After the Gloaming - 1 - A Scarecrow for Mason Bradley

Episode Date: July 22, 2023

After the Gloaming is a production of Dissonance Media and The Other Stories.Scarecrow for Mason Bradley was written by Charlie Maliha whose pronouns are he/him or they/them.Charlie Maliha is a queer trans author who specializes in horror and speculative fiction. Pulling from his background in art history and occult studies, Charlie’s work explores themes of chaos, belonging, and superstition. As a trans author, Charlie highlights the experiences of queer and trans characters and writes the representation he wishes to see in horror. When he’s not writing, Charlie can be found sketching or napping with his two cats. Follow him on Twitter for more screams @deusexmalihaEvelyn was performed by Bridgett Howard from the Thirteen podcast. For other atmospheric, slow burn spooky stories, go and check it out at www.thirteenpodcast.com or search Thirteen podcast wherever you listen to podcasts.Grandpa was performed by Jerry HarrisGrandma was performed by Rebecca Struzyna from the West London Witch podcast - https://pod.link/1525983141 Mason Bradley was performed by Phoenix Fire from Back to Ashes and Phoenix Fire Narrations on Youtube - https://www.youtube.com/@backtoashes_yt Scarecrow was performed by James BarnettHenry Black wood was performed by Xander ZweigShelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra ElroyAfter the Gloaming script was written by James Barnett.Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett.Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett.Music and sound effects were provided by: Epidemic Sound, Sound Stripe, and Freesound.org.If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it and please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a 5-star rating. To support the show and gain access to all episodes now, ad-free, head over to www.patreon.com/nightsendpodcast This episode is brought to you with a Creative Commons – Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. But by all means… share the hell out of it.Stay Horrific, everyone! Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Dissinance Media and the other stories presents. In the soft glow of dusk exists gothic tales of the macabre where the supernatural calls home and the shadows dance. Hold tight lost you. No. No, please. No, no, no, no, no, no. God, damn it!

Lousy mechanics. This is why I asked for a full service before going on this trip. Everything in tip-top shape, Miss Stevenson, they said. It'll give you no trouble, they said. Now, here I am in the middle of the countryside, broken down, with no signal. That looks like a storm heading this way. I wonder if anyone is living in that manner over there. Hopefully they have a landline.

Well, this feels like the start of every horror film ever. Where is my bag? Ha, here it is. Off I go. Into the unknown. And they never saw Shelley Stevenson again. Come on. Come on, please be home.

I can see a light through the window I know you're home. Of course there's no one at the door. This is borderline ridiculous. Hello? Is anyone there? I can't just walk in. Well, that settles it. I'm going in the creepy manner.

Where the hell did that storm come from? Okay, Shelley, just head toward the light. Okay, someone is home. I'll just warm a little by the fire and then go and find them to apologize for the intrusion. Not an intrusion at all, madam. Oh! You gave me a fright. Apologies. No, it's me who should apologise, sir.

I've just barged in here and made use of your fire. That is not needed, madam. Shelley, Shelley Stevenson. Like I said, not at all needed, Miss Stevenson. The weather is ghastly, and I would not turn away someone in need. Thank you, Mr. Blackwood, Henry Blackwood. But you can just call me Henry.

Please come and sit by the fire and warm yourself. I even have some tea here if you're interested. Are you sure? I could just use your phone to call Roadside, if you have one, and be on my way. Nonsense. This storm is set in for the night. Unfortunately, the telephone is the first thing to go down in a store. like this. Please have a seat. Once the storm passes, we can try the telephone again, or I can

run you into town. Oh, thank you. Here you are. Ah, El Gray, my favourite. Is there any other? I think you're right. I appreciate your hospitality. I didn't think anyone was living here. It looked abandoned from the road. Ah, yes. It's just me here now. All the staff are long gone, so it is always good to have a visitor. It can get rather quiet here. A place like this needs voices to keep the volume of all the stories low.

Stories? Yes. A place like this attracts them, where the ghosts of the past can keep on living. It doesn't look like this storm will be letting up anytime soon. Would you like to hear one? I would love to. Wonderful.

