Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Cassie
Over a hundred years.
I stare at him in the fading light, studying his details again. His clothes are tattered, the burlap sack over his face slightly worn. His jeans are dirty but not horribly so. He doesn’t look over a century old.
Then again, if what he says is true, the man—er, scarecrow—rejuvenates every All Hallows’ Eve. Does that mean he becomes like new? Pristine and unmarred by the elements?
My head spins.
If it wasn’t for the pain radiating through my body, I would swear this is all a dream. A fever dream I can’t escape, and despite my attempts to rationalize this, I can’t. None of this is logical.
A living scarecrow, a century-old curse… it has all the makings of a fucked-up fairytale, and I’m right at the point where everything goes to hell. The villain has just given his dramatic monologue, and he’s about to assure me my death will be quick and painless.
Well, not exactly painless, because my limbs are already aching, my lungs burning with the amount of effort it takes to draw a single breath.
Still, knowing what he plans to do, to squeeze me until I shatter with his rope-like vines, I can’t help but feel… sorry for him.
Sympathizing with psychopaths, Cassie. Good job.
Maybe I’m the one who’s lost my mind…
“Cat finally got your tongue?” His low, raspy laugh fills the clearing. “Have you no other questions before you die? Final words? Not that anyone besides me will hear them…”
The vines around me twitch to life, crawling slowly back up my body. I swallow hard, panic slamming through me.
This can’t be how I die. It just can’t.
I didn’t flee the city after my ex cheated on me and move all my stuff to a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere to be strangled to death by plants.
Fuck me.
“Please, let me go!” I blurt.
I’m all out of ideas, fresh out of a plan. Begging seems to be the only thing I have left at my disposal.
“Maybe I can help you. Maybe there’s a way to break your curse. I can set you free—”
Atticus laughs heartily this time, his eyes squinting closed as his chest shakes.
The sound is warm, rich, lively. And as terrifying as it is for a murderer to laugh in my face, it’s my first real glimpse of the man beneath the mask.
A glimmer of who he might have been before he was tied to a stake and left to suffer.
Maybe there’s enough humanity left in him after all…
“You want to set me free?” he asks, his accented voice heavy with amusement. “So I can terrorize your town? Reak havoc on those who’ve done me wrong?”
He pauses, waiting for the weight of his words to sink in.
Shit.
The last thing Cold Springs needs is a mass murderer on the loose, but as the thought crosses my mind, it doesn’t sit right. Even now, as he stares me down with that cold, calculated stare, I’m not as afraid as I should be.
I’m afraid, sure. But not pissing-my-pants afraid or I’m-in-mortal-peril afraid.
It’s mostly… uncertainty. The fear of the unknown.
This scarecrow could have ripped me in half with his vines by now, but he hasn’t. I’m still alive.
If I overlook the psycho murderer part—which is getting harder to do as the vines creep steadily toward my throat again—and take him at his word, all I see is a man who doesn’t deserve the punishment he’s endured. A hundred years of torture for not loving someone in return?
How unfair.
How cruel.
As shitty as my ex was for fucking my best friend, I wouldn’t wish this kind of torture on him. Endless stubbed toes, warm pillows, and hangnails, sure.
But not this.
One hundred years in a cornfield should be reserved for heinous, unforgivable souls… and I don’t think Atticus is either. Or my judgment could be horribly flawed by the lack of blood flow making it to my brain.
Either way, setting him free in exchange for him letting me go doesn’t seem like a terrible idea.
“If you let me go, I’ll set you free,” I assure him, shivering when one of the thick vines grazes the side of my neck. My pulse is pounding in my ears, drowning out the soft rustle of foliage as the vines cocoon around me. Probably for the best.
He shakes his head slowly back and forth.
“If I let you go, you’ll run,” he muses. “Which could be fun. Do you think you can outrun my vines?”
No, I don’t. The stairs at the farmhouse nearly took me out; there’s no way I’ll survive a round of cardio.
Besides, my mind is made up. I want to help him.
“I won’t. Let me prove it,” I say.
