Scarecrow of 1889
Chapter 49: Scarecrow that lurked

Chapter 49: Scarecrow that lurked

Jane was lucky she was sitting on the bed; if she had been standing, she might have bolted for the door in sheer panic. The sight of Ricardo’s hand, twisted and woody like tree branches, filled her with a fear she hadn’t felt before. She desperately hoped it was just a prosthetic from the theatre, but it looked far too real. In a whisper, she asked, "How is that possible?"

This wasn’t normal. Something like this didn’t exist except for story books.

Ricardo seemed somewhat relieved that Jane wasn’t screaming. She had always approached everything with a composed demeanour. "The scarecrow has always been with us. With the boy."

"The boy?" Jane frowned, her heartbeat quickening.

Ricardo dragged a chair from the corner of the room and placed it near her, maintaining a respectful distance before sitting down. "You know about the doll maker, si?" He saw her nod and continued, "He must have told you about the town’s lore, the story of the scarecrow when you visited him."

Jane couldn’t help but flinch at the memory of sharing case details with the very man responsible for the town’s murders. "What about it?" she asked.

"The story isn’t entirely correct. Over the years, it has been altered to make it more palatable for the townspeople, even the children," Ricardo murmured softly, and Jane couldn’t help but notice how much his English had improved. "Let me tell you the actual story."

Ricardo wore a pensive expression, as if recollecting the story in his mind. Finally, he began,

"This was in the time when villages were prominent. The story starts correctly: a boy, an orphan, was never treated right by the village folk. One day, the boy stole a piece of bread from a man’s shop out of sheer hunger. The shop belonged to a wealthy man who wasn’t in a good state of mind, having just caught his wife and his brother in bed together."

"The woman was his wife, and he loved her dearly. His brother was someone he had cared for deeply, making the betrayal unbearable. Unable to confront them due to the shock and the need to preserve his reputation, he took his anger out on the poor orphan boy. He poured boiling oil on the boy’s hands until the skin melted and stuck to the bones. Some of the oil spilled onto his face, scarring it permanently. The boy was then thrown out of the village, left to fend for himself in a state where he could barely move."

"The scarecrow took pity on him and helped him..." Jane murmured, noting that Ricardo’s expression remained unchanged.

He continued with the story, "That night, I killed the wealthy man and dragged him to the fields, so that he could take my place."

Was Ricardo still talking to her, or was it now the Scarecrow speaking through him?

"Terrible how they watered down the man’s death. After a few days, I killed the woman in front of her lover," Ricardo said with a dark chuckle. "I started with her eyes, then moved to her heart with my bare hands. Finally, I slit her throat, watching the blood gush out," he recounted, running his woody fingers down his neck as if savouring the memory. Jane felt a wave of discomfort wash over her.

Either he was telling the truth or a more sinister split personality had emerged, one even sicker than the actual host, Sylvester. But seeing his fingers and face, it was hard to dismiss his stories as mere fabrications.

"You are the scarecrow," Jane tried to confirm, her voice trembling slightly.

"You are a smart woman, Miss Reinhart. Especially than the ones who aren’t alive," the scarecrow replied with a slight husk to the existing voice, his smile eerily unsettling.

"You mean the people who you killed?" Jane asked the scarecrow bravely.

The scarecrow stared at her, and Jane noticed a distinct change in the eyes of the man she had once believed in. He then replied, "I have killed my fair share of people over time, but not the ones in Riddleford. Those were all Ricky."

"But you offered your hand to him..." Jane murmured in realisation. It finally made sense how the prisoner had been deeply injured—Sylvester and a fellow inmate had gotten into a physical fight that landed him in solitary confinement.

"I aid those who need help, especially if it means ridding the world of those who have sinned gravely," the scarecrow’s eyes darkened as he spoke. "I have offered my words, my wisdom, and my hands. I am no rule-breaker, Miss Reinhart. I even stayed in the asylum with the others until I found out they were going to die."

When it was revealed that Sylvester had split personalities, Jane thought nothing could shock her anymore. But she was so wrong.

Seeing the connection between the scar on the man’s face and the story she had just heard, Jane asked, "If the boy had a scar, why does it show on all of you now? Is it because you felt pity for the boy?"

"Ah, that," the scarecrow murmured, then answered, "People believe that the wealthy man died and the boy was feared. Do you really think the village men and women would spare the boy?" He tilted his head, questioning her.

"Did they kill him?" Jane’s eyebrows furrowed deeply.

"With the amount of boiling oil poured on him, the boy didn’t survive. He died the same night, thrown out of the village by the wealthy man’s henchmen. It just so happens that I took over the boy and did what I was supposed to," the scarecrow replied calmly, then sighed. "So the scar comes from the body I assumed from the boy. But there’s more to it."

Jane wondered what else she was going to learn from the scarecrow, who was revealing unbelievable things while being one of them. She asked, "What more is there?"

The scarecrow raised his woody hands, staring at them in deep thought. His eyes then shifted to the woman sitting in front of him, and he asked, "Won’t you ask how Sylvester and I crossed paths?"

"Probably when his mother and he travelled to the town where your story originated?" she ventured.

"No," came the whisper from the scarecrow. He continued, "Sylvester Crowley comes from the same bloodline as the wealthy man’s family. Harrison Crowley was Sylvester’s father’s grandfather. If you’re wondering, I spared the child."

Jane swallowed hard, grappling with the truth revealed to her. "How is it that you spared Lady Delilah and then chose to kill her?"

"I wasn’t made aware of her connection initially. But just because I spared the child didn’t mean I spared the bloodline. Fate is such that the bloodline always revisited the village where it all began, and I watched them until it was time to know the descendant personally," the scarecrow explained calmly. "It is a way to repent for the sin committed by his ancestor."

"And does Sylvester know about you?" Jane asked, curious about the man who seemed oblivious to his alter egos.

"Sylvester will never know about me, Miss Reinhart. He’s been put under a deep sleep after attempting to end his life, which is why he will never surface again," the scarecrow said with a finality that sent a chill down her spine.

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