Free Funhouse by Michael Bray Page B

sitting there, cross-legged in the dirt, or I'd be building crows and planting them. By June of '59 I had planted over three hundred of them all around the perimeter of the house. Another hundred and a half had sprouted out of the ground of their own accord. I think even then, on some level, I knew what they were doing, and what they were making me do, but I was scared, and so I did as I was told. Took me a further year to fence myself in, by then I was lost anyway. I was a slave to whatever it is that lives in the dirt out there. They forced me to get off my ass, and make the farm self-sustaining. They…”
    The old man grimaced, and ran a dirty hand through his hair.
    “They feed on things, living things. I lost count of how many corpses I found out there in the fields. Always drained of blood, always at the feet of one of the crows. At first, I used to burn the corpses, then they told me it was safe to eat them, and being a man who likes meat as much as anyone, I did. Mice, rabbits, foxes, badgers. Anything that the crows killed and drained, I finished off. We helped each other.”
    “Why didn’t you try to leave?” Randy asked as he sipped his drink.
    “I did try, once. It was back in '63. I don’t know what triggered it, but I decided one day that I had had enough, and that I would leave the crows and whatever lived down in the dirt to its own devices. I set out from here, and made for the main road, the same one I suspect you came from. I didn’t make it even half way through the field before they stopped me. Blocked me in, stopped me in my tracks. Seems they needed me after all, to tend to them when they were blown over in winter, or one of the straw bags that I used for the heads and bodies split and needed to be repaired, or if they needed fresh clothes when the others had rotted off them. And of course, to dispose of the corpses. They told me then that I wouldn’t be allowed to leave, and even though I cried and begged and screamed, they didn’t listen.”
    “What happened then?” Dwayne asked.
    The old man sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
    “Then, I did as I was told. Fast forward thirty something years and here we are today with you kids breaking down my door to get in.”
    The old man grinned and stood, wincing as his knee joints popped.
    “You kids just made the biggest mistake of your lives.” He said as he shuffled out of the room, leaving Dwayne and Randy alone.
                 
                  The following morning was overcast, and a light drizzle fell. Jorell had made breakfast (which both Randy and Dwayne were grateful to see, contained no meat) of porridge and jam, and then told them they could have the run of the house apart from his personal rooms, which were on the top floor.
                  The two friends sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, neither having slept. Randy glanced out of the window at the vast ocean of scarecrows, which had thankfully returned to facing away from the house.
                  “How’d you sleep?” Randy asked as he rubbed his stubble fluffed cheeks.
                  “I didn’t. You?”
                  Randy shook his head, and the two were silent. They could see Jorell out in the fields, walking amongst the scarecrows and making sure they were tidy and in good order.
                  “So, any ideas?”
                  “No, I’m still struggling to come to terms with this.” Randy said as he drummed his fingers on the table top.
                  “I think I have an idea, if you want to hear it.”
                  Randy looked at Dwayne, expecting to see the hidden craziness, but he saw only his friend, and for that he was glad.
                  “What you got?”
                  Dwayne reached into his pocket, and set his lighter on the table.
                  “We can burn our way