Free Funhouse by Michael Bray

the door.
    “ Hey, open up!” He yelled.
    “ Jesus, look at this.” Dwayne said quietly.
                  Randy turned and pressed his back to the door and looked at the scarecrows.
                  When they had arrived, they were all facing out away from the house, but now as the two boys stood with their backs to the farmhouse door, the scarecrows were facing inwards. They were like sentinels, watching with eyes that were as unreal as the heads they were drawn on. Any sense of a path through them was gone. The house was surrounded. As they waited, the door swung open, and Randy fell backwards, landing in a heap on the floor of the farmhouse.
                  “Hey, what the hell...”
    Dwayne’s protests were cut short by the double barreled shotgun which was pointing at his face.
    He looked beyond it to its owner, and raised his hands.
                  “Get the hell in here, boy, and pick your damn friend up off the floor.”
                  Dwayne did as he was told, and the farmer ushered them in, the gun still trained on them.
                                “Take a seat.” He said as he closed and locked the door.

                  Jorell Samsonite looked almost exactly like Randy had envisioned him. He was old and wiry, and peered at them with mistrustful eyes from a face hidden by his dirty white beard and knotted, unkempt hair. Jorell glared at the two intruders, who were pale faced and sitting at the kitchen table in silence.
                  The farmhouse was minimal, and obviously designed for the single life. Jorell glared at the two intruders, licking his lips as he swayed from side to side.
                  “What are you doing here? Why did you come?” Asked the manic old man.
    “Hey, take it easy.” Randy said. “We had no choice. Your scarecrows…”
    “Stopped you, didn’t they?” Jorell cackled. “Stopped you from leaving.”
    “Look pal.” Dwayne said, “I don’t know what the hell kinda game you think you are playing here...”
    Jorell lowered the gun and began to cry. He sat on the wooden chair by the door and put his head in his hands.
    “You don’t get it, do you?” The old man said. “None of this is me. This isn’t my fault.”
    “Look, Mr Samsonite, if we could use your phone, we'll be out of here and leave you in peace.” Randy said, keeping a close eye on the shotgun.
    “No phone, haven’t had one for years.” The old man muttered.
    “You can’t just keep us here.” Dwayne said, his eyes flicking for a split second to the shotgun held in the old man’s hands.
    “You don’t get it, do you, son?” Jorell repeated, flashing his toothless grin. “You’re free to go whenever you like as far as I’m concerned. But them.” He said pointing to the closed door. “They won’t allow it. They’ll make you stay.”
    “You could call em’ off.” Dwayne said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Call em’ off and let us go, we won’t tell anyone what you’re doing out here.”
    The old man grinned, and shook his head.
    “You really don’t get it, do you sonny?”
    “What do you mean?” Dwayne asked.
    “You’re trapped here too, aren’t you Mr Samsonite?” Randy said quietly.
    The old man looked at him, and then lowered his gaze.
    “Yes, yes I am.” He said, exhaling and relaxing his grip on the gun.
    “What do you mean? What are you saying?”
    Dwayne was close to losing it, and Randy didn’t like to think what might happen if he did. The old man must have seen it too, because he stood and walked to the fridge and pulled out a jug of cloudy moonshine and grabbed three glasses from the cupboard.
    “Relax, son, you’re safe enough here in the house. Drink?” 
    “ What is it?” Randy asked.
    “ Moonshine. Brew it myself here on the farm. Not bad stuff if I say so myself.”
    “ I’ll take one.” Dwayne said.
    Jorell poured them