Short Story - The Farmers Boy

She’d called at first light. She weren’t hysterical or nothin’ but there was concern in her voice. Her boy hadn’t come home last night. Ain’t a matter for the sheriff’s office in my opinion. He would probably pop up sooner or later. She insisted. This weren’t like him. “Alright,” I told her “I’ll come by if it will put your mind at ease.”

Took my time getting there. Picked up a cup of joe to go. I figured by the time I arrived the boy would’ve turned up. Probably stumbled in hung over and passed out in his bed. ‘Sorry to waste your time’ she’d say. ‘Not a worry ma’am’ I’d reply with a tip of my hat. Or maybe he was passed out in the dirt of a cornfield, getting harassed by crows. I chuckled at the thought, woken up by birds squawking in his ear.

When I arrived I surveyed the property. “Awful lot of crows flapping around their cornfield” I thought, “ought to build a scarecrow.”

I found the farmer in the chicken coup beside the shed, carrying a chicken by the neck in one hand, and a hatchet in the other. There was dried blood on it from its previous victim. I asked him about his boy. He weren’t concerned none. “Good for nothing” he said as he swung the hatchet down and lopped the chickens head clean off. The body jerked around but the old farmer held it tight. Apparently the boy never helped around the farm, would run off with his buddies any chance he got. He was squeamish when it came to killin’, not like his daddy. He was an old hat at it.

The farmer’s wife called me inside. Offered me some sweet tea, thanked me for coming. This wasn’t like her boy she told me. “He goes out, sure but he’s always home before sunrise. He likes to sleep in his own bed you see.” I asked to see his room. Not sure why. I was trying to make it look like I was doing something. What could I do though? The boy would pop up.

The stairs creaked as I strode up them. ‘Dwight’ was spelled out on the bedroom door in wooden lettering. I pushed it open. The sun was filtering through the open window as the curtains softly blew in the breeze. There were Bob Dylan posters above Dwight’s unmade bed. His desk was littered with note paper and text books. Dirty jocks and socks were strewn around the floor. What a mess. This room was unmistakably that of a teenage boy.

The farmer’s wife had followed me upstairs and was staring at me intently, waiting. I cleared my throat and stepped through the threshold into the empty room. I glanced around looking for anything and nothing. With any luck, he’d be coming up the driveway with his tail between his legs I thought. Pushing the curtains out of the way I peered through the window down to the front yard, no one there ‘cept the farmer cleaning the bird blood off his hatchet. I looked up. 

“Oh, you do have a scarecrow,” I said casually. 

“What on earth do you mean?” The wife and mother asked quizzically.

“So many crows flocking your field, looks like the scarecrow is attracting ‘em, not scaring ‘em,” I chuckled and looked back at her. Her face had gone pale as if all the blood had gone from her.

“We don’t have a scarecrow,” she whispered.

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All of a sudden I got all nervous to post this haha please be gentle