 When my dad insisted on visiting my uncle for a week, my kiddy self couldn't have been more excited. I must have been young at the time, real young, maybe 10, 11? Memories fogged up, and you say, it's probably because I'm repressing something real. But this is real, through and through, that, or I really am insane. Now as I was saying, my family was going to visit my uncle Waco for a week one fine summer. Of course, his real name was Tom, but everyone called him Waco, except for mom. Mom called him Hillbilly Chain Smoker Psycho a few days before we drove down from Maryland to his ranch in West Virginia, which spurred on her argument with dad even further. Yada yada, I'm not here to talk about my parents' marriage. Uncle Waco was tall and skinny to the bone with a beard that went down to his stomach. When dad asked him why he wouldn't shave, Waco said it's because he wants to look like a wizard, had a gimpy leg he had to limp on, and a busted bone or two. He may have been dad's brother, but he seemed thrice his age. Anyways, it was about the third day of our little vacation. When Waco told me about Dali, you see, Uncle Waco's house was surrounded by a shit ton of wheat, which was surrounded by a shit ton of forest, which contained a shit ton of crows and other nefarious birds that Waco hated. It was real peaceful, quiet countryside when Waco wasn't busy screaming at vultures. Which is why Waco built Dali, a scarecrow just as tall and thin as he was. Creepy thing must have been eight or nine feet tall. Waco went overboard. Apparently it was named after a character from some book he loved. You see old Dali out there? He stuck a finger out towards the scarecrow, larger than any normal scarecrow should be. A wicked smirk struck across its sack face, coated in shadows by a musky old baseball cap. He's a feller, I say. I rolled one of my hot wheels across the front porch, grinning like an idiot as it drifted under the leg of Waco's rolling chair as it came down, narrowly avoiding the crushing of a century. What's Dali like? I asked. Truthfully, I planned to play with Dali later. He could go on some great adventures with his height. Ah, he's awfully nasty. Oh, never mind, I thought. Clever too. Nasty and clever is a combination, all right? Want to know how he got so tall? How? Well, you see, long before I settled down here, some old man lived with his kid. Every night the kid would go to sleep in that bedroom. Waco pointed to a cracked window on the second story, the window of my room for the week. And boy, could that kid sleep? No sound in the world could wake him up. Until one night, when the moon was full and the frogs were singing love songs, he decided to stay up way past his bedtime, watching Simpsons on TV. He finally went to bed, though, but a spooky scratchin' propped him right up. So mimicked a scratching sound. And then, I asked, well, he huddled up in his covers and went, who's there? But nobody answered. He asked again, and this time he heard a giggling on the other side of his bedroom door. But not normal giggling, it was like sandpaper, scrubbin' on gravel. Now the kid was scared out of his mind, but he still asked again. The giggling got louder. The kid was about to scream for his mama, but the door suddenly slammed open, and there, standing in the doorway, was old Dally with a grin on his face and straw for bones. He walked in and, well, nobody saw that kid again. I gulped, but kept my posture bold. I was a big boy, after all. But Dally's way too big to fit in the door. Nah, back then he ain't. You see, every time he catches a little kid staying up past their bedtime, he grows an inch. Wacko chuckled and patted the top of his head. That story's fake, I said. I'm sure Dally doesn't mind you thinkin' that. He hasn't eaten in a while, after all. Wacko hooded and hollered like some sort of coyote. Nah, you run along now. Your pa wants help with makin' dinner. Didn't he ask you to help him? I'll tell you where I keep the ice cream if you do it for me. Vanilla? Chocolate. Deal. After helping dad prepare some burgers on the grill out back, and after consuming a tub of ice cream, much to mom's displeasure, it was getting late. But alas, the fireflies were coming out. Hundreds, me and my brother, pranced around the yard, desperately trying to snag one or two while hurling insults at each other and giving off playful slaps. Laughing at jokes, leaping through the sunset, dancing as Journey's new album blared over the radio Wacko had set up. Not a phone in sight. Good times. Hey, kids, it's nine. Time to come in. Dad called from the back porch, but it was barely dark out, and I was in energetic puppy of a kid. Just ten more minutes. Big bro moped, and dad's a softy. We wrestled a little as the