It is the sound of voices, bits of laughter and fragmented conversation heard over the brisk November wind, that sends a powerful surge of desperation through her body, awakening one last bit of hope. Hope that she will be saved, that someone will hear her muffled sobs and come to her rescue.

Blood pounds in her ears as she tries in vain to scream past the rubber ball that is stuffed into her mouth. Her eyes want to water but dehydration has drained her of tears. The veins in her dangerously thin neck stand out from the exertion of her efforts.

Finally she goes quiet, knowing that the people who belonged to the voices have already gone. The only sound left to hear is the wind and her own feint whimpers. Why in hell can't they see her-surely if she can hear them so clearly she must be visible?

Is she buried alive? No. At least she doesn't think so. Her face is covered and her vision is obscured behind some kind of cloth. Occasionally, she thinks she can see the hint of light but more often than not it fades, leaving her to wonder if it had been there at all.

What makes her believe that she isn't buried, at least underground, is the sensation of standing, which is strange since she is unable to feel anything beneath her feet, which she believes are bound together. Numbness seized her body some time before and has not relented. Her shoulders ache severely but there is no feeling whatsoever beyond them. Are her arms broken? Amputated?

She forces another muffled scream from her damaged windpipe, terrified that not only might she not be found but that she will linger on far longer than she dares think about.

And the one thought that keeps surfacing through the darkness, over and over and over again? How sweet and gentle he had seemed.

But he had been sweet and gentle - from the moment he approached her in the bookstore, as they walked to her car, throughout their phone conversations extended over a period of days, up until the moment she had sat down on the sofa in his dorm room.
Looking back on it now, far too late, she finds it impossible to comprehend what she had been thinking. Just a foolish girl, so caught up in the moment, so sure that true love had waltzed in and blessed her too average life, that she hadn't even taken the time to introduce him to her family or friends. Although they might have suspected a budding relationship, due to the numerous late night phone conversations and the extra little bounce in her step, she hadn't come out and confirmed it. And why? All because she had been afraid she was going to jinx it. What a cruel joke. Maybe if she had introduced him around, given everyone an opportunity to meet him, none of this would have happened. He might've been too apprehensive to do what he did.

What hurts more than anything, outside of knowing that she will never see her family or friends again, is that just as he leaned in, closing the gap between them that cool night in October, she was under the impression he was going to kiss her. She remembers actually trembling with anticipation, closing her eyes and pursing her lips, as he drew nearer.

Then, in one excruciating instant, her world was violated and broken beyond repair. The pain that exploded behind the bridge of her nose, as his fist connected with her soft skin, was incomparable to anything she had experienced before. A wave of nausea had rippled over her and through blurred eyes she saw his face - sweet and gentle. Then his fists rained down on her and she slid into the darkness.

At times she senses he is there, watching her. Never touching her, never speaking. Just watching. Maybe it is her imagination. Maybe he gagged her, bound her, and then just left her to die. Why? She can think of no obvious reasons.

By all appearances, he was a normal boy. Up until that twisted night when her world fell apart, he had given her no reason to doubt his sanity. What's more frightening is to consider for a second that maybe, just maybe, he is sane. Maybe he just enjoys torturing young girls. Maybe he gets off knowing they soil themselves and are left to the indignity of being covered with it. Maybe he enjoys the power of leaving them to die, life slowly draining away from lack of nourishment and water, while he watches. How many girls have suffered her fate?

These thoughts mingle with others as time creeps along. Those first - what hours? days? weeks? - were met with struggles and attempts to free herself. Soon came the horrible realization that she was bound too firm - even the slightest attempt at movement was futile. The initial pain, from the beating she endured, was soon replaced by those of hunger and thirst, which eventually faded to a constant craving throughout her entire body. Her anger and horror, strong and absolute, were replaced with resignation and sorrow. She thought about what her loved ones were going through, attempting to find her without a clue to her whereabouts. She wished for an opportunity to tell them all just how much she loved them. She wished to be able to give them a proper farewell. All she wanted - no needed - was to warn her friends about being so careless and carefree when it came to dating; to advise them to be more cautious when letting someone in their lives. Most of all, she just wants to reach out and speak to someone, anyone. To connect and feel alive.

The man laughs at the look of disgust on his wife's face.

"It's only a scarecrow."

"It's horrible. And Halloween's been over for weeks now. Why the college officials don't make them take it down and throw it out I'll never know!"

The man glances up at the third floor balcony of the dorm house. Night after night he looks up to see it looming over them, that straw face with its evil grin mocking them, and it never fails to send ripples of chills down his spine. What's worse, sometimes when the wind is blowing like it is now, one gets the impression of movement…as if it is alive.

"It's only a scarecrow," he repeats reassuringly, his voice drifting off with the cold November wind.

Copyright 2002. Mark Allan Reynolds.