Sit back and settle in. This tale is set across the pond in a cornfield, where a solitary scarecrow guards it. It is titled, A Scarecrow for Mason, Bradley. When I turned 33, I inherited a cornfield. It was my grandmas, left to me and her will for no other reason than I was the only

grandkid to visit her. I didn't grow up close to her. I didn't even know her that well. But I came around a few summers as a kid, and once or twice as an adult. I guess that was more than my cousins ever did. The cornfield was about six acres of land. with a rickety old farmhouse on the edge of the property. My grandma was raised there, as was my mother.

But I was luckily spared the quiet farm life. For my summers there as a kid, I couldn't imagine how they spent their time. The porch was always covered in bugs. The air was thick and hot awaiting a rain that would never come. The general store was five miles down the road, and no one would drive me there unless they needed something. It was pure torture for a kid raised on cartoons and video games, but at the age of 33, single and with no kids,

I guess my grandma felt that the cornfield was the ideal thing to bequeath to her eldest granddaughter. It felt wrong. I didn't have any farm experience other than watching my grandpa haul crates into his pickup truck. By all standards, my mom would have had more know-how on the fields, and who to sell to, but she wanted nothing to do with the place. Bad mojo, she said. Nothing good ever goes on in cornfields,

just business and scarecrows. Business and scarecrows. That's all she had to say about that. The deed was in my hands and mine alone. I figured before the crops withered away to nothing, I might as well sell the damn thing off. The house was, less than ideal.

In my grandmother's old age, she had neglected the property, letting men work the fields, but not touch a shingle on her precious home. The result was a gnarled, wind-beaten old house that was ready to buckle. The porch I once sipped lemonade on as a kid was now warped and wavy, the stairs sinking into the center pathetically. I tripped over two of them as I lugged my heavy overnight bag to the front door. The lock was rusted badly, sparking of fear that jimmying the key would break the whole thing apart. The surrounding door was just as flimsy, old wood caked in layer upon layer of flaking, peeling whitewash.

I kicked a heavy patch of it off just unsticking the door. The place was shaping up to be one piece of ship. Begrudgingly, I reminded myself that this would have a payoff, if only a meager one. Home sweet home, grandma, I called out of habit. The house responded with silence, and I felt sadness drop into my stomach like a stone. Everything was just as she liked it. Doily's on the end table, a worn-out pinstripped couch parked in front of the TV, enshrined in a ludicrously large entertainment set.

All the family VHS tapes were just where I put them. Neat rows of little black boxes with a lot of little black boxes with a lot of. titles like Evie Six Months and Evie Fourth of July. Even the rare Evie college graduation taken outside the timeless quiet of her small farmhouse. They all stood side by side facing the couch where my grandma would park herself every evening to huff at the news. The couch even sagged in her usual spot. For a long moment, I wish I had visited more. For a longer one, I wished my cousins had too. Settling in didn't take long.

One measly bag could be thrown anywhere. Anywhere happened to be on my grandma's old bed, still made up as if she were to roll in it that night. I sat on the edge of the bed taking stock of the endless task I'd need to do to complete my short stay. Find keepsakes, donate old clothes, assess the property. I found that listing them helped keep the ache out of my chest, but the grief was too fresh to start tackling them all at once.

Throwing away my grandma's things would bring me to tears. And so, in an effort to ease into my chores, I changed into my boots and headed out into the cornfields. The fresh air would do me good. It only took about 15 minutes for me to remember how much I hated those cornfields. When you're nine and a third of the height of a corn stalk, it's all that you're nine. It's all too easy to get swallowed up in a sea of green. You chase one field mouse off the dirt road and ended the thick of it and the next thing you know you're far from home. The sky itself retreating upward from long groping tassels. I remember crying out in those fields until my grandpa rode by on his pickup. How he was able to spot me was a miracle. As I looked over the fields now, I still felt as

though I stood at the edge of an unforgiving sea, rolling in deep, filled with secrets. Turning down the path that cut through the fields, I inadvertently stumbled across one of those secrets. Whisted on a wooden frame, just a few yards into the field was a scarecrow. Not just any scarecrow. The scarecrow made for Mason Bradley. Now let me be frank. This thing, was an ugly son of a bitch. It was roughly the size of a man, tall and lanky. From afar, it looked like a spindly figure,

held aloft by the waving corn. Up close, well, it was something else. It was a hand-stitched monstrosity, made from patches so severely faded I had to squint real hard to figure out what they were. Badly worn floral and threadbare corduroy.