My voice shakes at the end as panic surges through me, and I try to swallow down my nerves. The thought of getting any closer to Atticus is both enticing and terrifying. He’s dangerous—that much is obvious—but there’s an intriguing softness to his mystery.
It begs me closer, makes me want to learn more.
Thoughts war in my head.
Even if I release him and he kills me with his bare hands, I would have ended up dead regardless. Trying to barter for my freedom won’t hurt anything.
“I don’t think you’re the monster everyone claims you to be, so I hope you wouldn’t harm innocent people,” I press on, steeling my nerves. “I’ll cut those ropes if you help me out of here. What do you say?”
Another long pause makes my skin crawl with anticipation. I can’t believe I’m standing here, bargaining with a scarecrow, promising to set him free, but I don’t have a choice. I’m between a rock and a hard place.
“Are you certain, girl?” His eyes glimmer with something feral.
“Cassie,” I correct. “And, yes, I’m sure.”
Every second that drags by is agony, and I whimper when a vine brushes along my jawbone. My skin crawls uncomfortably, my desperation to be free soaring to new heights.
Finally, he answers.
“Alright. We have a deal.” His response makes my heart skip a painful beat. “Cut me down, and I will help you out of here.”
I can hardly believe it as the vines begin to recede, slithering back across the clearing and disappearing into the corn stalks. My legs almost give out, and I stumble to catch my balance. They’re asleep, tingling painfully as the circulation returns, and my body aches.
But I’m free.
I stare across the short distance separating me from the scarecrow, and for the briefest moment, I consider turning and hightailing it into the stalks.
I know I won’t get far.
His magic is faster than I could ever be.
Fear bubbles in my stomach as I take a cautious step forward, then another. My instincts rebel against my movements, making each step more difficult than the last, and his glaring eyes never leave me as I approach.
Anyone else would surely turn and run, but here I am, approaching a monster.
Maybe this is a sign I need therapy.
I stop a few feet away from him, taking in the details I hadn’t noticed from across the clearing.
Without his hat, I doubt he’d be more than six feet tall; he’s almost at eye-level with me.
Above the collar of his shirt, I can see something more than hay—gray flesh perhaps—and I note black leather gloves disguised amongst the straw protruding from his sleeves.
His eyes are a warm, deep brown, watching me with intrigue.
“You are very trusting. Probably too much so,” he notes as I reach for the knife in my back pocket. In a swift motion, I flick it open and set to work cutting the thick, ancient rope around one of his wrists. “I could kill you as soon as you set me free.”
I slice carefully to avoid injuring him, and a second later, the rope drops to the ground.
My heart jumps into my throat as he flexes his fingers experimentally.
“That’s true,” I admit, my breath catching. “But you could have killed me already and you didn’t.”
I move to the rope around the middle of his arm.
“Maybe I just want to do it with my hands this time,” he threatens, his voice low.
A shiver dances down my back, and I shift my eyes to meet his. “Not funny.”
He chuckles anyway.
Either the crazy fuck has a dark sense of humor, or he’s serious.
“If you do kill me, make it quick,” I mutter under my breath as the second rope falls free. His arm drops limply to his side, and I can almost swear I hear him sigh with relief.
Then, I move to the other arm. I continue cutting through his bonds, occasionally stealing glances at his face. With every severed rope, relief wells in his eyes, softening his gaze. It’s all the motivation I need to keep going, tearing through his restraints one by one.
He might be a scarecrow monster, but he’s not evil.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I drop to my knees and work at the rope around his ankles.
My fingers tremble as my anxiety mounts, the implications of what I’m doing setting in. Doubt, guilt, and fear churn in me like a whirlpool, threatening to pull me under.
The blade slips, brushing the denim of his jeans, and I panic.
“S-sorry,” I stammer, nearly dropping the pocket knife.
I clench my jaw, refocusing, and hack at the ropes with renewed determination. After what feels like forever, the last rope falls to the ground and my stomach knots.
Slowly, my gaze crawls up the scarecrow’s form, and I freeze when he takes a half-step away from the stake.
Reality sinks in.
The world around me grinds to a stop.
A singular phrase rings through my skull like a warning.
The Watcher is free.