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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Horror/Scary · #2221686
Strange places make for the strangest things....
Michael Kelly stared at the scarecrow silhouetted in the dying sun. He was in a strange world. He wanted to be back in Chicago, not looking at an Indiana cornfield.

He gaze turned to the cat curled in a ball on a chair. "You're why I'm here." he sneered.

He fetched another beer and sank back into the unfamiliar recliner. On it's right side were four circular buttons.
Kelly eyed them sadly: "I need an engineering degree to adjust a chair?"

At least the beer was good. His sister and her husband were imported beer people. And the notion of Sundays Bears game on their enormous TV was nothing to complain about.

An owl sounded from the back yard. He tried to spy it in the big oak, the only tree between the house and the cornfield. A rope swing hanging from a stout branch swayed in the breeze.

"It wasn't that close before." he complained, leaning toward the window. "That damn scarecrow was NOT that close." The owl called again, but Kelly's gaze was locked.

Half a minute passed before he finally came to his senses. "Stop doing that to yourself!" he scolded. The admonition was loud enough for the cat to lift it's head. "Sorry Sheeba.", he apologized, "Half of my next tuna sandwich goes to you."

A grin came to his lips. "Da Bears!" he chuckled. He recalled how he used to kill the crew at Sullivan's Tap with that bit. Impressions were a hobby of sorts for Michael Kelly. Besides his Jack Nicholson stuff he figured that was his best.

He picked up the remote control, pointed it at the TV and pressed a button. When nothing happened he tried several more. A look of surrender crossed his features as he examined the complex little rectangle. "It doesn't matter ...we'll figure it out later."

"Wonder why they have a rope swing?" he mused, glancing out the window "They don't have kids. Why would a couple with no-"

The thought remained incomplete. It was leaving the cornfield. The raised right hand held something which looked like a sickle. It began running toward the house.

Michael Kelly rushed to the back door and turned a brass knob.

"That locks it right?" came his panicked utterance. "Or did I just unlock it?"
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