moon peeked over the wheat, big and round and gorgeous. It's 9.30. Get yourselves in bed, mom called from the porch. Please, mom, just a few more minutes. We just started having fun. I pleaded, I'm not a sucker like your dad. Get in here, she said. I crossed my arms and pouted. Big bro had already started towards the door and was looking at me like a little dumb-ass I was. Well, I ain't going in, I said, you best come in, boy. Uncle Wacko appeared at her side. Dally's already tall enough. I stood in angry thought, but gave in. I didn't think the Dally story was true, but I was tired and the frogs were singing love songs. After some sharp words and my father's begging, I made my way to my bedroom and peeked out the window. Though it was hard to make out, I could still see Dally's silhouette standing like some sentinel of the copper fields. The story was fake, just as I guessed. I crawled into bed, but alas, no sleep for me. I was never a heavy sleeper. So I twisted on my bedside lamp and pulled out an issue of Teen Titans Cyborg was my favorite. It was during this little reading that I heard it. A long, low, scraping sound that sent shivers down my spine. In the blink of an eye, I shoved the book under my pillow and turned off the lamp before flipping around in my bed so that my back faced the door. It's just big bro or wacko teasing me, I told myself. You're a big boy. You're not scared of stupid stories about evil scarecrows, hold your ground, and whoever it is will leave eventually. I heard more scraping, more scratches, than a pause, than more scraping, than more scratches, than a pause, than more scraping, than nothing. Leave me alone, I groaned. And then I heard him chuckle and realized my mistake. The kid in the story had spoken too and gotten killed for it. No, no, no, screw that. I shot up out of my bed with tears in my eyes and I fumbled the window open. I clambered out onto the roof, looked out to the field, dally was nowhere to be seen. Oh my god, big bro stayed up late too. What if he was next? No, no, I needed to run. You can call me a coward, but I was less than 12 years old. I leaped from the overhang and onto the soft dirt below, thankfully not a long fall. Digging my bare heels into the dirt. I bolted, didn't know where, because before long I was surrounded by a forest of wheat painted pale by the full moon. Keep running, Jack, don't you stop running till the sun rises. But I wasn't an athletic kid. It wasn't long before I was wheezing and gasping through the fields, my foot falls light against the soil. But a glimmer of hope shone through. The path, the path leading back to the front porch. I stopped on its edge, then fell into a G.I. Joe prone, because I heard footsteps, but I'd stopped walking. A tall, bone thin shadow with a baseball cap took up the space between patches of wheat field. Old Dally was holding something like a tiny box in one hand, then another hand fiddled with the top of the box in bright light shone from its side, the beam of a heavy duty flashlight. Because this old Dally was Uncle Waco. Jack, Waco called out in the night, look Jack, I was just messing boy, didn't mean to spook you out into the fields, follow my voice. I breathed a sigh of relief, so it had been a prank. I popped up from my hiding spot at the edge of the wheat and prayed to God that Waco didn't see me shivering. I'm over here, I said. Waco's eye shot in my direction, and he yelped like a fox. Well, hot damn, you had me worried sick, boy. Frank would've killed me if you were gone in the morning. Waco clapped me on the back, and I flinched. I, uh, I won't tell dad if you get me more ice cream. I said, Yeah, yeah, let's go back and check you for ticks, maybe toss you in the bath. I stuck close to his hip as he continued speaking, you know, you're a tough son of a bitch. You've been out here for hours. I checked all three of the other fields, and you still hadn't sauntered back inside. I beamed it being called tough, scared? Never was. I was just being tough. Yeah, I'm really tough. I once beat up six dudes at school. Well, why'd you do that? They, uh, they were kissing my girlfriend. You have a girlfriend? No. Then why'd you beat them up? They looked at me funny. Waco shot me a smile filled with rotten teeth as we kept on walking, the conversation coming to a very temporary end. Our footsteps seemed quick, like they were repeating. Weird. So, was the dally story real? I asked, keeping to Waco's side. Weirdly enough, he took a side path to the left instead of continuing towards the house. Normally, I would question it, but there was a chest-freezer in the shed where he kept his ice cream, and I figured he was going to give me it before taking me back. Well, Jack. Waco spoke louder. I'll tell