They merged in a mottled mess, sutured shut with thick wide stitches that ran across the body like railroad tracks. From between the fabric peaked its grassy innards, spilling out from where the crows had picked away at it. All of it was topped off by a wide red yarn frown and shiny button eyes shaded from the sun under a woven straw hat.

The damn thing gave me jitters. I don't know why we kept it, other than the fact that my grandma made it. As a kid, I thought my grandpa was too polite to tell my grandma that her six-foot-strong monstrosity of Frankenstein was lousy at scaring the birds. The day he plucked me up from the field, he stopped his pickup truck at the scarecrow to shoe away a murder of crows playing with its gangly limbs. They pecked at it curiously, tearing holes into its soft, stuffed arms. My grandpa would have none of that.

Go chewing on that, fella. He hollered, waving his arms wildly. The crows caught and carried on, only flying away once my grandpa flailed into the fields, shouting all the way. I found it odd and watched as he tenderly fixed the scarecrow shirt. He pulled out a safety pin and fastened. a particularly large hole back together, mumbling quietly under his breath. When he returned to the pickup, he acted as though this were all routine. Remember to tell your grandma that thing needs fixing. She's good with a needle.

The pickup rumbled to a start and headed back towards the house. The scarecrow rolled in the distance behind us. Grandpa, why not get a new one? The birds ain't even scared of it, I said, catching of the crows returning to their perch in the rearview mirror. It ain't for the birds, Evie. Your grandma made that scarecrow for Mason Bradley. I had never heard that name before. It wasn't anybody my grandma invited over for cookouts or met down with at the church. Hell, I knew a good portion of people in my grandma's life and none of them had that name. Before I could even ask, my grandpa pulled some sweets from his

pocket and bribed away the question. You don't need to be telling your grandma I said that neither. His tone was firm in a way that told me this was a topic for grownups, and I wasn't quite grown yet. Being a grown-up didn't shed any light on the topic. Even as I started drinking and my grandma poured a hefty cup of cheap wine beside me, the name Mason Bradley never came up. Other things did, of course. Family gossip, who eloped, who divorced badly.

Who scorned who at what funeral? Skeletons of every kind in every closet, but none belonging to a certain Mason Bradley. The name had almost been lost to me until I was face to face with the only thing he had. That scarecrow. Go on now, shoe, go peck out some other fella's eyes. I shook my arms in an effort to rid the scarecrow

of the brazen little crow trying to make off with one of its eyes. The crow caught me loudly, annoyed that I swooped in to claim his prize. The glassy black button hung by a loose thread, and I pocketed it before the crow found the courage to reclaim it. With one eye, the scarecrow looked incomplete, a little goofy and off. I tapped the button hiding in my jean pocket. Don't worry, I won't leave you out here lopsided. I'll come fix you up just like Grandma did. The scarecrow swayed silently in the breeze.

I took that as an okay. Without much else to do, I headed back to the farmhouse to beat the sun. All the while, feeling like the one remaining eye of the scarecrow was fixed on my back. That night, I raided the cupboards and sadly made some box mac and cheese. I sat in front of the TV in my grandma's faithful spot, eating mindlessly off the old wobbly TV tray she kept in the, there. The channels never did come in right after they switched from analog to digital, and so I spent the evening watching the old family videos taken by my grandpa. A flickering screen

with me atop my dad's shoulders, waving with the corn stalks. My chubby arms swayed back and forth, my dad moving from side to side, and in the distance another figure moving in perfect rhythm. Mason Bradley Scarecrow. I must have dozed off at some point because I woke up abruptly to the sound of the automatic rewind of the VCR. Damn near scared the crap out of me, but for the better. The farmhouse was prone to bugs and other critters crawling about if you didn't clean it properly, and I had a whole sink full of cheese-coated dishes just sitting there. Sleepily, I cleaned the TV tray, ran the sink and washed up.

