Tattie-Bogle

Molly stared out the window with her pale, freckly cheek resting on her fist, completely lost in her thoughts. Beyond that thick pane of safety glass, acres upon acres of rolling, hilly farmland zipped past. Every now and then, there would be a break in the endless yellow-green fields full of waving cornstalks, yielding room for a little pasture. These tiny patches of dark green were almost always occupied with a few sleepy cows, lounging under wide, shady trees or enjoying a lazy afternoon graze.

That's all there was in Iowa: corn and cows. And Molly's grandparents.

Molly adored her Gramma and Grampa. It just would've been nice if they lived somewhere else. Anywhere else. Like Miami or New York City. Instead, they picked the Buttcrack of Nowheresville, IA: nothing around for miles except corn, corn, and more corn.

Molly blew her mouse-brown fringe out of her face and pulled her sneakers up into her seat, letting her chin nestle between her kneecaps. It just wasn't fair: Mom was spending the summer cruising the Bahamas with her new boyfriend; Dad was on the other side of the world in Tokyo, "too busy" settling into his new job, new apartment, and new marriage to even talk to her lately; even her older brother, Kyle, was planning a road trip with his friends up the California coast. And where did that leave Molly? Stranded on a stupid farm in the middle of stupid Iowa, with nothing to do and no one her age to hang out with. This was going to be the worst summer in the history of summer.

Within a few minutes, Grampa's rusty old pickup rumbled to a stop at their destination. To be fair, the farm was a lot prettier than she remembered. The squeaky clean, whitewashed little farmhouse shone like a diamond under the sweltering June sun, flanked on either side by sprawling fields of corn, soybeans, and potatoes. Flowers waved from cheerful little boxes under every window, filling the air with the fragrant smell of petunias, daisies, and zinnias. They didn't do much, though, to mask the odor of horses and chicken poop wafting from the back yard. Unfortunately, that's right where Grampa led Molly once they were out of the truck.

Not visible from the front yard was a small garden patch, brimming over with fat, juicy tomatoes, bell peppers, carrots, and three different varieties of squash. Gramma was on her knees in the middle of it, but her floppy sunhat raised up when she heard them walking over. The moment she laid eyes on Molly, the doughy older woman got to her feet and threw her arms out wide.

"There she is!" she squealed, stepping over the chicken wire fence and grabbing Molly in a tight hug. "Oh, my sweet girl! My, you've grown an entire foot since I saw you last, haven't you?! How was your flight? Not too scary, I hope? I still can't believe they let little girls fly all by themselves these days!"

Molly tried very hard not to roll her eyes, and she didn't succeed. "It was fine, Gramma," she muttered, "I'm not a baby anymore, y'know... and I missed you, too."

"You're still my grandbaby, Baby," Gramma winked, pinching Molly's cheek, "Go on in and get settled, okay? I'll be right behind you."

With a heavy sigh and a nod, Molly turned to follow Grampa into the farmhouse. She didn't get far, though, before something at the edge of the cornfield caught her eye suddenly. It was the only thing on that idyllic little farm that was completely out of place: a tall, gangly, downright creepy old scarecrow.

The moldy tweed suit making up its body had to be older than Grampa. Molly guessed it had been brown a long time ago, but the sun had bleached it a drab, greyish oatmeal. The straw poking out of its cuffs and shirt collar looked new, gleaming bright gold in contrast. A pair of crumbling, black leather boots had been stitched onto the ends of the pant legs for feet, matched perfectly to its scrunched-up stovepipe hat. What Molly couldn't stop staring at, though, was it's head: fashioned from a threadbare burlap sack, with two great big, black glassy buttons sewn on for eyes. She wasn't sure, but it almost felt like those buttons were staring back at her... watching her every move.

"You okay, Hon?"

Grampa's worried voice scared Molly's soul back into her body, along with the strong hand landing on her shoulder. When she was able to think again, Molly pointed nervously over at that scarecrow, swallowing dryly.

"What the heck is that?!" she asked.

The hand on Molly's shoulder relaxed as Grampa let out a warm chuckle. "Oh, that's just Old Charlie, the Tattie-Bogle. Surely, you remember him? He's been in the family for ages."

Molly just blinked at Grampa. "Tatty... what?"

"It's an old word for 'scarecrow'," Gramma explained. "Charlie was brought over from Scotland by your Grampa's grandpa. He might be a little worn and rough around the edges... but he protects us. Always has, always will."

