Campfire Story

	There was a campfire. A goddamn campfire, still blazing in the clearing. One in the morning, and the kids were still yelling and drinking and smoking and doing everything else kids do at one AM. One of them had pulled out an acoustic guitar, and was strumming along with his horribly off-key voice. Full of life, full of energy, full of bravado. One had even doffed his shirt at some point, probably to impress the lass nursing her beverage across the fire from him. Being in the middle of the forest removed any inhibitions concerning sound, naturally. Not that they realized they were being watched.
	He waited. Years of experience following the Old Masters gave him impeccable timing for when to strike. The fire grew low, and teased by the ambiance of the forest, so did their voices, and the conversation turned, as it inevitably did, to what may have lurked in the darkness. The taller fellow, Jordan his name was, told the first story. Some maniac escaped from a mental asylum. Hook-handed, missing an eye, and with a taste of human flesh. As he spoke in vivid detail the others withdrew, glancing nervously around them. Then he struck. Not with a wild yell, or a hoarse screech, but by snapping a large stick, making sure he was well out of sight.
	The conversation died instantly, and all five of them perked up immediately, slowly rising from their seats on the logs to stare into the deep darkness. Not that it would do them any good, as the fire destroyed their night vision and made them blind to the dark. Then came the investigation. The shirtless fellow had picked up a baseball bat, and pushed himself into the brush towards him. Caution turned to surprise, and surprise turned to bemusement. Just according to plan, the teenager picked him up, and carried him back to the camp.
	“Guys, you won’t believe what I just fucking found!”
	“Is that a fucking scarecrow?” The lass was incredulous, naturally. “Sitting way the fuck out in the middle of nowhere?”
	“Yeah man. Must’ve fallen over or something.” The shirtless boy hefted Ragamuffin’s motionless body, sitting him upright on the log next to him.
	“Duuuuude.” The lanky boy said, staring bug-eyed at their new friend. “Dude put that shit back. Thing’s creeping the hell out of me.”
	“Man, it’s just a fucking scarecrow.” The muscular boy dropped the baseball bat, draping an arm around Ragamuffin’s limp shoulder, rapping his fingers on the pumpkin’s forehead. This was all going perfectly! All he needed was a good lead-in! “You’ve been listening to too many scary stories.”
	“Wonder what he’s doing out in the middle of the woods.” The lass pondered, taking a sip of her drink. Shameful, that, these kids are far too young to be drinking. “Shouldn’t he be out in like, a corn field or something?”
	“Weird, isn’t it.” Mister Shirtless here was awfully talkative today. “Ain’t no harvest out here for you to be guarding, eh big guy?” And we have a winner!
	Ragamuffin reached up, and grabbed the youth by his hair. Not hard, mind, but just enough to pull his head back every so slightly. He slowly turned his pumpkin head to stare the youth in the eye. Nothing warmed his straw heart like the growing look of pure horror in a child’s face.
	“The harvest has just begun.” Just enough emphasis on ‘harvest’, and try to move your mouth as little as possible. Perfect. Now, as they’re frozen in shock, withdraw the eight-inch butcher’s knife from the pocket of the denim overalls. “And it is reaping time.”
	His grand performance was met by the thunderous applause, as the entire group screamed into the night sky at once.
	Ragamuffin jerked his arm, launching the boy over the campfire, to crash into his lanky friend. He lunged at the lass. Missed, of course, she fell over just in time for his knife to bite only air. Girl was seriously unco-ordinated, stumbling and slipping as she tried to crawl away from him. Ragamuffin’s skill with a knife more than made up for it, at least, and despite her flailing he successfully managed to miss every stab.
	The lanky boy, to his credit, tried to tackle Ragamuffin. Even managed to make him shift slightly, which is an accomplishment. Plus it gave him an excuse to look away from the screaming girl. Seriously, it was getting hard to convincingly miss her by then. Ragamuffin reached over and grabbed the boy by the throat, standing to his full height and lifting the kid into the air. He didn’t squeeze hard, just enough to make the kid really claw at his hand and panic just a little more.
	Ragamuffin stared the kid in the eye, savoring the fear. He pulled the guy a bit closer, enough that their eyes were locked onto each other, foreheads almost touching. Knife held up in the air, Ragamuffin bellowed. Now -this- was a scream, a deep mournful wail that sounded more like an animalistic train horn than anything a human throat could produce. It split the night air, startling a small flock of birds from the trees. Success! We have the first urination of the night! Ragamuffin’s record so far was three from a single group.
	The other youths were panicking, obviously. Several bolted out into the dark forest, and a third one was throwing things at him. The girl was picking herself off the ground, still screaming. Ragamuffin raised his knife. The shirtless fellow was still there, as was the lady he was clearly trying to impress, which meant…
	Yep. He had picked up the baseball bat and was moving in towards Ragamuffin. Blatantly nervous, and blatantly trying to hide it. He swung, connecting with the scarecrow’s side. Ragamuffin cocked his head to the side. Slowly, just gotta look like he didn’t give a shit about the slugger’s best swing. He dropped the lanky kid to the ground, and took a deliberately slow step towards the bat-wielding kid.
	The young man stepped back. Ragamuffin stepped forward again, delighting in him retreating further. Another step, and another terrified response. A fourth step, and the kid tripped backwards over a log. As slow as this dance was, it gave the lanky kid just enough time to pull to his feet, and run away.
	“The blood harvest calls to me.” Ragamuffin’s voice wasn’t usually this deep, but tonight was showtime. “It calls to me in its sweet song of agony, to plant a crop of bone and fertilized in blood. Let your torment be the seed of my bounty.”
	A moment’s pause, then another scream. The teenager ran, sobbing as he threw himself into the darkness of the forest.
	Ragamuffin stood there a moment, now entirely alone in the campfire. He nodded to himself. Good work tonight. The kids were still yelling and screaming, so following them around would be way too easy. There were a few game trails, and Ragamuffin would be able to loop around and catch one or two by surprise, even if he just walked casually.
	Just before he started to give chase, the dread scarecrow paused. The campfire had almost died down, but it was still alight. He reached over, grabbed the bucket of water they had, and threw it onto the blaze, stifling the flame. Another pause, then he grabbed a few handfuls of dirt from the ground to properly smother it. A forest fire wasn’t likely, considering the humidity and general wetness of the forest tonight, but he didn’t want to take needless risks.
	Ragamuffin straightened up, looking around. Then a light chuckle, and he jumped back into the forest proper, working up a good bellowing laughter to remind the children that they weren’t alone.