Once done, the VHS was popped back into its rightful place, and the thorough blanket folded over the back of the couch. It's the little things that made my grandma's house run smoothly. I guess now it was my house too. I followed her footsteps, flicking the lights and heading upstairs to the bedroom, all the while humming to myself to ward off the darkness. The darkness was the one thing I could,

could never get over, not out here. I was ready for bed in record time, not wanting to lose the drowsy haze I'd stumbled through. The last thing I did was ensure a long night's sleep and went to draw the curtains close. My hands tugged away weakly at the curtains, eyes drifting over that waving sea of corn lined by silvery moonlight. In the dark, it almost looked like water. It shimmered and rippled, graced only by the lone moonlight swimmer that was Mason Bradley Scarecrow. I never noticed how it directly faced my grandma's room. It waved in the breeze,

straw hands moving with the crest of corn tassels, almost as if it were waiting through the deep dark abyss. I closed the curtains a little more quickly after that and rightly put myself. to bed. 4 p.m. the next day there was an unexpected knock at my door. I racked my brain trying to figure out who it was. Had I forgotten someone in that old address book of hers?

An employee who I hadn't called about my grandma's death? Someone who was expecting a shipment or payment that would never come. Another series of knocks prompted me to my feet. It was glaringly obvious that I was home. My car sat out front, and my muddled work boots leaned up against the flaking exterior of the house. I chanced to peek through the curtains, but only glimps the sleeve of a green jacket. For the life of me, I don't know why I answered the door. Why I didn't ask who it was or refused to answer?

I wish I had. The door opened with a creek, revealing a man standing anxiously behind. behind it. He was old, around the age my grandparents were. But where age shrunk their stature, he was impossibly large. The man loomed in my doorway, yet in his large wrinkled hands was a fruit basket. Maybe that's why I opened the door the rest of the way. Yes? Sorry to bother you like this coming over unannounced and all, but I overheard you talking at the church and figured I should pay my respects. His voice was low and gravely and almost too slow not to sound rehearsed.

I gripped the doorknob tighter. That's very kind, though. I didn't know his name. The way he looked at me, it was as if he assumed I should know. I'm Mason Bradley. My blood ran cold, eyes darting out past his shoulders and into the field to check on the scarecrow. It was there, still facing the house. I don't know what else I expected to see,

but the man my grandpa had insisted it was put up for was now on my doorstep. I returned my eyes to Mason, who was getting impatient. I cleared my throat. I'm terribly sorry. Were you a friend of my grandma? Something twinkled in his eyes. Kind of like when you remember something particularly funny. His lips turned up into a tight smile.

Something about that didn't sit right. An old one. I used to work the field for your great grandpa when Lorna was a young woman. He raised the fruit basket up to my line of sight. May I come in? I should have turned him away right then, knowing the awful shadow his name cast over my family. I should have, but I didn't.

Instead, I stepped aside and let that slimy son of a gun into my grandma's house. Curiosity is a bitch. As Mason shuffled by me, I spared another glance at the scarecrow in the field, with its one eye staring back at the house blankly and I cursed it. Damn thing never did one lick of good. Mason Bradley made himself at home, sitting at the kitchen table with a loud grunt. He placed the fruit basket down roughly and with little consideration for the piles of papers I had laid out.

I clenched my jaw. Can I get you anything, Mr. Bradley? I'd lost my mind, but not my manners. Mason patted his stomach. You got any lemonade? I opened the fridge and shook the store-bought container, and Mason hummed in agreement. I poured him a glass and set it down. I had no intention of joining him, and by how slowly he sipped it, he had no intention of keeping this brief.

It's been a long time since I've been in this house, at least 50 years. Seems like the kind of time that should change a whole place over, but... He took a long, leisurely look around. Lorna was never much for change. I leaned hard against the countertop, folding my arms defensively over my chest. Fifty years seems like an awful long time to be out of touch. Mason seemed to catch my meaning and laughed it off. Ah, well, me and your grandma were always at odds.

