The Pluckley Scarecrow — Atomic Squib

The Pluckley Scarecrow

The little village of Pluckley has long been considered the most haunted in Britain. Of course that’s rubbish. We all know Faversham has more spooks than Pluckley. There is however one story that defies explanation. I know this narrative to be true because I read something very similar in an old EC Horror comic, and as we all know, comics don’t lie.

Everyone considered Eloise and Alfred Finch saints for the way they looked after Charley. They employed this big, dumb ox, fed and clothed him and housed him in one of their out-buildings. Of course Charlie knew different. The Finches treated him like a slave. They gave him scraps to eat, housed him in a damp leaky shed and they beat him with sticks if they thought he wasn’t working hard enough. To them he was just a brainless work animal. But they were wrong…

Charley had imagination. He had plans. When Charley was locked up for the night, he would often escape the shed and prowl around the place. He’d peer through their windows, listen as they bickered, watch them as they moved about the house. He knew they didn’t trust banks and preferred to hide their money on the farm. But most importantly he knew where they hid it and one day Charley was going to take it.

That day came sooner than he’d anticipated. It started as any other, Eloise woke him with a kick and a bowl of gruel. That was followed by long hours of hard toil in the field and constant badgering by the pair of them. Same as most other days. At around 4 o-clock Alfred, angry with Charlie for not working hard enough, started smacking him across his broad shoulders with a piece of lumber. One of the blows glanced off Charley’s slippery back and struck him on his ear. That really stung. Charley saw red and snatched the timber from his master.
‘You give that back right now, or there’ll be no super for you tonight.’ Commanded Alfred.
Charley lashed out. All those years of cruelty, pain and humiliation exploded in two minutes of violent rage. When it was over, there wasn’t much left of poor Alfred. Just a dark red pulp spread out on the field of green. Charley looked with satisfaction.
‘Oh my god Charley. What have you done?’
It was Eloise, she’d come up behind him, slowly registering what she was seeing.
On shaking legs she turned and started running back to the farm house, wailing loudly. She didn’t quite make it before Charley caught her and unleashed more of his pent up rage. He hated Eloise even more than he did Alfred.

Once finished, he strolled into the kitchen and ate a feast fit for a king. ‘No super for you tonight.’ He kept repeating with satisfaction.
When he could eat no more, he took himself up to the bedroom, where he collapsed on to the Finch’s large feather bed and had the best sleep of his miserable life.
He woke early, washed and ate breakfast. He knew the pair would be missed at church and the nosey neighbours would be itching to come and check on them once the minister let them go.

Charley retrieved all the money from around the farm and stuffed it into a small bag along with some ropes, food and a few ales. Then, as the church bells rang to indicate the end of the service, he casually strode down to the far paddock. On the edge of the field amongst the trees, Charley took off his clothes, added them to the bag, retrieved the ropes and stashed the bag in a thicket. He then walked back to the centre of the paddock, where there was positioned a huge scarecrow, dressed in Charley’s old cast off clothes, clothes which Charley now carefully began dressing himself in. He emptied the head of straw and put the hessian sack over his own, tying it around his neck. He knotted another length of rope around his left wrist, attaching it to the cross bar. By looping a slip knot over his right wrist and pulling one end with his teeth he was able to secure his right arm to the other side of the cross. Charley knew his knots alright.

By standing on a small cross-bar at his feet he was quite comfortable as he stared towards the twee pastoral scene.
Soon screams of outrage and horror echoed across the fields. The nosey neighbours and then the constabulary ran about the place like headless chickens. Charley chuckled from behind the hessian mask.
Several search parties came within spitting distance of Charley but didn’t give him a second look.

At night, tiered and hungry, Charley considered it safe to get down from his cross. Only…
His wrists… he couldn’t extricate them from his ropes. The more he struggled, the tighter they became. Then in his panic he broke the support beneath his feet. His whole weight was now suspended from his wrist causing great stress on his lungs. Like a latter day, bargain basement Jesus Christ, poor Charley was slowly crucified.

Years later a road was built through that field, not far from Charley’s cross. People walking along it often feel and occasionally see a malevolent presence watching them from above. The stolen money was never recovered and it is assumed this is what Charley is guarding. I prefer to think it’s the ale…