Sex and Murder Magazine

By Myke Edwards

Slivers of light filtered in through the slits of his half-opened eyes, the morning calling him to duty. Despite the warmth in the air, he could tell that today rang in the beginning of autumn, the first day of the harvest. As he raised his head to the dawn, a smile slowly formed on his face. Time to find the crows.

It had been weeks, possibly months since he last woke, as evidenced by the tightness in his body. Unlike previous awakenings, he could take his time with the hunt, and allow his unused limbs time to stretch out and work again. September the twenty-second was the only day of the year that did not force him to harvest the crows to save the fields; rather, it began the three-day period in which he saved himself.

With a deep breath and a mighty heave, he slid off of the hook in his back holding him in place and tumbled to the ground below. No matter. Pain no longer affected him. He rolled off of his face and stomach, slowly moving, stretching his arms and legs, and blinking repeatedly. As if he had never hung from the hook, he stood with ease, smelling deep the earthy morning air.

Crows will be near, he thought. Coming sooner than I expect. Harvest time is here.

A scythe, as tall as he with a blade half as long, stood propped against the stand he just fell from. A little rusty, but nothing a quick sharpening in the barn wouldn’t fix. He peered through the tall rows of corn toward the west and saw the old, red building. For all the years he had been harvesting crows, the barn was still a welcome sight.

As he made his way through the field to the old building, he could practically hear the grinding of the sharpening stone against his blade. Later on, he would hear the cries of the crows as he sliced through them, bringing in yet another successful harvest.

*****

With the setting sun, the day’s problems and stresses seemed to melt away. Richard drove along County Road H, hoping to escape the guilt and worry that consumed him for most of the day. On the one hand, he did tell his wife the truth in that he would be home late from work, possibly after nine, for a “meeting.”

His affair with Lisa only started a week ago, this being their third encounter. He figured that after a few meetings with her, it would come easily and he would no longer fear that his wife would find out. The closer he came to Lisa's parents’ old farmhouse, his worries fell below the horizon, and his excitement rose. He drove faster with every mile, not a cop in sight on the back road.

Occupied with thoughts of Lisa’s new lingerie, Richard never saw the old board lying at the side of the road, splinters and rusty nails pointed toward the sky. An old doghouse, torn asunder by a summer storm and blown askew into various parts of the road and neighboring fields, lay in wait for an unsuspecting passerby.

A bang sounded, even louder than the punk rock on his car’s stereo. As soon as it happened, his Chevy swerved, Richard’s foot slammed on the brake, The Ramones pumping in quick rhythm. With a fishtail that led into a complete 180, Richard finally stopped, his bleach white knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

After a few deep breaths, his blood flowing loud in his ears, Richard turned off the car and prepared to change his tire. Not only would this make him late for his date with Lisa, but his wife would ask questions—questions he didn’t want to have to make up new, bogus answers for.

Richard pulled off his shirt before starting at the project. He figured sweat would soon drench him, and he wanted to keep the shirt looking nice for Lisa. The towel he kept in his gym bag would come in handy when he finished, which would hopefully be soon.

Loosening the lug nuts, jacking up the car, and putting on the new tire took less than five minutes, and Richard had to admire his speed. Normally, he would have dropped something, lost a part, or injured himself in his haste, but not tonight. Tonight, time was on his side, and he would make it to his meeting with plenty of time for foreplay.

Just as he turned the crank to lower the car, a rustling in the cornfield behind him caught his attention. He turned and saw only corn. With a shrug, he assumed it to be just the wind. When the jack came all the way down, he heard it again, joined by a sharp, scraping sound.

Focusing on his task, he quickly tightened the nuts and returned the jack to the trunk. After everything was packed away, Richard risked a glance around. Again, nothing. He walked over to pull the towel from the backseat.

The crunch of gravel met his ears, along with a metallic dragging on the road. He jolted upright, the towel falling to the ground.

“Your arms…”

The voice, wispy and drawn out, came from mere inches behind him, flowing in his ears and around his head. Richard’s heart beat faster than during the tire blowout, and he wondered what his arms had to do with anything.

“Fly, crow,” the voice said.

Before he could do anything, a long blade slid across Richard’s throat, and darkness consumed him.

*****

Two days had passed. Everything had gone according to plan, the same as it had for the past hundred-some years. No longer could he recognize his own face, arms, legs, or any part of his body, save the old clothes he wore.

His own name had been lost to him, gone when a young sailor came home from the sea. The train only took him so far, and he had to walk the rest of the way. He could only remember taking the long, country paths home, until he stumbled upon an old man at sunset.