When Eugene died, I thought about coming over and catching up. But life got in the way, I guess. Seems like I should have come for her sooner. I crossed my arms tighter, trying desperately to hide the rage turning my knuckles white. I did not like this man. I didn't like his tone, his walk, the way he sat in my grandma's chair like he had been a part of this family the whole time. Like he was more than just a name we propped up in the cornfields. The worst part is, the more he talked, the more I have.

the creeping feeling he deserved to be out there among the crows. You look an awful like like Lorna, you know, Evie? I shuddered. I hadn't gone by Evie in years. Despite that damned scarecrow, it seemed Mason Bradley didn't have any problem sticking his nose into my family's business all these years. The idea that he was skulking around the cornfields when I was out there playing was enough to make my skin crawl. I shrugged my shoulders in an attempt to look calm and collected.

Everybody tells me I look more like my grandpa Eugene. Same nose. Same nose, sure. There was a long, tense silence where Mason did nothing but stare blankly. The conversation had teetered off, and I suppose this is where a normal guest would take their leave, but not Mason. No, he didn't plan on leave.

just yet. I have a piece of fruit, why don't you? They're from my farm down the road. The fruit basket was all apples. I picked one up, rubbing my thumb over the skin. It felt waxy. Still, not wanting to be rude, I turned to the sink and ran the faucet.

Mason popped up quickly. They're already washed. I wouldn't go giving apples without scrubbing them up first. them up first. This was a dirty lie. I scratched at the surface of the apple and a tiny peel of white waxy something came up under my nail. I turned the hot water knob on the sink further. Force of habit, Mr. Bradley. Grandma always washed fruit twice, especially with these new pesticides everyone's using... I said it's washed, woman. His voice was sharp. The kind of biting tone you'd hear before plates were smashed or doors were slammed.

I didn't turn around to face, Mason. If I did, it would be clear how scared I was. And from the creak of his chair, it sounded as though he were ready to leap out and jammed the apple down my throat if I ran it under the tap. Instead, I sat the apple down on the countertop and reached for a drawer on my right. My apologies.

I'll just cut it. it up. Now my grandma may have been kind, but she was not stupid. An old woman like her out here in the middle of nowhere, in charge of fields and taking money, that was dangerous. I don't remember her ever answering the door after dark without a pistol in her hand, even if she knew it was my mom or dad coming back from a late-night movie. And every time she had done that, without fail, the gun slipped back into a junk drawer in the kitchen. Hell, it wasn't safe back then to have kids running around with a loaded gun right there in the kitchen next to the twist ties, but right now? Right now it made a whole lot of sense.

I opened the drawer and felled around inside, relieved to fill the grip of the gun under some sandwich bags. Are you going to hurry up and eat or not? I whirled around, the pistol in my hand. It caught Mason off guard. He pushed his chair back to avoid being smacked by the barrel. "'Get out!' I spat with all the anger I could. Mason Bradley scrambled to his feet, his wrinkled old hands tugging at his jacket as he stormed toward the door.

I followed, gun still in my outstretched hand, making sure he went straight for the door. I made sure to grab his basket of shitty apples as I passed the door too. "'Don't you come back here, Bradley?' "'You're crazy little bitch, you know that.' Just like your whore, grandma. I just continued to point the gun at his back as he retreated down the dirt path. My blood was boiling.

My teeth clenched so hard I thought they would shatter. And keep your fucking apples. I tossed those into the dirt far from the doorstep. It was only after watching Mason retreat for a good five minutes that I realized he hadn't parked anywhere. He had walked through the cornfields. Cutting through the property he used to work for my family until I could no longer see him anymore. The corn stalks dipped and swayed where he slipped out of sight, rustling past the tall, modeled scarecrow on his perch. It faced the other direction now, away from my property.

I gripped the gun tighter and bolted the doors shut. I set out on a mission that night. Somewhere in this house, amid the junk, and clutter, there had to be answers. Something my grandma and grandpa hid for over 50 years. With dinner, nothing more than a sandwich on my plate, I sat out on the floor of my grandma's room ready to sift through the piles of books and keepsakes littering the floor of the closet. I tried not to get too sidetracked by sentimentals. The photo albums, the baby shoes, and the home movie reels would have to wait.

