The Whispers of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Jezebel’s gaze fell on the distant farmhouse, and her expression darkened.

  “The man who used to live here,” he ventured. “Did you know him?”

  “Jasper Blackwell?” She shook her head.

  “I heard he went missing.”

  Jezebel swept a hand through her hair. “A lot of people around here think something bad happened to him. But they never found his body or anything. He was really weird though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He kept to himself mainly. He always had the strangest look in his eyes, like he was haunted . . .” Jezebel trailed off.

  “Haunted? By what?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he left a clue inside the house. Have you poked around in there yet?”

  Connor shook his head. He hesitated before asking, “Do you know anything about the word ‘Keeper’?”

  “Connor!” His father’s voice rang across the field, and Connor saw Russ approaching, hammer in hand. Bandit sat up, alert.

  “Here comes my dad.” When Connor looked back, Jezebel was gone.

  Russ swept the area with his eyes. “Were you talking to someone?”

  “Just a girl who lives nearby.”

  Russ offered a modest half-smile. “Making friends already? Good for you. What’s her name?”

  “Jezebel.” Connor glanced over his shoulder to search for a sign of which direction she’d gone, but she seemed to have left no trace. “I guess she went home.”

  “In that case, I hope you won’t mind helping me with the fence.”

  Connor’s gaze lingered on the forest for a moment longer. “Sure.”

  “You woke up late today.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Russ started to say something but stopped short, took a breath, and seemingly changed course. “Did you get your chores done?”

  Connor nodded.

  “Good. I went by the school this morning. The district’s fall break is in one week. We decided it was best for you and Megan to start after that, so you’ll have the next two weeks off.”

  They walked together across the field with Bandit tagging along at their heels. Far removed from the confines of their enclosure, several cows stood grazing in the pasture bordering the woods.

  “They keep getting out.” Russ tilted his head toward the cows. “We’ll have to corral them after we finish mending the fence. I don’t want them wandering too close to the forest.”

  The wooden fence’s outline grew clearer with their approach. Russ’s truck sat a short distance away. Heaps of wooden planks were stacked next to buckets of paint on the back of the tailgate. It was obvious the fence had been neglected for quite some time. The black paint was chipped and faded. Tall weeds grew freely around the edges, and there were multiple sections where the planks were missing altogether.

  Connor detected the scent of decay as they drew nearer. “Do you smell that?”

  Russ frowned. Connor followed his gaze to a place in the grass where it seemed like hundreds of flies buzzed through the air. The putrid stench intensified as they got closer, until Connor felt the need to hold his nose to avoid throwing up. Even Russ waved his hand in the air as if to ward off the scent.

  A dead calf, its body bloated and deformed by the sun, lay on the ground. Maggots and worms crawled over its partially debrided skin. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Three fat crows picked at the calf where patches of black hair gave way to swollen, red flesh. With bloody beaks, they stripped the calf clean, inch-by-inch.

  “Get out of here.” When Russ ran at the crows and waved his hammer in the air, the birds scattered and took flight. Russ knelt on the ground beside the calf.

  “What killed it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Before another word could be said, a deafening blast echoed through the woods. Bandit let out a loud bark and ran toward the trees, growling.

  “What was that?”

  Russ let out a frustrated sigh and climbed to his feet. “Trouble.” He trekked off after Bandit. Unsure what was happening, Connor followed behind. When he crossed the tree line, Connor saw the blast’s source.

  A teenage boy pointed a rifle at Bandit. There was a man with him, also holding a rifle. Both were dressed in camouflage. The blue heeler snarled, and the teenager’s finger tightened around the trigger.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Russ angrily approached the pair.

  The teenager lowered the gun and glanced up, startled. He was stout and muscular, with dark hair and an angry expression.

  “Who are you?” The other man spewed a wad of chewing tobacco onto the ground. He sported a scraggly face full of stubble and smelled heavily of cigarette smoke.

