album open on her lap.

Erin jumped.

Her dreams were not dreams at all.

It was real. All of it.

Erin slunk beneath her blanket. The low light of early morning slithered through the window, illuminating the holes where the scarecrow's eyes should be. Insects scurried around in her sockets, desperately searching for a shadow in which to dwell. The scarecrow was like a statue, rigid and motionless in the armchair. Was she asleep? Before Erin could decide—

"What's sleep like?" the scarecrow asked, her jaw clacking between the words.

Erin jumped, still not fully awake. "That's a complicated question," she said, swinging her feet onto the cold floor. "Do you sleep?"

"No," Twelve said. "I do not believe I need to."

"Oh."

"Perhaps I was asleep for all those years during the Many Years Storm. Perhaps I was somewhere else. Or nowhere at all. Unborn."

"Unborn?"

The scarecrow had clearly spent the entire night thinking about all this stuff.

"Do you remember anything from before you were born?" Twelve asked.

"No, of course not," Erin frowned. "Nobody does."

Twelve nodded.

"Do you?" Erin asked.

"I can feel the vast, sweeping hills of Coldharbour Farm and the invading ocean, but it's not really a memory. It's just an empty darkness, something cold and aching. I can feel the wet, and the cold, and the violence of the wind. It's as though they're ingrained in me, soaked into my wooden frame and rusty joints."

Erin didn't really understand but got up and walked across the room. She settled on the arm of the chair, looking at Twelve's enormous boney head.

"I think eyelids would be an advantage in achieving sleep," Twelve said. "Perhaps a thick scarf, an eyeless mask, or windowless room would do the trick."

"If you were to sleep," Erin began. "What would you dream of?"

"Dream," Twelve said thoughtfully, looking around the room. "I'd dream of a comfy chair and a warm fire. There'd be a scattering of scarecrows, humans and birds all around, laughing and joking and smiling, forever and ever and ever."

The sideboard next to Twelve was open. It was stuffed with a selection of board games and posh-looking wine glasses that Ma never ever used. There were some old school reports, household bills and insurance documents. In the drawers above were orphaned keys, batteries, fuses and lightbulbs. Lodged at the back, beneath a collection of greeting cards, were the family photo albums.

Inside the one that sat on Twelve's lap were photos of Erin and Clyde as babies and toddlers— enjoying picnics, playing with Lego and action figures, having baths, cooking on outdoor fires, laughing, being happy.

Twelve moved through the pages, looking at the photos of Erin's life until she stopped on one of her in a school uniform. Her hair was much lighter, a shimmering blonde-brown. A huge smile was spread across her face, her round glasses sparkly-clean and undamaged. She held a stack of books and journals. Most were brand new textbooks, but one had something scrawled on the cover in black biro— Beware! Demons Within.