Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Scarecrow Murders

Episode Date: October 28, 2021

Written by Travis Brown Halloween Horror Week Special. 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Advertising Inquiries: [e-mail] DISCLAIMER: This story contains explicit content and is rated R for adults 18 years or older. NOT for children. Parental discretion is advised. #drnosleep #halloween #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Talk to nicely. Whoever killed the girl must have really hated her. That's the only explanation I could come up with for how ugly the murder was and what they did to her body. Nailed to a post, gutted, then strangled for good measure. The woman's last moments must have been hell on earth. You know you can't be back here, Sheriff Finn said, walking up to stand next to me. Not exactly a small guy myself.

The sheriff towered above me like an irritable bear woken up before spring. I handed him one of the coffees I brought over. I'm just doing my part to support local law enforcement. Finn snorty. Did Deputy Myers let you pass the tape? No, I lied. Right. Well, don't get too close, and if I see pictures of this in tomorrow's paper,

I'll drag you into the station and toss you in the drunk tank. I solemnly swear, no pictures. I just wanted to get a look before I started on. on the article. You're a morbid bastard, Tyler, sheriff said. I shrugged. Not every day, you see. I gestured towards the dead woman. Something like that. Yeah. Finn waved me off as the town medical examiner approached. I decided not to press my luck. Myers lifted up the yellow tape for me as I approached. You said you'd be gone by the time the sheriff got here. He hissed. Sorry, Finn snuck up on me. For a guy that only wears cowboy boots, he's light on his feet. Don't worry, I covered for you.

The deputy grunted, but didn't look convinced. I walked a few yards back towards the road, then turned around for one last look at the scene. The woman appeared to be in her 30s or 40s, face gray from blood loss, but still familiar. I didn't know her name, but I must have passed her in the grocery store or the post office at least a couple times, a town of less than 3,000 people. didn't have a lot of strangers. The post she was on was maybe eight feet tall and stood alone in the small clearing. A red ring stained the overgrown grass and wildflowers at the dead girl's feet. There was something so intentional about the whole affair. This was not your typical killing. The murder scene seemed to have a ritual-like vibe to it. It could be my usual paranoia,

or maybe I was influenced by the season. Seeing a woman nailed to a pole like a scarecrow was disturbingly fitting just two days before Halloween. The breeze came howling down the mountain, bringing cold air and dead leaves. I shuddered pulling my denim jacket tighter as I walked back to the truck. It was barely an hour after dawn, but I knew Henry would already be in the office editing last night's pages. The police scanner crackled as I opened the truck door. They were talking about the murder. That scanner, plus a little book listing common police code, was the best investment I ever made in all of my years as a reporter. Well, that, and the money spent each month

buying favors from the police with coffee bribes. You hand someone a fresh cup of coffee on a cold morning, and it's amazing how friendly they become. I decided to swing by Katz Cafe on the way in to pick up some more coffee. I didn't have much of an appetite for anything heavier. There were a few regulars at the counter when I walked in. I'd been in Claremont for almost two years, but so many locals, gave me the side eye that they did my first day. That half-measuring, half-dissive glance that was about as welcoming as a toilet made of ice. Around here, you were either a born townie, or you were an interloper. Speaking of strangers, I noticed one sitting alone in a corner booth at the back of the diner. Visitors were a rare sight around town. We were far enough

into Appalachia country that you never wound up here by chance or misfortune. The stranger was He was clean cut and stylish. He wore a blue blazer and a watch that looked like it cost more than most of the rusting pickups in the parking lot. His sunglasses followed me as I walked over to the counter. The man smiled. I nodded back. You look terrible, Emma said, pouring me a cup of coffee before I could order.

It's been a heck of a morning already. I leaned over the counter and Emma moved close so I could whisper. I got wind of a murder on the scanner. They found a body in a field a few miles from lots crossing. Ficious stuff. Emma looked shocked. Do you know who it was? I wanted to kick myself.

Emma was a townie and grew up in Claremont. She probably went to middle school with a murder victim. And here I was casually gossiping about it. Shit. I'm not sure of her name. The Vic. The woman. It was a woman.

Maybe late 30s, early 40s, early 40s, dirty blonde hair, white. Couldn't tell how tall she was because of the. Well, I couldn't tell. Emma stared down at the counter. I hope I don't know her. There was an uncomfortable silence. I decided to change the subject. How are you holding up?