Molly looked at her Gramma and Grampa sideways, thinking they'd both been out in the sun a little too long. She had no memory of that creepy tatty-whatever being there the last time she visited. Then again, she was really little the last time she set foot on Gramma and Grampa's farm. It's possible Charlie had been there the whole time, and she just never noticed it before. That being said, it was hard to believe anyone could forget something that spine-chillingly freaky.

Life on Gramma and Grampa's farm turned out not to be as bad as Molly thought. She'd forgotten first of all what a great cook her Gramma was. Any other day, Molly hated every vegetable on the planet with a burning passion; the way Gramma made them, though, they actually tasted good. It was a huge step up from all the fast food and TV dinners she was used to.

Second, Molly wasn't as bored or lonely as she thought she'd be. There was another farm five minutes away - the Peterson's - and they had a daughter who was Molly's age. Molly and Gina Peterson became best friends almost overnight, spending nearly every minute together that they weren't working. That was the only major downside to living on a farm: every day at the crack of dawn, Grampa would shake Molly out of bed and give her a list of chores to help him with. Luckily it was usually small stuff: collecting eggs from the chicken coop, feeding the animals, brushing the horses. For all the heavy-lifting, Grampa had Jake to help him.

The second she laid eyes on Jake, Molly's knees felt like pudding. She'd taken up an interest in boys for a few years now, but Jake was unlike any guy she'd ever met: tall, coal-black hair, golden-tan skin, soulful green eyes, strong as a literal ox, and a smile that put Chris Hemsworth's to shame. It didn't matter that he was twenty-one and she was only fourteen; Molly was in love, and nobody could tell her any different.

At the end of her first week on the farm, Jake seemed very aware of how Molly felt about him. Every time he saw her, he went out of his way to say "hi" or compliment her looks. A few times, he even kissed her on the cheek, which always had Gina swooning and squealing with jealousy. Once, Grampa caught Jake give Molly a peck on the cheek, and he immediately dragged Jake into the barn afterwards. Molly never knew what they talked about, but both looked angrier than old wet hens when they left the barn. That night, Jake led her into the cornfield for a little talk.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he started, taking Molly's hand in his, "Your grandpa just doesn't understand how I feel about you, Molls... how we feel about each other. He's old fashioned like that, I guess." After a long pause, Jake leaned down and kissed Molly on the lips; her first, real kiss. "He can't know about us," Jake insisted, gently raking a loose hair off her flushed, trembling cheek, "If he finds out, you'll be in big trouble... and we'll probably never be able to see each other again."

"That won't happen," Molly promised, "I'll never tell, Jake. I swear."

Molly's feet never touched the ground as she walked out of the cornfield. She'd never had a boyfriend before. Especially not a secret one. As she floated on Cloud Nine back to the farmhouse, her eye was drawn again to Old Charlie; the only witness to their conversation. It might've been her imagination, but there was something different in those shiny button eyes staring down at her. Something that felt an awful lot like disappointment... and anger.

Creepy or not, Molly refused to let an old scarecrow get between her and Jake. She was head over heels for him, and he seemed to care just as deeply for her. Every night for the next few weeks, they met in the cornfield after dinner. Just to hold hands, talk, and look at the stars. It was almost perfect: just Molly, and Jake... and Old Charlie.

Although she tried her best to ignore it, Charlie's eyes constantly seemed to be on Molly. More than once, she swore she saw that scarecrow move when she was meeting with Jake at their secret spot. Whenever Molly turned her head to look, though, it was in the same position as always.

"That old thing freaks me out, too," Jake said one night, "I swear, one day I'm gonna take it down and burn it. Until then, however..." his fingertips were on Molly's chin in a second, guiding it back around until he was staring into her eyes again. "...have I ever told you how wonderful you are, Molly? You're not like other girls, y'know: so mature... smart... beautiful... I feel like the luckiest guy in the world, just looking at you."

"Aww, Jake," Molly giggled, dropping her gaze and twisting the end of her ponytail with a blush, "keep talking like that, and you'll make me fall in love with you."

Jake was quiet for a long time, which made Molly nervous all of a sudden. Eventually, she looked up at his face again, puzzled to see him staring over her head with a deeply unsettled scowl. When she followed his gaze, a squeak of fright caught in her throat. Charlie's head was turned toward them... and its black button eyes were staring directly at Jake.

Molly tried to ignore the heebie-jeebies it gave her. It was a pretty breezy night, and Grampa often complained that Charlie's head was a bit loose. Obviously, the wind had twisted it around. That was the most logical explanation. No matter how much logic she tried to use, though, Molly was definitely creeped out more than usual.