Words were said, and he soon found himself waking upon a hook, forced to protect the fields from the crows. When they disrupted or threatened the crops, it was time to scare. Unfortunately, his body deteriorated once a year, and a new harvest began.

He frowned at the memory, sitting at the workbench in the old red barn, sewing legs to a torso. All he had left to find was a face, one that would get the job done. He only had until sunset tomorrow…but he had never failed before, so why would he now?

As soon as he finished with the new body, he would say the special words, allowing his mind to transfer. Soon, it would happen. Soon.

*****

Jordan knew he had an easy in when Becca Talforth agreed to go out with him. Definitely attractive, she seemed to be turned on by the simplest things. When Jordan promised to drive her through the country to look at the leaves changing colors, she practically swooned in his arms.

He glanced over at her, sitting in the passenger seat of his dad’s Mustang, smiling in awe. All he had to do was wait until sunset, and he could pull over and make his move. How hard could it be?

Only three months remained until basketball season. Then, he would resume his spot as the varsity team's star player. Not playing football had its advantages, like spending fall evenings doing whatever he wanted. With his intense playing style and wicked snarls on the court, he knew he had to get in as much dating as possible until everyone saw him as a soldier, a raging bull that focused only on one thing.

“Thank you for bringing me out here,” Becca said. She placed her hand on his, resting on the gear shift.

“Well, it’s the least I could do. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

“This is so much better than doing homework.” They both laughed.

Jordan’s smile grew larger when he looked up ahead. Three large apple trees, just off the side of the road, outside of a cornfield, grew larger as he drove nearer. But most importantly, the sun drew close to the horizon.

“Hey, look at that.” He pointed forward. “Wanna pick some apples?”

Becca’s face brightened. “Should we? Won’t the farmer be upset?”

Jordan shrugged. “Does it matter? There's three of them. I doubt he'll miss a few measly apples.”

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled over. Jordan got out of the car before Becca even unbuckled her seatbelt. He walked over to the smallest tree. Many of the apples were still small and not ready for picking, but some of the higher branches held bigger fruit.

Becca stepped up behind him. “Pretty slim pickings, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll climb up there and get some of those.” He made to ascend the tree and looked back at his date. “Make sure you catch the ones I drop.”

With squirrel-like grace, Jordan darted up the tree as high as the branches would support him. Much like riding a bike, he never forgot how to climb, something he did while growing up in front of a forest. He just had to shake the branches, and large apples fell in a red storm, on and around Becca.

“Hey, watch it!” She rubbed a shoulder.

“Sorry. This is just too easy!”

Before he shook it again, a shuffling came from the corn next to the tree. Only the slightest breeze rustled the branches, but it didn’t sound like something as subtle as the wind. He listened for a minute more, shrugged, and returned to shaking the tree.

Down on the ground, Becca scampered back and forth, collecting the good, ripe apples amongst the rotted, tiny fruit that fell early. When a nice-looking pile formed, Jordan prepared to climb down.

As he put one foot below him, he noticed something up above. Quite possibly the largest apple he had ever seen, its skin was so red it practically absorbed the light of the setting sun. He would have to reach for it, but all those years of practicing steals and rebounds would come in handy. If he could only keep from breaking the branch, it would be his.

The rustling, shuffling sound came again, only closer this time. He shot his head around and saw the rows of corn moving, as if someone recklessly walked through. His heart beat hard, but he knew that he could just apologize to the farmer and promise not to take the apples. After all, he just helped get that large pile, and the farmer and his wife could have some delicious pies this harvest season.

But it wasn’t a farmer that emerged from the field. Becca shrieked, dropped an armful of fruit, and froze. Jordan wanted to drop down and save her, but the huge scythe that thing carried told him not to move.

Whoever or whatever approached looked like it meant business. An old, dark blue Navy pea coat and long, stringy hair gave this thing a dark appearance, more frightful than its huge frame and height already did. It stopped in front of Becca and pointed at her.

“Not good enough…” Its voice, hollow as the wind, trailed off like ash from a fire. Becca stood there, trembling. Jordan just gripped the branches of the tree until his knuckles were white.

He almost thought the thing would leave since they were not good enough, whatever that meant. Instead, it drew back the giant blade to its side.

“Fly, crow…”

With a one-handed swipe, the scythe stabbed through Becca’s stomach, blood projecting out onto the tree trunk. She tried to scream, but no sound came forth, save a tiny gurgle. The monster jerked his arms up, lifting Becca along with the blade, swung back, and jerked forth again. Her body, now split into three and trailing intestines and other organs, flew into the field, blood showering over the corn.

