The Last Scarecrow

Prologue

"Brave the rain or die!"

Erin could barely hear Pa's screams as violent winds rocked their rowing boat from side to side. The rain was impossible. She felt as though she was being pounded by an endless wave of frozen needles— the devastating volley of some enraged God.

Threading her plimsoles between the dozens of food tins that clattered about in the hull, Erin gripped the lip of her seat, holding on with all her might. She curled forward, her water-proof poncho flapping against her face, trying desperately to keep her flesh and bones knitted together.

Pa fought his way through the shallows. Dragging one foot onto the shore, he lifted Ma from her wheelchair, levering her into the boat. He threw the oars to Clyde, then squirmed into position.

The boat listed dangerously on the choppy grey water. Foam and spray arced into the air. Erin's breath came in ragged, machine-gun spurts. Her heart rattled against her ribs. Lightning tore the sky. The rainstorm groaned, angry and vengeful.

Through rain-soaked glasses, Erin turned her sharp green eyes to the farm at the top of Coldharbour Hill. The main house and barns were glimpsed behind a thousand sheets of rain, surrounded by the vicious, rising tides.

Coldharbour Farm was her home, her happiness, the one thing she'd always known.

Her father's words tore at her heart again— Brave the rain or die!

Die, she thought. I'd like to die.

Her mind removed the storm clouds and replaced them with a cerulean sky and a lemon-yellow sun. She pictured Pa traipsing up the cobbled path to the farmhouse after a long day in the cornfields. Ma was sat by the doorway as Clyde chopped wood and Erin idled in the yawning entrance to the barn. Reaching the brow of the hill, Pa swept Ma into a wistful embrace, his hands sliding effortlessly around her waist. They kissed momentarily, lingering with their heads inches apart.

A cold, hard lump stuck in Erin's throat.

She never wanted anything to change.

The universe had other plans.

Choking grey clouds, edged with the black of a sickening bruise, suffocated the sky. The rain came heavier, more determined, pounding like iron-clad fists on a remote inn door.

Convinced that the rain would eventually wear away her skin, smash through her skull and fill her head like a vase, Erin grabbed an umbrella and snapped it open. The wind tore it from her hands, sending it blustering across the waves.

Pa yelled at her— angry, frustrated— but she couldn't hear anything except the endless drilling against her skin and the screams of the wind.

Seizing the oars, Pa and Clyde launched them forward.

Erin's stomach somersaulted on the waves— up, down, up, down, up, down.

Panic circled through her as rainwater filled the boat.

Ma began pointlessly scooping handfuls over the side.

The wind spun them in circles, lifting the boat onto the tips of the waves. Erin felt as though they were trapped on an endless fairground ride. But Pa and Clyde stuck to their task. Arms straining. Hands bleeding. The rain and the gathering dark blinded them, clouding any sense of direction.

Erin shut her eyes again.

She dragged Pa into the barn by a checkered shirt sleeve. "What do you think of her?" she asked, dancing excitedly in circles. Her father squinted through the dim light, then leant back, staring at Erin's latest creation. His face was one of both terror and pride. "She's— the best yet," Pa told her. "Really?" Erin replied. "Scarier than Number Five? More gruesome than Number Eight?" She watched her father's reaction closely. He nodded grimly, his calloused hands stroking his salt-and-pepper stubble. Looking down at his daughter, he winked. "Yes, Erin. She's the most horrifying of them all!"