Within a few weeks, however, Charlie became the least of her worries.

While Molly was happy with hugs, hand-holding, and the occasional make-out, Jake clearly wanted more. Every night, he seemed eager to move things forward. Jake always backed off when Molly told him "no," but he started pressuring her all over again the following night. Every one of his advances was a bit more aggressive than the last to boot. Honestly, it scared Molly a little.

Jake's unbridled aggression was overwhelming, even more than creepy Old Charlie's ever-looming presence. As July quickly cooled to August, Molly gradually pulled away from Jake. She loved him, but she needed a little space from his suffocating affection, too. Every chance she got, she hung close to Gina or one of her grandparents just so she wouldn't be alone with Jake. For a while, it seemed to work.

The first weekend of August marked the end of Molly's stay on Gramma and Grampa's farm. They threw her a big party that Saturday night to send her off back to San Diego in style, inviting all their neighbors to join in the fun. Gramma even sewed Molly a new dress for the occasion - a pretty pink chiffon one with a big fluffy bow on the back - and it was the nicest dress she'd ever worn. The whole back yard was covered with crisscrossing strings of bubble lights and hand-made paper garlands; there was cake, dancing, music from a live band, and more food than Molly had ever seen in one place in all her life. Even Old Charlie didn't seem as creepy as usual. The only person who didn't appear to be having any fun was Jake.

When the party was just getting good, Jake grabbed Molly's wrist and dragged her off to their secret spot. She was honestly mad, because she was having a great time before he pulled her away. Before she could tell him off, though, he suddenly yanked her into a rough kiss.

"Jake! Stop it!" Molly snapped, pushing him off as hard as she could. "I don't wanna do this right now, okay?!"

In a snap, Jake was an entirely different person. The sweet, charming, funny guy she'd dated all summer was suddenly quiet, angry, and frighteningly forceful. Without saying a word, he grabbed and kissed her again. The next thing Molly knew, her back was in the dirt and Jake was on top of her.

"Jake, I said stop!" she screamed, slapping, kicking, and punching him with all her might. Jake ignored her completely, though; in a matter of seconds, he'd stuffed his sweaty handkerchief in her mouth - silencing her - and pinned all four of her limbs to the ground.

"I'm sick of being nice," he growled, holding her skinny wrists in one hand above her head, "we're doing this, whether you want to or not!"

Molly filled her gag with muffled screams, tears flowing down her cheeks in terror. She shook her head vigorously, squirming under Jake as hard as she could to get free. The hard truth of it was that Jake was much bigger than her; too heavy to push away, and too strong to fight off. While his free hand groped and pawed blindly under her skirt, Molly screamed as loud as she could one last time. Desperately hoping someone could hear her.

Thankfully, someone did.

In a split second, Jake was yanked off Molly and dragged into the dense cornstalks. She never saw who did it; everything happened so fast, and she was too terrified to think. While she was still sitting up and spitting out that disgusting rag, Jake's screams rang out from deeper into the cornfield. He sounded like he was scared to death, and in tremendous pain. Almost as suddenly as he started screaming, Jake's cries changed to muffled gurgles. Within a minute, those horrible, sickening sounds ended completely.

Jake's screams were so loud, it sent Grampa, Mr. Peterson, and a few other men racing into the cornfield. When he saw Molly sobbing in the mud, Grampa immediately picked her up and carried her back to the house. Gramma, Gina, and Mrs. Peterson quickly got Molly cleaned up and put her to bed, asking her over and over again what happened. Molly was too scared and traumatized to say a word, though. Not even to Gina.

Although the party ended early, Grampa and his neighbors searched the cornfield all night for Jake. They didn't find him again until the next morning, a stone's throw from Charlie's post: stone dead, with his neck broken in two places. The coroner ultimately ruled it an accident; for reasons unknown, Jake must've tried to climb up Charlie's pole, slipped, and fallen to his death. Charlie was missing some stuffing, and had a new rip in his suit, confirming the coroner's theory. That was the simplest explanation, and the sheriff was satisfied with it.

Molly was the only one who knew the truth.

While Grampa loaded Molly's bags into the truck the morning she was scheduled to fly home, Molly lingered by the cornfield one last time. Staring up at Old Charlie. Those button eyes that once terrified her looked so gentle, glowing with tenderness and warmth. If he had a mouth, Molly would've sworn he was smiling.

"Thanks, Charlie," she mumbled, "I owe you one."