It was journals I was after. The older the better. I only needed to glimpse the date at the top of each one to know how far back I was going, although the yellowing pages clued me in. I piled the journals beside their box, shuffling some baby clothes around to make room. When something fell back into the closet, it sounded dull and heavy. The way a book would fall as it slipped from your arms. It could have been crammed in.

to one of the bags hastily and never rejoined its fellow books in the box. I almost missed it. Curiously, I dove in after it. The book was in fact a journal, an ugly one. The cover was scratched and the pages were warped, almost as though it were caught in a house flood. It smelled of mildew and lingering smoke. Examining the book, I could see that certain pages had been burned.

This book was too wrecked to not be important. Why keep it? I flipped open the journal, taking note that the date was more than 50 years prior. It was hard to read due to the water damage, but it was what I was looking for. What I found was disturbing. After pages and pages of home life and farm duties,

Grandma mentions the new troubling farmhand on her property. The following are some excerpts that are still legible. Dear Diary, that new boy, Mason Bradley, is a menace. I don't know why Paul hired him. All he has to do is help put up fences, but I catch him smoking and goofing off every chance he gets. Today, I try to tell him off for taunting the cows, and he flicked his cigarette at me.

It landed in the hay and almost started a fire. I stomped it out, getting cow pie and tobacco all over my new shoes. Mason laughed at that. I hate his sour guts. Dear diary, I don't think Mason Bradley ever goes home. He's weird like that. At sundown, the farm hands leave and come back before dawn. But I see Mason from my windows sometimes.

He smokes out in the field, and I find bottles out there in the field. and I find bottles out there in the morning. I tried to tell Pa he's a drunk, but Paa says he can't fire a man for drinking on his own time, but they're our fields. This next crop is going to sprout up smelling of whiskey if he's not careful. Dear Diary, today I got in an awful fight with Ma.

Paa is in bed from falling off his ladder in the barn. His head is scrambled from the fall. The doctor says his brain might be damaged. I told Mom the truth. I told her I saw Mason Bradley hold him Paa's ladder before the fall. His eyes were glassy, like the men who drink moonshine down the road. He wobbled a little like them too. I left the barn for only five minutes when Paw tumbled off and hit the floor.

It wasn't Mason who carried him inside. I have a feeling Mason was too drunk to hold any weight but his own. Ma says I'm making mountains out of mole hills. That Mason isn't a drunk and Pa just had an accident. But I know better. I know. It was at this time I reached the first of the charred pages. A sickly feeling of dread mounting in my gut.

It was as if I could see the storm brewing on the horizon and couldn't help my grandma out of the boat. The next excerpt is heavily damaged by both fire and water, but it goes as follows. Dear diary, Paw died today. His brain was too damaged from the fall. He couldn't talk, couldn't chew. And this afternoon, he couldn't breathe. That's what took him. He turned all purple, clutching out the sheets as Ma tried to prop him up. He died, leaning against the headboard a few seconds later. Ma took him down to the morgue with the doctor soon after.

I wasn't allowed to go. She called up Eugene and asked him to stop by and take care of me while she dealt with Paa's body. I cried that I wanted to go, and Eugene could drive me. But she demanded that I stay put at the farm. A world of good that did. I saw Mason Bradley as the car pulled out of the driveway. He was leaning casually against the barn, smoking like his deafness hadn't killed my daddy not two hours ago. I hate Mason Bradley.

I hate him. I saw him take out his little bottle of booze from his corduroys and walk into the barn like he just got a free night's pay. He didn't even show up to work in his denims today. It was like he was waiting for pa to die. I was furious. I stormed right out into the barn to give him a piece of my mind. I went in there all right, but Mason was waiting for me. The pages here were so charred that they almost fell apart between my fingers.

Whatever ink remained was heavily bled from water damage. The surviving words were no comfort. I didn't need to guess what happened with Mason Bradford. I was, however, able to make out a flurry of words in my grandma's tight handwriting at the end. Eugene was able to fight him off. That shit stain ran from the barn without his corduroys. I cried, knowing that Ma in the town wouldn't fight hard for me. And Eugene promised to keep my secret. But I don't want it to be a secret. I want Mason Bradley to never come back. I want him to be scared to stick his nose into my business again.