I heard about your grandfather passing over the weekend. As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could inhale them back. Why did I keep circling back to death and the dead? Luckily, Emma took the question in stride. It's strange, she said, topping off my coffee. I keep expecting him to call me just to grumble about my dad

or to check to see if I'm coming to church on Sunday. There's an empty spot where he should be, but he lived an amazing life, a long one too. 94 when he passed. He certainly went for the high score, I said, raising my mug in a salute. To the preacher, are you going to follow in his footsteps and pick up the frock? Emma blew a dark strand of hair from her face and rolled her eyes. I don't think Claremont is ready for a woman preacher.

True. We did just get electricity in that ban on child labor last year. Can't rush progress. Emma smiled and went off to help another customer. I finished my coffee and ordered some to go for Henry. The stranger watched me as I walked out, smiling his city smile. He reminded me of a gritty reboot of some third-rate game show host

before they became famous. I guess that's unkind of me to say based on a friend. fellow's look. I was just getting as judgmental as the locals. Henry didn't look up from his desk when I walked into the office. The bell above the old door rang softly, a relic from back when the newspaper office was a general store. Edited pages lay scattered around Henry, containing an avalanche of red corrections and fresh ink. Henry himself was ink-stained and red-eyed as always. It was impossible to place his age. He might be 40 or 70. A gray silhouette with a pen, permanently in hand. Gold Passenay glasses sat low on his nose. Henry was an institution in Claremont,

just like his newspaper, The Morning Gazette. I brought you coffee, I said, offering a styrofoam cup. I continued. Did you print out the paper yet? I was saving 12 inches for your column about the pumpkin beer festival, Tyler, he said. We go to press in three hours. I have something better than pumpkin beer. There was a murder last night. A woman. woman nailed up to a post out by Lott's crossing. Henry finally looked up from his editing. Ooh, he asked. Didn't catch a name, a woman, about my age, maybe a bit older, blonde. Henry chewed on his pen. You said she was on a post? Yeah, violent stuff. Whoever did it left her out there in a field overnight. And you want to write about the murder? Well, of course,

it's news. It's macabre is what it is. Henry said. said, going back to his papers. You can make the festival article 8 inches, and I'll set aside four inches for a tasteful spot about the investigation of the death. There's room on page 3 if I shuffle. Four inches on page 3? For the first murder in Claremont and hell, I don't know.

At least two decades? I don't know how you did things in Baltimore, but this isn't the city, Henry said. Folks are sensitive around here. No reason to get everyone worked up. I huffed and puffed about it, but Henry stayed firm. It was like arguing with a brick wall. Eventually, I gave up and speed wrote both articles.

Instead of helping Henry edit like usual, I decided to be petty and go grab an early lunch. The truck door was barely open before I heard the scanner squawked to life. All cars. The board of a 187 off of Herman Road near Cast Iron Bridge. 187. Another murder. Sheriff Finn was ready for me this time. I ran into a roadblock halfway up Herman Road.

No amount of charm or offers of unlimited coffee could get me past the deputies. I saw a gold ribbon of crime scene tape tied between some trunks at the tree line. Whatever happened, the body must be at the edge of the woods. Finn stood talking with the medical examiner next to a police cruiser. I waved at the sheriff, but the big man just shook his head. Defeated, I went back into town to grab lunch. It was early and the diner was nearly empty. I was reluctant to tell Emma about the second murder, but apparently word was already getting around.

She asked me if I knew who it was this time. I didn't. However, the identities of both victims would be out by that afternoon. They say bad air travels fast in a small town, but it's got nothing on how quick blood moves. Cindy Lepere, Roy Daniels, the first and second murder victims. Cindy lived just outside of Claremont in a trailer by the pond. I don't think she had any particular job, drinking, I guess. Roy was new in town, even newer than me. He was staying with relatives, probably couch surfing. His occupation was apparently scrapping copper from the sewer or warming the cot in the sheriff's jail. Claremont wouldn't be lowering flags or closing businesses in grief for the loss of Cindy and Roy, but I have to admit, it rubbed me wrong just how little folks

seemed to care. I figured the town council would at least cancel trick-or-treating with a killer on the loose. Nope. The council did the opposite and made it clear that all Halloween activities would continue as scheduled. So, there I was. On the day of the holiday, trudging through town while the sun was setting, and everybody was going on like they didn't have a care in the world. Families were still sitting out jackal lanterns and hanging skeletons from trees and yards. Dead leaves covered everything, crunching under my boots as I headed towards the library. Rumor was that Roy was that Roy was nailed and gutted like Cindy, that screamed, ritual to me. My journalistic hunch was that there could be a deeper meaning to the method behind the murders, or maybe the killer was just a twisted

