There was a man I saw throughout my childhood.

A grotesque looking man who haunted both my waking life 

and my dreams. 

He wore an old flannel, 

and there were patches on the knees of his jeans. 

His eyes were void of any color or any emotion,

but even so,

there was always a smile on his face.

A smile that seemed more threatening than welcoming,

like he knew you in a glance. 

I first noticed him the day we moved in. 

He was hiding in the field next to my house, peering out from between tall grasses. 

At night, he stared up at my window. Watching me. 

He would give a big, dog-like grin,

with his head cocked to the side. 

When winter came, he retreated to underneath our porch,

and he never came out again.

When I was six,

after my dad brought me home from school,

I caught him staring at me,

from a slit in between the porch steps;

I stared back at him, petrified. 

His clothing was dirty and faded. 

There was a deep gash in his chest

where a family of rats had made their nest. 

He shot me the familiar grimace. 

My dad walked up the steps, unaware of the man under the porch.

I followed him timidly.

The man reached out his spidery hand

and pulled my little lace sock

back over my ankle.

I bolted inside the house. 

I saw him again when I was thirteen. 

Sitting on the porch steps one balmy summer,

drinking cold lemonade with my best friend.

I spilled my drink and peered under the step. 

There he was,

His soulless eyes staring at me. 

The last time I saw him was when I turned 18. 

My dog hurt her paw and she hid under the porch to lick her wound. 

I crawled under to get her out.

I felt a presence close to me.

Lurking.

My childhood fears came flooding back. 

I looked up slowly, and there he was.

The Scarecrow.