“Yes,” he had replied to the lawyer’s questioning, he, John Cranham, was about to go abroad. He wished to give his friend, Randal Thompson, a power of attorney, a legal document empowering Thompson to deal with any funds or properties of his, Cranham’s, whilst he was away.

The old lawyer had believed the story without question and handed Cranham a deed that purported to give “Mr Randal Thompson” power to act as Mr. John Cranham’s attorney.

Randal Thompson then signed the document “J. Cranham” with a flourish and took his leave. It only then remained for him to get rid of the real Cranham and use the spurious document to further his own ends.

That had been three days ago and three hundred miles away. Down in his tumbledown cottage on the Devonshire moor, Thompson stood uneasily in his chair before the fire. His dog on the hearth thumped his tail. At last the man rose, took his stick, and opened the door. The folder met him like a blanket, but grasping his knobbed stick he strode doggedly forward. Forms plucked at his clothes as he forced his way through a gap in the back edge that leads to open fields and for a moment he felt a twinge of alarm as he glimpsed the outline of a shadowy figure down in the meadow. Then he could almost have laughed in relief, for what he saw on closer inspection was nothing more than a scarecrow in a tattered straw-stuffed jacket and a broken hat.

“Put there by some fool of a farmer,” he muttered. “Must see about having the confounded thing moved. Enough to give you the creeps.”

Next day he awoke early. In the light of the sparkling autumn morning he could afford to laugh at his fears of the night before. Over in the meadow he could see his bogeyman, its head lolling, and its arms in the weather-stained jacket sticking out at absurd angles.

He busied himself about the place all day, chopping wood and bringing water from the well. When darkness fell he built up the fire, pulled the curtains and, after a moment’s hesitation, bolted the heavy wooden door. From the shelf he took down a black japanned box, and by the light of the oil lamp, examined the yellowing parchment it contained. Conveyance, assignment, lease, yes, there was no doubt old Cranham had had more than his share.

Randal Thompson gave a sign of satisfaction. Not long now, and he could live the life he had always wanted. Nothing would be beyond his reach. A villa in the south, a yacht ready to take him where he fancied, a few thousand to stake at the tables in the evening and after that the sweet life.
His dog got up from his place at the fire, his eyes pleading for his evening walk.

“Want your run, eh?” Thompson growled with grudging affection. He unbolted the door, and the fog, which had once again returned with nightfall, rolled in, white and chill from the darkness. He put up his collar and stepped out but glanced fearfully this way and that. The moon this evening was full, but struggled only feebly through the enveloping mist.

Thompson strode on, guided by the hedge which bounded his property, but bent on getting indoors again as soon as the dog had had his run.

Where the hedge thinned, he looked out over the adjoining fields and, with shock, thought he could make out dimly the black figure again. Fear caught him by the throat. The thing had moved. He was sure of it. It was much nearer the house this time and he was filled with an unreasoning fear that it was coming for him. Calling the dog sharply, he turned on his heel and hurried, almost ran, back to the safety of the house, slamming and bolting the door, and sank trembling into his chair.

This was nonsense, he told himself, the sort of nonsense that Cranham himself, an ardent spiritualist, had believed in. The old fellow had been a bit of an eccentric, always talking about ghosts, and coming back from the dead. Yet, how could he. He was buried six feet down where the yew tree dropped its withering leaves in a corner of the cottage’s meagre garden.

Thompson’s mind veered away from what had actually happened to that fateful evening. It was only a fool like old Cranham that would have taken a young man, without background or references, into his complete confidence as Cranham had done. Given him the run of the business and practically treated him like his own son. It had been too much of a temptation altogether. A single blow on the fragile skull had sufficed and Cranham was no more. After all, he had nearly been at the end of his life and it took a kind of courage to commit murder. Murder! Even Thompson, the product of a children’s home and corrective school, could not suppress a shudder when the reality of his deed had come home to him.

Thompson was not a man to let fear get the better of him. A look of resolution showed in his face. Tomorrow he would get the scarecrow taken away – see the farmer and get it done. With that he stumped up to bed and lay there shivering in the darkness until he fell into an uneasy sleep.
He was ready the next morning for the five mile walk over the fields to his neighbour, the farmer. The fog had lifted and once more the landscape look bright and clear.

Hawkins, the stolid, red-faced farmer, listened to his request with surprise.

“Get rid of ‘un? Why, ain’t no scarecrow in my fields as I knows on. You mun be seeing things I reckon.”

Thompson was angry. “I’m not a fool, man. I know what I’ve seen. Get the damned thing moved, or I’ll do it myself.”

“Do it, an welcome,” growled Hawkins and stumped off, leaving Thompson to do as he pleased.

Back at the house, Thompson made his plans. Soon a huge pile of dried wood was rising in the weed-grown garden. Randal placed the kindling twigs carefully in position and then liberally soaked the heap with petrol. Then he returned home to await the coming of the dark. That would be best – he wanted no interference from anybody. When at dusk fell the fog came down again, blotting out objects and muffling sounds. Nothing was visible, but Thompson sensed the direction in which his enemy lay. He felt no fear, only a mounting excitement.

Stepping out into the fogbound dark, he struck a match and held it to the twigs at the foot of the pyre, then stepped back quickly as the flames went roaring up, making a furnace that was hot enough to destroy anything.

Satisfied, Thompson turned on his heel to go back to the cottage but before he could take a single step to safety a black shape loomed out of the dark. Down the path it came, with its rags and grotesque hat, impelling him back, back towards the blaze. The wretched Thompson’s screamed as he crashed into fire and with his screams was mingled the faint echo of an old, foolish man’s laughter.