you a secret about the dally story I've never told anybody else. He laughed as he turned right onto another path. Away from the shed, I think the weed was too hard to navigate for me. Waco leaned and whispered, softer than a mouse. It was meant to be made up, but he's behind us. Look, he thinks he's sneaky. He gulped, ingripped my forearm, and then leaned back out and shifted back to his cherry old self. Ain't that the darkest thing, huh? Yeah, I gulped, going along with the act. Why were we leading it through all these weird off paths instead of just going back inside? That really is the darkest thing, I continued. Waco continued to lead me down another path, and for a second I thought he was playing another trick on me, but he was shivering like a leaf. What if Dally really was following us? What if some nightmarish scarecrow really was just waiting for a more wicked opportunity to pounce and stuff me full of straw? We veered right onto another dirty path. The wheat field was a maze of darkness and breeze. The flashlight was a shield against the night. Our breaths came in bursts like a machine gun rattling off into nothingness. I brought myself even closer to Uncle Waco's side, as if an old man with a gimp leg and rotten teeth could shield me from old Dally. That scarecrow who was probably just a few meters behind us giggling to himself. Waco turned onto a path through our right again. We were looping back around to the main way. Why are we going in a circle? I whispered, I don't want him to follow us in. Suddenly there was a loud pop, like someone going mad on bubblegum, but the bubblegum was Uncle Waco's hip and the chewing caused him to fall onto the dirt. Our flashlight, our beacon, tumbled at his side and flipped over backwards so that when I went to help Waco up, the flashlight beams weren't big enough to shine over all of him. But my little eyes still narrowed as two long, raggedy pant legs were illuminated by the light. My eyes wandering up the gargantuan silhouette and landing on Dally's two tiny dots emitting a supernatural orange so faint, yet so harsh, like I was looking the devil himself in the eye and daring him to blink. I heard a sound like sandpaper being rubbed against gravel over and over again and then the figure began to walk closer on its stilt-like limbs. I broke into a sweat as this weird feeling broke over my head like I was many miles away in a place with people who spoke languages I didn't and felt in ways I couldn't. Like I was a little boy in a big war, like my bones were slightly out of place. It was as if a door had been opened somewhere out in that field and I'd been shoved inside and fed to the wolves. Go run along, boy, run along without this old man. Waco waved down the path and for a moment I truly considered it because Dally's steps were long and imposing and the noise wouldn't stop. But G.I. Joe never left his soldier behind. I hoisted that old kudup, dug my nails into his arm, and a thin, sleeved appendage warmed its way between us and flailed around with the strength of a tree trunk, sending us both flying in opposite sides of the path and into the wheat. Adrenaline had made its home in my mind and my instincts were screaming at me to just book it. So I did. I sprinted off into the wheat field for as long as I could but one of my feet caught on something and I face planted into the dirt. I flipped over to my back and breathed in. I needed to calm down. All this running would tire me out and then Dally would outpace me and turn me into crow food. But what about Waco? Was he all right? What if Dally got him? I needed to save him. And then I heard footsteps. I knew these didn't belong to Waco. Waco would be screaming my name and dragging me back home if he'd gotten away yet. A patter of footsteps couldn't be more than a few feet away from me now. So I held my breath as tight as I could and I became as still as a stone. I listened as the footsteps got farther away and I sat up and tried my best to peek my little head over the wheat. I saw the silhouette of Dally's back, then the silhouette of his hat's brim and those hellfire eyes staring back at me. I'd made a mistake. Dally was between me and the house, a glimmering fortress of wood and electricity. Giggling away like sandpaper on gravel, his legs swung around and his arms dangled to his side and Dally began his stride towards me. Long stretchy steps that shouldn't be possible for a man made of straw. Bolting the hell out of there seemed smart, but I had a smarter plan. I turned backwards and dashed to the left, then the right, then I sprinted left as fast as I could. Dally could outrun me easily, but he's got a head made of straw, so I ducked to the right at the climax of my sprint and lay prone in the