bastard. Either way, I thought a little research could help. When I passed the church, I noticed the same stranger from that morning, standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the chapel. He wore a charcoal gray overcoat that snapped in the wind and looked about as out of place in Claremont as a movie star in a coal mine. The man must have felt me watching him. He turned his head towards me, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator glasses. Hi, he said. Howdy, can I help you? I winced at getting caught staring. Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I was actually about to ask you if you needed something. You look a little lost. Uh, yeah, that's a good way to put it. Do you happen to know the priest here? He nodded at the small church.

pastor actually and yeah well I did pastor Gordon passed away last week I'm not sure if his replacement is in town yet the man smiled and went back to staring at the church that's a shame I felt a chill that might have been from the wind did you know him very well the stranger didn't supply any more information I mumbled a goodbye and hot-footed it over to the library nearly tripping over a pumpkin on the sidewalk. It was absurd for me to distrust the visitor just for being new in town. That was a bad habit of some locals. Still, I couldn't shake a squirm of unease whenever I thought about the stranger. It wasn't only his vibe and the way he stuck out. I told myself it was only

my imagination, but I kept picturing our exchange in front of the church and getting caught on one detail over and over. I don't remember him having a shadow. Claremont's library is small and cozy, a great place to kill time on a rainy afternoon, or to bunker down with a book while snow builds up around the stone walls. It was usually empty this late in the afternoon, but two figures were sitting at a table near the turtle tank when I walked in. They had a pile of old books between them with a few open. I recognized one of the readers as the librarian, Casey, and the other as my friend from the

diner. Am I late for the book club? I asked. Emma looked up and grinned. I had this funny feeling that you'd show up here looking for trouble. Not trouble. History. I pointed at the stack of books in front of Casey.

I'm guessing you've got a nice collection of local legends, serial killer stories, and miscellaneous creepy shit ready for research, right? And a scattering of books on demonology, witchcraft, and blood sacrifice rituals, Casey added, for good measure. The librarian rubbed his. glasses with the corner of his sweater vest. Casey wouldn't have looked out of place on the cover of a stereotypical librarian magazine. I heard a rumor that he used to be the drummer in a punk band. You never know what secrets folks are hiding. The only sign of Casey's other life were his pair

of full-sleeved tattoos that he usually kept tucked away under a dress shirt. So, find anything fit for print? I asked, sitting down opposite him. We've only just started, she said. A lot to come to through here?" Emma closed the book. I'm thinking it would help if we could see the scene of the second murder. I shrugged. I already tried.

Finns got it locked down. I doubt it will stay that way after dark. Let me get this straight, Emma. You want to sneak onto the crime scene for a brutal ritual, in a forest, on Halloween night? Yes. I'm in, I said, standing up. I'm not, Casey added. I'll hold down the fort here and keep going to the fort.

through the books. I might even check out some microfilm from old editions of the Gazette. I slapped the table. Yes! This is just like the X-Files, Dibs on Mulder. Tyler, people died. Real people. Yeah, sorry. You're right, Emma. That's, uh, that was in bad taste. She waked. It is a little like X-Files, though, isn't it? It was dark by the time we got to Herman Road. Emma's prediction was correct. There was only a single police cruiser pulled off on the shoulder near the scene of the murder. Emma instructed me to drive past the turn for Herman and park one street over. We cut through a couple backyards until we reached the tree line. Then it was only a 10-minute hike before we reached the first line of yellow tape.

Claremont PD isn't exactly cutting edge, but I was shocked at how little they'd done to actually keep the crime scene secure. They'd removed the body, but had left signs of the murder on full display. Red stains covered the grass and leaves and roots at the bottom of the still-standing post, where Roy must have been nailed. There were boot prints everywhere, broken branches, even a few food wrappers. I swept my flashlight back and forth like a broom, checking for any clue that would give us a hint of where the murderer might strike next. We scoured the site for an hour searching for anything Claremont's finest might have missed. Even without Roy's body on the post, the scene was gruesome.

It wasn't long past sundown, but the forest was pitch black. We moved carefully, scanning the ground with a flashlight one step at a time. At one point, I slipped on something soft. When I checked, I found myself looking down at an unidentifiable chunk of purple-gray material. I think the coroner missed a piece, I said, trying to keep my lunch down. Emma was quiet. I don't think we're going to find anything here, she said. We should head back to town.

