Chapter 1
The crows sat, evenly perched, on the shoulders of the battered scarecrow that was neatly placed in the middle of the cornfield. It was the only thing that was left behind that guarded the old farm, or so it would seem.
The birds cackled, and flapped their wings, before flying off toward the old apple orchard. The farm was quiet, almost too quiet, except for the periodic blood curdling screams.
A few miles down the dirt road, stood the Wilson apple orchard farm, high upon the grass-filled hill. The house loomed high above the town below, with a lovely view that could be seen for miles. It was run by a crotchety old man known only as Wilson, along with his wife, Greta. While his eight children grew into adulthood, they patiently watched as Wilson aged and became disabled. He wasn’t particularly a good father to his children and made them work on the farm everyday, before and after school. He depended on his children to run the farm, which they felt was unfair because it left no time for the things they enjoyed doing, like reading, riding the horses, playing baseball or hanging with their friends at the movies. It was once a thriving happy place those many years ago when customers would flock to the farm for fresh eggs, milk, butter and apples.
Every year on Halloween they would sell apples and pumpkins, have hay rides, and the haunted village. But as it seemed, as the years past, and the Wilson children grew dangerously bored and filled with hate and greed, they had other ideas racing through their minds that didn’t involve the farm or the benefit of their aging parents. So they waited, and they waited...
The torturous screams were muffled, but continued, echoing as the night wind howled blocking out the sound that only those who were closest could hear. Thinking it might have been mistaken as a cat or an injured animal.
But inside the barn where pigs and chickens were made to be slaughtered, connected to the ceiling were knives, machetes, hatchets and cleavers. No one would ever be able to find a body no matter how hard they searched for it because afterward it would be ground up in the meat grinder...bones and all.
Old man Wilson was never seen again. The farm was empty for a normal weekday that was usually busy. On this day the farm was deserted with a sign that said “closed”. The delivery boy thought it odd, but he only delivered bread once a month. There was no other notice sent to his company about the farm being closed so he walked around the house to the back of the barn. One of the doors was swinging back and forth in the wind, creaking on it’s hinges. Odd he thought but kept walking toward it. As he neared, he saw many black birds fighting with one another in a distance, out in the field, on top of one of the scarecrows. He removed his cap and scratched his head. Something just didn’t seem right. He turned his direction and walked toward the birds in the dried up corn field. As he grew near, there was a strong stench, the scent of something he certainly didn’t recognize. He pulled his hanker chief from his back pocket and covered his mouth and nose with it as he continued to slowly move closer. He paused and his eyes widened. What he saw wasn’t a scraggly old scarecrow, what he saw was human flesh, to be precise, it was a human beheaded torso. He turned, fell to his knees and vomited.
Old man Wilson was tortured and mutilated, and no one was able to recognize him, but those who knew him, and his children, understood what had happened.
It was years later, after the farm had begun to deteriorate, and was emptied out of all the belongings, which was assumed the surviving children had stolen; that unexplained paranormal activity began, and bodies soon disappeared without a trace. If the crows could only talk...