wheat. If Dally had seen me move, I was dead. But he strolled right past my crumpled form, one foot made of hay landing just beside my curled fist. He kept on moving. I sighed as quietly as I could and I glanced upwards. Dally was a few yards away and I saw him lurch forward into the wheat, giggle and pull out a raccoon. I could have sworn the next gravelly noise sounded angry. I began to get up as he seemed to examine the critter closer and slowly stalked my way in the direction of the house. Then his slinky arm whipped the raccoon to the side and the little creature came running through the wheat towards me, hissed, then ran the opposite direction. I stayed quiet, but Dally must not have been as dumb as I thought because his head snapped around to look towards the hiss and to an extent me. Shit. In the paleness of early morning, it must have been around six by now. I could see his full form. A stitched up overcoat thrown over straw skin and wooden bones. A smile but none of the sack hood that compromised his head. One of those legs shot forward and the chase was on again. But I wasn't fast enough. I thought I was getting ahead and I'd almost reached the driveway but something as tough as bricks yanked me backwards like I was dangling off a cliff and a bungee cord just snapped. I felt bristles on the back of my neck as my feet left the ground. I squirmed my head around only to be face to face with Dally who'd hoisted me up by the collar of my shirt. I could see at the foot of the sky, the top of the sun starting to peek through. Then Dally snapped his gaze to the right because a cinder block had hit the side of his head. Uncle Waco stood a few meters away, hat barely poking above the wheat, let the boy go. His voice wavered. Dally let out one of those giggles and then a chase began. I was still being slung around but Dally had a free hand for when he caught Uncle Waco and judging by his speed, he would catch Uncle Waco. And catch Uncle Waco he did. He was slung up into the air by the back of the neck just like I was. We squirmed and wriggled against Dally's straw grip though it felt more like steel. Let us go, dammit! Waco begged to no avail. I pounded my fist against Dally's wrist but it did nothing. I screamed out into the morning. We were doomed. Dally let out one last chuckle as he brought me up, eye to fiery eye. And then, far off, the familiar hoot of a morning dove echoed through the air and the first golden beams of sunlight found the scarecrow's back and it stilled. No more chuckling, no more iron grip, just straw and rags. Me and Waco fell to the earth with a pair of thuds. Boy! Waco wheezed. You better come in when Mama tells you to. Of course, Waco brought me back to the house and I got a chance to clean the dirt from under my nails and rub the straw and wheat from my every joint. My heart still pumped like it never had before, even though the danger had long passed but had it. There were still three days left of this vacation, still three more nights of chancing a visit from Dally. Nah, Waco wouldn't let it happen. The family was confused when Waco announced a surprise bonfire in the backyard, a confusion that mounted when he piled on so many branches and enough tinder to melt the arctic. I was the only one who understood when Waco wandered off into the fields as we all cooked s'mores by the inferno he'd built. I was the only one who knew why. He was dragging a particularly tall scarecrow out to the pyre and I was the only one who knew why I shrieked like a banshee when its head rolled off its shoulders and landed at my feet with two fiery holes beneath the baseball cap. I don't know what happened out in the field that night with Dally and Waco. I don't know if I'll ever share this feeling with anybody else. It was like for a night I got a short peek into a world I didn't understand, one I didn't want to understand, one the morning sun saved me from. Waco understood how I felt. He was there. After the incident he'd stop by our home in the city and check up on us now and then tell us crazy stories. Then sometimes me and him would share a soda or two by a fire. He passed away on his trip back home three years ago. Car accident. I miss him. I still can't fully describe what happened that day. It's like my brain is ripping out memories one by one until nothing's left but a giggle and a bittersweet summer vacation. It's funny that something as small and stupid as a scarecrow can get me shaking. But that's how it is. That's how old Dally was. I haven't felt something like that since then. That feeling of being somewhere I shouldn't be. And frankly, I don't want to. I don't want answers to what happened. I don't want logic and rules. I just want to be able to sleep without nightmares.