There are some old records stored at the church that my granddad told me about. Maybe we should bring those. Emma's phone began to vibrate. Hello. Casey, slow down. No, I can't. Relax. Just relax.

Start over. What is it? I whispered. Emma put the phone against her chest. It's Casey. She looked around the woods. I think it's safe to say we're alone here. I'll put him on speaker.

Casey's excited voice poured out of the phone. Hey, Case, can you start over? Emma asked. I've got you on speaker with Tyler. Casey said. When? I asked. How did you find that?

Emma asked, her voice much calmer than I was feeling. I could hear a hint of pride in Casey's voice. Very lucky. Emma whispered, sounding a little flat. Casey continued. Stomach went cold and cramped, like I'd just swallowed a bucket of ice. What page? I asked.

I heard Casey flipping through the papers on the other end of the phone. You said you have a guess where the number. next murder is going to happen? Emma asked Casey. Are the murders happening in the same place? I asked. Emma's face was blank in the glow of her phone. Casey said. Okay. Emma replied after a moment. Sit tight. We're going to head over. I'm already on my way. No. Emma snapped, suddenly furious. Don't go into the church. It's not safe. I could hear this smile on Casey's voice. Casey? Casey? Shit. Emma lowered the phone and took a breath. Reckleckley. "'Reckless dude, but I respect it,' I said.

Her face was half hidden in the dark, but I could tell she glared at me, a cold look that dragged the smile from my face. "'We should go meet him,' I suggested. Emma ignored me and raised the phone. She froze before she could make a call. I followed her gaze to a dense spot in the woods around us. Two bright red eyes stared back at us from about six feet off the ground. They didn't so much reflect light as burn with it.

I swept my flashlight over the space. Instead of pushing back the dark, every shadow only seemed to grow thicker. And now, instead of two eyes, a dozen or more red dots watched us, Emma whispered. I nodded, and we both began backing up. I kept moving the flashlight back and forth.

The eyes were all around us now, hundreds of them scattered between the trees. It was a dark night already, moonless, but it seemed to be growing blacker by the minute. Somewhere in the shadows, there was the unmistakable gunshot crack of a tree falling. Then another, Emma hissed. It was a mad dash through the woods back to the truck. Time and time again, I tripped over roots or rocks and had to scramble to follow the bobbing blue light of Emma's phone.

She moved through the forest in a familiar way, even in the dark. Another perk of being a local, I guess. We outran whatever was with us among the trees. Or it decided not to follow. Either way, we made it back to the truck in one piece. Emma didn't even give us a moment to wheeze after a run before she tore down the road, heading back to town. The drive back was silent.

Claremont was bright and active when we returned. Families roamed the sidewalks, tiny ghosts and skeletons, knocking on doors and swapping candy on Main Street. The scene was so normal, damn near Rockwellian, that it was hard to believe two murders had been committed that day with a third possibly in progress. We found the church unlocked but quiet. The only light came from a cluster of prayer candles in the back. I could smell the old wood and the lingering incense from a thousand services. Where do you think?

I began, but Emma was already moving, heading towards a side door. I followed, checking the dark corners for any signs of red eyes. The door led to a short hallway, which ended in a narrow staircase and another door led to a basement. Emma walked quickly, heading down the stairs and through the basement. There was a dusty rug in the corner partially covering what looked like a trap door. Emma tugged on the metal ring and seemed surprised when the door opened. She disappeared into the pit. I felt an overwhelming urge to leave, to walk out of the church in Claremont altogether.

But I couldn't abandon Emma and there was still no sign of Casey. Plus, I needed to know what was going on. I climbed into the hole and down the rusted ladder. When my boots hit the ground of the church's sub-basement, I turned around and let out a choked scream. There was blood everywhere and bodies on the ground. The cellar was lit by a single-hanging light bulb. In the harsh white glow, I stood witness to a massacre. Deputy Myers was folded up on the ground laying in a pool of blood.

There was a shotgun next to him. The stranger I'd seen in town was crumpled against the wall. His expensive shirt studded with bullet holes. Sheriff Finn sat in a folding, chair breathing hard and holding a handgun against his thigh. As the light bulb drifted on its cord, I saw what was left of Casey. He was the third victim, nailed to a post with his sweater vest, sliced open so that his guts hung out. Emma stood in the middle of the small room, staring at Casey's body. What did you do? She whispered. The sheriff coughed and stood up slowly.