I took his filthy corduroys and the pretty floral dress he ruined. I made a scarecrow with them. It's ugly and perfect. Eugene helped prop it up on the edge of the field. I hate Mason Bradley. I hate his guts. And if he ever steps foot in this house, neither God nor the crows will be able to save him. I placed the book into the box and exhaled. The house suddenly seemed to sadder,

weighed down by death of my great-grandpa and grandma alike. My grandma had once told me how much she missed her dad, that her house was just as he left it in the hopes that he'd come by to visit in the afterlife. I want him to feel right at home and know where everything is. That's how she put it. I made sure to replace everything where I found it that night. I cried for my grandma, calling it an early night to curl up in her bed and wish she were there to stroke my hair. I wished I could tell her I would fight for her. I wished I could keep everything in that house as it was forever. I must have fallen asleep because I awoke with a start late that night. The curtains were still open, spilling moonlight into my room.

My heart pounded in my chest as I struggled to find out what had jarred me from my sleep. That's when I heard a thump at the front door. My heart leapt into my throat. Someone was trying to get in. My mind went to the obvious. Mason Bradley. I had scorned him that afternoon and he had come back to see vengeance. Unfortunately for me, I had left the gun downstairs in the kitchen. Not only was he

breaking in, but he also knew where my only weapon was. Frantically, I rushed to the window. If I could jimmy it open, maybe the jump down wouldn't be bad. I could race to the car and get out of here. The thought of breaking my legs didn't even occur to me. All I wanted was to escape. I pressed my hands against the cool glass window panes, judging the distance down. Too high, even for an adrenaline pumped escape. I looked out over the cornfields hoping to catch side of the nearest neighbor I could bolt to if I managed to get out. To my dismay, it was just a blue sea of corn for miles and miles, blue and silver stalks swaying like ocean waves, rising and full.

falling, crashing over the... the... The scarecrow. The scarecrow wasn't there. My blood ran cold. Of course it had to be there. It was a scarecrow. Perhaps it fell from its perch or was just blotted out in the darkness.

But the moon peeking through the clouds illuminated the bare wooden support stuck out in the field. Mason Bradlellan, scarecrow was not on it. Just then there was a crack, and the sound of wood splintering downstairs. My front door had just been broken. Too paralyzed to jump from the window, but not brave enough to face the intruder. I did the most stupidly childish thing I have ever done. I got into bed, and I hid beneath the covers.

I listened hard, my ears straining past the thudding of my eyes. own heart. Whoever was here walked slowly. Their footsteps were heavy, dragging across the wood floors. It sounded off. Too slow and not very rhythmic. First two short steps, then a long, scraping one. It continued like this all throughout the downstairs. Then I heard the telltale creak of the bottom step. They were coming upstairs. I squeezed my eyes shut, curling so tightly I thought I would crush my own lungs with my knees. The footsteps were so much heavier now, rattling with every step. Something crisp accompanied the dull thud of its footsteps.

It sounded like the crunch of hay. Whoever it was was outside of my room now. I held my breath and feigned sleep as the door creaked open. I admit I was too afraid to look. The intruder came in, their footsteps the same stomp and drag I'd heard downstairs. It smelled of hay, like someone had come in from the barn after fixing up the place. The rustle of it was undeniable. I prayed that it wasn't Mason, that he wasn't hiding in the barn like he did all those years ago.

Then the intruder approached me. Though I stayed still, I knew I must have been trembling. I was a lump quivering beneath an old quilt. My hair still sticking out into the cool night air as I sucked in hot, stifling breaths beneath the covers. That thudding, dragging sound came closer and closer, until whoever it was must have been right beside my bed. Something fell into my hair.

A hand. It petted me awkwardly, like it was mimicking affection. Like the way a parent would soothe a sick child in bed. I choked out a strangled sob, convinced this was the end for me. Whatever was petting me would soon rip back the covers and kill me, and no one would know the wiser. My hair pulled painfully as it snagged what felt like twigs. The hand did this for a minute or so before something equally as unsettling happened.