Jordan could only hear his heart pumping. All he could think to do was jump down and run, but somehow he knew that thing would get him before he could reach the car.

It stood underneath him and looked up. The face seemed drained of life, almost leathery, and no longer human. It pointed a dirty, pale finger at him.

“Your face…” The voice felt like fingernails on a chalkboard to Jordan. If only he could reach that giant apple and drop it down on the monster’s head, he might have a slim chance of escape.

Just then, the branch he stood on snapped beneath his feet, and Jordan fell. Again, his quick reflexes allowed him to grab a neighboring branch and not fall to the ground. He held on with every ounce of strength he could muster, but felt his fingers slipping.

The monster drew back the scythe again, shattering Jordan’s hopes of anything. With another one-handed swing, it sliced through the tree, and Jordan felt himself falling to the ground.

He landed with a thud, the fall cushioned by the branches underneath him. Still, it hurt, and his body vibrated and stung, scratched and scraped by the tree. On his back, surrounded by branches and apples, he looked up at the darkening sky. Whatever that thing may have been, Jordan couldn’t see it.

Quickly, with every last ounce of strength and will he had left, Jordan heaved himself to his feet and spun around. The monster stood close by, its scythe slung over a shoulder. He stood still, just staring at Jordan, who bent down to grab two apples.

He whipped the fruit at the thing, both of which hit, but did nothing to phase it. Jordan turned to run to his car. He made it to the edge of the road before he saw a shadow creep up behind him.

The monster swung its scythe down, the long handle smacking Jordan atop his head. The pain sat dull and heavy on his skull, and a blow to his back threw him next to the tree.

Even with his adrenaline racing and the events he had just witnessed, Jordan couldn’t manage to shut his eyes. He wanted to squeeze them tighter than ever, but they remained open, the monster coming in full view.

“Your face…” The horrid, airy sound sent a chill up Jordan’s spine, and the monster leaned down closer to him.

It extended a cracked and pale index finger, its nail longer and sharper than all the others. Jordan felt it dig in to the skin just below his hairline. As the finger drug its way around his face, life faded away, as slow as the setting sun.

*****

Warnings abounded to all the kids and even adults, and yet people still made their way over to the cornfields on County Road H. Simply because a few people had been found dead was no reason to stay away, and Chris knew that.

The first snow came early in December, just on time, and he could finally pull out the snowmobile he had been dying to use since April. Two more friends owned snowmobiles, so the three rode all over the plowed, snow-covered fields outside of town.

Without even realizing it, they stumbled upon the field where the deaths occurred on H. Not until Chris saw the red barn and the apple trees at the side of the road did he think about it, but looked around when he did.

“Hey guys!” he called. His friends, still on their machines, looked his way and drove over. “Look where we are.”

They all pulled their helmets off and glanced around the area. The sky, gray and overcast, shed barely any light on the area, showing them the horrific image that everyone in town had painted. With a grin, Chris took off deeper into the snowy field. His friends followed in a minute.

About a mile into the field, what appeared to be a cross with a large hook attached stood, empty and sturdy. Chris ignored it and headed toward the red barn. No house sat next to it, and he wanted to get a good look inside before someone drove by and caught him on private property…private property where several murders had occurred not too long ago.

His friends joined him a minute later, eyes shifting to and fro, puffs of steam coming from their mouths and noses.

“Well, I’m not afraid,” Chris said. He turned and walked into the barn, its door open a crack. The crunch of snow behind him told him his friends weren’t as scared as he thought.

Once adjusted to the dim lighting, Chris’ eyes widened. The place looked like a mad scientist's workshop.

An old-fashioned sharpening wheel sat along one wall, while a large table lay in the middle of the floor. Strewn across it were various tools, dirty and stained. Chris picked up a rigid hook with a wooden handle and looked at it closely. He dropped the strange object when he realized that blood covered most of the table and items.

He turned to order his friends out of there, his stomach wavering with every second.

“Guys, we should leave.” But they weren’t there. He looked around, frantically, but they had disappeared. Those jerks, he thought. He ran outside to find them.

Chris burst forth from the old barn, but his friends were nowhere to be seen. Their snowmobiles still sat idle next to his, and no new footprints in the snow went anywhere else.

Breathing heavily, Chris turned to go back into the barn. As he stepped in, he saw his friends lying on the floor at the table. Their necks had been slit wide open, blood gushing to the floor. As he retched, he never heard the crunch of snow behind him.