  “I’m the manager of this farm. I’ll ask you again—what’s the meaning of aiming a gun at my dog?”

  The stranger put on a forced grin. “He didn’t mean anything by it. I’m Keith Evers. This is my boy, Tommy.” He extended a hand, but Russ left it hanging. “We’re hunting for deer. Old Man Blackwell used to let us hunt on his land.”

  “Did he?” Russ’s gaze fell on the teenager. “Your son wouldn’t happen to know anything about a dead calf over by my fence?”

  “No, sir.” Tommy shot Connor a dark glance.

  Keith slugged his son’s shoulder. “This is the first I’ve heard about it.”

  Russ’s brow knotted. “I can’t have you hunting on this property. I’ve got kids running around out here.”

  “Now listen, mister, I don’t see why—”

  Russ cut him off. “Rifle season is more than a month away, isn’t it?” He leaned in close to Keith. “I don’t think the game warden would take too kindly to hearing about a couple of poachers. Just a friendly warning from me to you.”

  Keith’s lips curled back in a thin sneer. “You’ll regret this.” He spat again on the ground, turned, and disappeared deeper into the forest, along with his son.

  Chapter SIX

  The world was lost to the storm. It made Connor think again of the night his mother died.

  Crows flocked across the threatening sky like winged shadows gliding under legions of swollen, black clouds. They descended on the farmhouse in search of shelter, and there they perched, lining faded asphalt shingles along the roof.

  Connor watched the birds from his second-story bedroom window. There was something disturbing about the crows’ near-absolute stillness in the face of the sweeping rains. He turned his attention to what remained visible of the farm. Hidden beyond the deluge raging outside, most of the land lay concealed by the storm. The secluded farmhouse seemed even more isolated, if such a thing were possible.

  Connor abandoned the window with a bored sigh. He had been anxious to go exploring, on the chance he might encounter Jezebel again. The mysterious girl was his best opportunity to finally make a real friend. Unfortunately, the storm had put an end to his plans. It was raining when he woke, and if the overcast world beyond his window was any indication, there was no end in sight.

  His gaze fell on the lonely backpack in the corner of the room. Connor fished through it and took out his tablet. The wireless device had gone unused over the previous three days amid the flurry of activity since his arrival at the farm. Now it seemed like the perfect way to pass his time while cooped up indoors. With a few strokes of his finger, he could be reading a new book, listening to music, or playing a game.

  No Internet connection, a message announced across the screen when the device powered on. Neither were any networks available. Connor stared blankly at the screen. He hesitated, and with a shaky finger, he tapped the icon labeled ‘Photos.’

  There she was again, as if she’d never left—his mother. It was a picture of the two of them. She looked so beautiful, so serene. Connor touched her i
mage on the screen as if he might reach through the glass and find her, wherever she had gone. And just like that, it all came rushing back: all the heartbreak and the pain, those cruel final moments watching her die, and everything he would never get back. He fought the wave of emotions and switched off the device.

  The low thunder drowned out his footsteps on the staircase. The rest of his family was downstairs. Wind rattled against the screen door, a sound ignored by Bandit, who lay on the porch and watched the storm. Megan and Buddy played checkers in the parlor. Russ sat alone in the kitchen, attempting to read a Progressive Farmer magazine while taking frequent, restless glances out the window. Connor knew his father was checking to see if there was a chance he might yet return to work.

  “Don’t we have any Wi-Fi?” Connor asked, tablet still in hand.

  His father looked up from his magazine and shook his head. “Afraid not. I reckon Blackwell never even bothered. It’s dang near impossible to get it set up all the way out here. Besides, most people are better off not to bother with it, if you ask me.”

  Connor stared at his father incredulously. “Everyone has Wi-Fi.” He struggled to imagine a world where not everyone had access to the Internet. “Back home, there were dozens of networks on every block.”