That's all it said. Sleep. One horribly coughed-up word that sounded like it was hissed and garbled. Like a woman whispering, in a man who couldn't catch his breath. It withdrew its hand and ventured to the opposite end of the room. Equal parts curious and oxygen-deprived. I opened the blanket to take it. a peek. There, on the opposite end of the room, was Mason Bradley Scarecrow. It was hunched over a pile of

my clothes, ransacking the place to find something. I watched silently as it flung sweaters and t-shirts aside in its quest for, well, I didn't know quite yet. It only dawned on me when I saw the scarecrow picking up my jeans. It clumsily stuck its long fabric fingers into the pocket to fish something out. It's button eye. I had it neglected to patch it back on. That didn't seem to bother the scarecrow, however. It found a pin on the vanity table, piercing the button into place on the worn fabric. The job was clumsy. The scarecrow kind of cock-eyed as it looked at itself. from the mirror, but it was satisfied. I watched as the scarecrow turned away and left the room,

both scraping feet leaving trails of hay and corn silks on the floor. It fell at the bottom of the stairs, rotted itself in a flurry of rustling, and headed out the open door. I stared at the doorway to my bedroom. I stared at it until the wall turned a rosy pink color with the sun. None of this seemed real to me.

The whole thing felt like a waking nightmare. But as the sun rose higher, I felt prompted to rush downstairs and check if it was all real. The hay was real. It stuck to my feet as I ran down the stairs, forcing me to hop over a pile of stuffing in the spot where the scarecrow tumbled down. My front door was open,

splintered at the rusty, lock, but all of that felt much more believable than what I found outside. The apples that Mason had brought to me the day before still lay in my driveway, along with the corpses of a dozen or so crows that had fed on them. Overhead, it caused quite a storm, a murder of crows circling the cornfields excitedly. None bothered to swoop down and peck at the apples lying beside their fallen fellow Corvids. They instead cawed loudly, swooping and diving to the end of the cornfield. I followed them.

Followed the sound to the edge of the field where I was sure to find the scarecrow. My mom said nothing good goes on in the cornfields. Nothing but business and scarecrows. I found both of them that morning. The scarecrow had gone but didn't leave the fields unattended. Its post was occupied by a man I already knew. Mason Bradley was cut open. His innards spilled to the floor so his guts could be stuffed with hay.

His arms were outstretched, supporting six crows on each limb. They pecked at him ravenously, tearing it his cheeks, his eyes, and his throat. That, too, had been slashed and stitched like a poor quill. over the wooden steak that ran through him. The crows sang for their feast, for the first time paying no attention to the corn. And me? I just stood there. My bare feet caked in bloody hay, admiring the work my grandma had made.

How lovely it looked in the morning sun. A scarecrow for and from, may be made. Bradley. After The Gloming is a production of dissonance media and the other stories. Scarecrow for Mason Bradley was written by Charlie Malia, whose pronouns are he, him, or they, them. Charlie Malia is a queer trans author who specializes in horror and speculative fiction. Pulling from his background in art history and occult studies, Charlie's work explores themes of chaos, belonging, and superstition. As a trans author, Charlie highlights, the experiences of queer and trans characters, and writes the representation he wishes to see in horror.

When he's not writing, Charlie can be found sketching or napping with his two cats. Follow him on Twitter for more screams. At Deus X. Melia. Evelyn was performed by Bridget Howard from the 13 Podcast. For other atmospheric, slow burn, spooky stories, go and check it out at 13podcast.com. or search 13 podcasts wherever you listen to podcasts. Grandpa was performed by Jerry Harris. Grandma was performed by Rebecca Strezina from the West London Witch Podcast.

Mason Bradley was performed by Phoenix Fire from Back to Ashes and Phoenix Fire Narrations on YouTube. Scarecrow was performed by James Barnett. Henry Blackwood was performed by Xanders Schweig. Shelly Stevenson was performed by Alexandra Al. Elroy. After the glowing script was written by James Barnett. Theme music was scored by Duncan Muggleton and produced by James Barnett.

Music and sound effects were provided by Epidemic Sound, Sound, and Freestyle. And FreeSound.org. Sound production and editing was completed by James Barnett. If you have enjoyed the episode, please spread the word to anyone you feel may enjoy it. And please support the show by leaving a review and giving it a five-star rating. To support the show further and gain access to all episodes now, add free. Head over to patreon.com forward slash nightsend podcast. All work remains the property of the respective author.

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