Things went bad, Finn said. Couldn't be helped. It wasn't supposed to be Casey. Emma shouted. He was our friend. Why did you do that? Finn looked down at the ground. We were all going to sit tight and wait for you, but that thing. He nodded at the corpse of the stranger in Spat. It broke in and everything went to hell. Myers managed to tag it with the 12 gauge before it ripped his throat out. I dumped two clips into it myself.

Bastard still snapped my arm like a pretzel rod before it went down. Casey took a few rounds in the chaos. He was bleeding out. I'm sorry, Emma, but we needed a third. We had a third, Emma growled, pointing at me. It was like getting punched in the chest. All of the air went out of me. Sheriff Finn gave me a sad look.

Like I said, Casey was dying anyway. It felt like a waste. So I put him up and said the words your granddad taught me and now it's done. Not the way we wanted it done, no, but it couldn't be helped. Emma stood glaring at the sheriff. I couldn't decide if I wanted to run for the ladder or call. curl up in a ball. Please, I said.

What's going on? Why'd you kill Casey? To stop me, a voice said from behind me. I turned to find this stranger standing up, a little shaky but somehow alive despite being shot all to hell. His usual sunglasses were gone, and his eyes shined a brilliant red, the same red as whatever watched us in the forest. What are you?

I asked. A messenger, the stranger, the stranger replied, poking at a heart. hole in its chest. Finn had his gun pointed at the man, and Emma was practically snarling. Well, this did turn out to be a heck of a mess. Unclean thing, Emma said. You're not welcome here. Leave. The stranger turned to me. This town's a little hostile to outsiders, don't you think? What kind of messenger are you? I asked. The kind that fails apparently. My master still sleeps below the mountains, and we'll stay sleeping for now, it appears. The stranger turned to Emma. You're related to the old preacher, aren't you? Yes, his granddaughter. He was a real son of a bitch.

I'm going to miss him. I wish I could have been there to watch the hypocrite die. I heard they found him in a pool of his own. Stop talking. Emma growled. We're done. You're a coward and a worm. You were so afraid of my granddad. You wouldn't step foot in Claremont until he was dead. He must have hurt you back in 55, huh? The stranger's lip twitched, and I saw Finn brace himself to shoot, but the thing just laughed. Yeah, you are your grandfather's ill. That's for certain. Emma nodded. And just like my grandfather, I can hurt you if I need to. The stranger held up his hands. Settle down, preacher. You've already beat me. The ritual is complete. I looked between the sheriff with his gun, the stranger with his red eyes, and Emma with her great eyes. And Emma with her

clenched fists. I couldn't tell which of the three was the most dangerous, but I still had to know why people were dead. What ritual? I asked the room. What were you trying to summon? And why did three people need to die for it? We didn't summon anything, I miss bat. The ritual protects the town, an appeal to Sawin, three deaths and an inverted trinity. The blood shields the town and keeps the nightmare under the mountain asleep. Ask the three sacrifices how protected they feel. The stranger giggled. A drunk and a drifter. Who will miss them?

Emma asked. And Casey? I demanded. Emma had the good grace to at least look guilty. It wasn't supposed to be him. She gave me a hard look. Oh. I said, finally understanding.

I guess even after two years, I still wasn't welcome in Claremont. The stranger laughed again and shook his head. He brushed past me. Good luck. He whispered as he gripped the ladder. See you all next year. He called out to Emma and Finn. My master will wake up one Halloween, and then he will devour.

The stranger crawled up the rungs like a spider. I turned to see the sheriff pointing his handgun at my face. Sorry, Finn said. Wait, I said. Wait, just tell me. Who else in town knows? Everyone who matters, Finn said with a sad smile. I closed my eyes.

Wait. Emma moved next to Finn and pushed his gun down. We can't just let him go, the sheriff said. The ritual is complete, Emma replied. We're safe for another year, maybe longer now that the messenger knows Claremont still has a preacher. There's no need for anyone else to die. Besides, she turned to me with blank green eyes. Who would believe him?

I drove out of Claremont that night and was glad to see it fade in my rear view. Emma's right. Who would believe me? Sleeping gods, uncillable monsters, and blood sacrifices. but something keeps dragging my mind back to town. Would there be three more murders next Halloween? Every Halloween? Was that the price they'd pay for peace?

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