  “Things work a little differently in the country.” Russ sounded amused. “We don’t even have cell service out here. That landline in the hallway is your only connection to the outside world.” With that, he returned to the pages of his magazine.

  Connor studied the cream-colored corded phone in the hallway, mounted on the wall like a hunting trophy. As with much of the farmhouse’s interior, the phone was a relic of a bygone era. He trudged into the parlor, where Megan and Buddy, immersed in their game of checkers, ignored him. An obsolete-looking television near the wall caught his eye. Two silvery antennas sprouted off the top. Connor had seen antennas on cars before, but never on a television. There were no remote controls within sight, so he twisted a dial on the television and was promptly disappointed when a sea of static appeared on the screen. He glanced toward the bookcase in hopes of finding a source of entertainment there. Of the relatively few books on the shelves, most were Farmers’ Almanacs.

  Connor turned away and sank onto the couch. He yawned sleepily. He’d slept poorly again the night before, troubled by visions of the scarecrow in the field. Since there was nothing better to do, maybe a nap wouldn’t be so bad after all. He closed his eyes and listened to the storm.

  Megan’s loud voice startled him before he had the chance to fall asleep. “I’m bored.” She jumped onto the couch beside him, the game of checkers apparently over. “Let’s play hide and seek!”

  “I’m tired, Megan.” He nestled his head against the pillow. “Maybe when I wake up.”

  “Please.” She made a pouty face.

  Connor sighed and sat up. “OK, fine. You go first.”

  “No peeking!” Megan clapped her hands together, jumped off the couch, and dragged Mister Bear along for the fun.

  Connor dutifully counted to one hundred with his eyes closed. When he opened his eyes, Megan wasn’t the only thing that had vanished. Buddy was gone, too; probably out for a smoke. Connor stole into the kitchen to search for a clue to Megan’s whereabouts. Russ had also disappeared.

  “Megan? Uncle Buddy?” There was no answer. A peculiar quiet settled over the farmhouse as the rain trickled softly in the background.

  Opening cupboards and closets, Connor looked for a sign of his sister in the kitchen. Megan wasn’t there. Neither did he spot her in the adjoining room: a cramped, forsaken area that had once served as a dining room. Now, the space was stuffed full of furniture draped in white sheets.

  “Ready or not, here I come.” He hoped Megan would give herself away, but he was answered only by the continual pitter-patter of rain against the roof.

  Connor lifted a dust-covered sheet and crawled underneath a cherry wood table on his hands and feet. He checked under each sheet without success. Connor advanced down the first-floor hallway, where Russ’s and Buddy’s bedrooms were opposite one another. Both doors were closed.

  She’s not here. He had just decided to look upstairs when his gaze fell on the solitary door at the end of the hallway. The door had remained closed since they’d arrived at the farmhouse. Now, for the first time, it was open—only a sliver, but just enough that gray light seeped through the crack to hint at a goose-step staircase that led into the cellar.

  “Hello?” Still no answer came. He looked back, unsure of himself. He hadn’t set foot in that part of the house before. Connor waited for Russ or Buddy to appear and warn him against going into the basement, but they did not. He was alone, or at least it felt that way.

  He hesitated and then reached for the doorknob. The door was heavier than he expected; its weight groaned on weary hinges as it gave way. Connor stood on his toes and reached for the chain to the lightbulb, which gave off an orange glow as it sprung to life.

  As if issuing a warning, the goose steps recoiled with each movement. The farther he descended, the quieter it grew. Thick walls muffled the rain above. The cellar, spread across the length of the house, was surprisingly large. The floor was concrete, like the walls, bare and stained. Above, a set of shutters on the wall opposite the stairs led outside the cellar. A rusted metal cover lay partially askew over a drain in the center of the floor, beneath which any water that seeped through the walls or leaked from the pipes would vanish.

