Free The Scarecrow Walks at Midnight by R. L. Stine Page B

closer. Spreading out. Forming a line as they staggered toward us. Their arms reached forward menacingly, as if preparing to grab us.
    Clumps of straw fell from their sleeves. Straw spilled from their coats.
    But they continued to lurch toward us. Closer. Closer.
    The black painted eyes stared straight ahead. They leered at us with their ugly painted mouths.
    “Stop!” Stanley screamed, raising the book high over his head. “I command you to stop!”
    The scarecrows lurched slowly, steadily forward.
    “Stop!” Stanley shrieked in a high, frightened voice. “I brought you to life! You are mine! Mine! I command you! I command you to stop!”
    The blank eyes stared straight at us. The arms reached stiffly forward. The scarecrows pulled themselves closer. Closer.
    “Stop! I said
stop!”
Stanley screeched.
    Mark edged closer to me. Behind his burlap mask I could see his eyes. Terrified eyes.
    Ignoring Stanley’s frightened pleas, the scarecrows dragged themselves closer. Closer.
    And then I did something that changed the whole night.
    I sneezed.

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    Mark was so startled by my sudden, loud sneeze that he let out a short cry and jumped away from me.
    To my amazement, the scarecrows all stopped moving forward — and jumped back, too.
    “Whoa!” I cried. “What’s going on here?”
    The scarecrows all seemed to have trained their painted eyes on Mark.
    “Mark — quick — raise your right hand!” I cried.
    Mark gazed at me through the burlap bag. I could see confusion in his eyes.
    But he obediently raised his right hand high over his head.
    And the scarecrows all raised
their
right hands!
    “Mark — they’re imitating you!” Grandma Miriam cried. Mark raised
both
hands in the air.
    The scarecrows copied him again. I heard the scratch of straw as they lifted both arms.
    Mark tilted his head to the left. The scarecrows tilted their heads to the left.
    Mark dropped to his knees. The scarecrows sank in their straw, slaves to my brother’s every move.
    “They — they think you’re one of them,” Grandpa Kurt whispered.
    “They think you’re their
leader!”
Stanley cried, staring wide-eyed at the scarecrows slumped on the ground.
    “But how do I make them go back to their poles?” Mark demanded excitedly. “How do I make them go back to being scarecrows?”
    “Dad — find the right chant!” Sticks yelled. “Find the right words! Make them sleep again!”
    Stanley scratched his short dark hair. “I — I’m too scared!” he confessed sadly.
    And then I had an idea.
    “Mark —” I whispered, leaning close to him. “Pull off your head.”
    “Huh?” He gazed at me through the burlap mask.
    “Pull off your scarecrow head,” I urged him, still whispering.
    “But why?” Mark demanded. He waved his hands in the air. The scarecrows obediently waved their straw hands in the air.
    Everyone was staring at me, eager to hear my explanation.
    “If you pull off your scarecrow head,” I told Mark, “then they will pull off
their
heads. And they’ll die.”
    Mark hesitated. “Huh? You think so?”
    “It’s worth a try,” Grandpa Kurt urged.
    “Go ahead, Mark. Hurry!” Sticks cried.
    Mark hesitated for a second. Then he stepped forward, just inches from the dark-coated scarecrows.
    “Hurry!” Sticks urged him.
    Mark gripped the top of the burlap bag with both hands. “I sure hope this works,” he murmured. Then he gave the bag a hard tug and pulled it off.

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    The scarecrows stopped moving. They stood still as statues as they watched Mark pull off his scarecrow head.
    Mark stared back at them, holding the burlap bag between his hands. His hair was matted wetly to his forehead. He was dripping with sweat.
    The scarecrows hesitated for a moment more.
    A long, silent moment.
    I held my breath. My heart was pounding.
    Then I let out a happy cry as the scarecrows all reached up with their straw hands — and pulled off their heads!
    The dark hats and burlap heads fell silently to the grass.
    None of