  Despite its size, the cellar was filled to capacity with what appeared to be Jasper Blackwell’s belongings. Many of the excess things accumulated during his life had, apparently, been removed and hidden away in the basement. As Connor walked along, shelves of canned preserves distorted his reflected image in the dim light. Chairs and dressers were pushed against the wall, and rows of faded shirts and jeans hung from metal clothes racks.

  “Megan?” His breath rising and falling faster than before, Connor tiptoed through the cellar.

  I shouldn’t be down here. It felt wrong, like he was invading the privacy of the dead.

  A white canvas resting on an easel caught his eye. Several paintings, along with a supply of brushes, paints, and pencils, were stacked nearby. Most of the paintings depicted varying aspects of the farm; Blackwell had signed them all. Like the paintings, the sketches on canvas also mirrored the farm—or at least a portion of it: the cornfield. Connor squinted at a darkened silhouette drawn over the heart of the cornfield.

  It can’t be.

  His hand trembled when he flipped to the next canvas. The scarecrow stared back at him, in detailed black and white. Why would Blackwell draw the scarecrow?

  Connor’s brow furrowed in confusion. The canvas underneath depicted a cave of some kind. He flipped to the next canvas, and the next. Each became progressively more aggressive. More and more darkness spilled out of the cave, forged by wild, angry pencil strokes. And in each subsequent canvas, more crows appeared around the cave.

  Connor clutched the canvas tightly and felt a sudden chill, which the rational part of his brain attempted to blame on the cold floor. Seemingly out of nowhere, something jumped out at him from the shadows, and Connor stumbled backward and fell on his backside.

  “I got you!” Megan doubled over in laughter.

  Connor let out a sigh of relief.

  “Kids? Are you down there?” Russ’s boots, followed by Buddy’s, thundered down the stairs, and soon the entire family was in the cellar.

  “Would you look at this?” Buddy whistled as he spotted the collection of paintings. “It looks like Old Man Blackwell had some talent.” He lifted one of the paintings from the collection and showed it to Connor. “Look. It’s the view from your window. How about we hang this up in your room?”

  “What were you two doing down here?” Russ asked, continuing before Connor had an opportunity to answer.
“The cellar is dangerous.” He pointed to a safe near the staircase. “That’s where we store our guns. It’s not a place for kids to play. I don’t want to see either of you down here again. Do you understand?”

  Connor nodded and followed his father back upstairs before casting a final glance at the unnerving image on the canvas.

  It was still raining when they emerged from the cellar. If anything, the storm was angrier than before. Endless black clouds eclipsed the sun, shrouding the farmhouse in an ever-darkening gray pallor. Lightning flashed outside the screen door, and Connor nearly jumped, his thoughts still on Blackwell’s nightmarish imagery in the basement.

  “Let’s play again!” Megan ran and hopped in a circle around him. “My turn, my turn!”

  Connor stared at the world outside the window and watched the corn sway in the wind like some great monster, green and undulating. “I don’t feel like playing anymore.”

  Megan grabbed his hand and attempted to drag him back through the parlor. “Just one more game? Please.”

  “OK—but this is the last time.”

  Megan flashed him a toothy grin and put her hands over her eyes. “One . . .”

  Connor hurried out of the parlor and looked for a place to hide. Russ had again returned to his magazine in the kitchen. Having seen the lack of hiding places on the rest of the first floor, Connor decided to try his luck upstairs.

  “Five,” he heard Megan say from the parlor. Her voice faded as he raced up the staircase. He tried a closet at the end of the hall. Too obvious. Megan’s room was next. There’s nowhere good in here either. He considered hiding inside the bathtub in their shared bathroom, but the closed shower curtain would give him away. Frustrated, he returned to his own room.

  Lightning flashed outside his window, reflected in the full-length mirror that stood nearby. Connor approached the mirror slowly. Something about his reflection seemed distorted. His gaze fell on the image of the wardrobe against the opposite wall. A crack, barely visible in the faint light, ran across the wall behind the wardrobe. He never would have noticed it if not for the storm.