The Whispers of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  He spent the rest of the afternoon with Megan. They passed the time with games of checkers and cards, and at least for a while, he forgot all about the scarecrow. His sister’s comforting presence made him feel like himself again, and by the time their uncle returned to the farmhouse, the events of that afternoon felt like a distant dream.

  “I see y’all are having a good time,” Buddy said when he entered the kitchen, where Connor, Megan, and her stuffed animal were seated around the table in a mock tea party. He glanced out the parlor window. “Say, your father hasn’t come back yet, has he?”

  Connor shook his head. “No.”

  Buddy frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I thought he’d be back by now, that’s all. It’ll be suppertime before long. Tell you what—I’ll take a quick shower and see what food I can scrounge up. How does that sound?”

  Buddy went to take a shower, but despite his sister’s enthusiasm, Connor found himself unable to resume the tea party. When Buddy returned, they ate dinner in relative silence. Connor could tell that Buddy was worried.

  “Why don’t we take a drive into town?” Buddy suggested. “While the sun’s still out. See where your father’s been off to.” His tone was light, but Connor detected an undercurrent of unease behind the words.

  The three piled inside Buddy’s truck and started on the journey to town. They didn’t get far. Russ’s pickup was visible from the end of the gravel path, just off the paved road that ran on either side of the forest. The white truck had gone off-road and crashed into a tree downhill.

  “Oh my God.” Buddy pulled his vehicle to the side of the road and put it in park. “Y’all stay here, you hear?”

  Connor heard but didn’t listen. He followed Buddy to the place where the truck had smashed against the tree. The windshield was shattered, and glass was scattered everywhere across the ground. The door on the driver’s side had been ripped off its hinges. The front of the truck was folded inward, a wreckage of its former self.

  “Brother.” Buddy tried to keep his balance as they made their way down the steep incline. “Are you OK?”

  There was no answer.

  Please, God, don’t let me lose another parent, Connor prayed as they neared the truck.

  A soft moan came from within the pickup, and Connor saw Russ, covered in minor cuts and bruises, sitting in the passenger seat. The distorted metal frame pinned his leg.

  “Russ, it’s me,” Buddy said. “Can you hear me?”

  Russ opened his eyes and stared at Buddy and Connor weakly. “The truck wouldn’t stop. Brakes didn’t work.”

  “You’re going to be all right. We’re going get you help.”

  From the trees, the crows watched.

  * * *

  Buddy called the hospital from the landline. A short time later, Russ was taken away in an ambulance. The trip to the emergency room was shorter than Connor had expected. The doctors said that Russ was lucky to have survived the wreck in such good condition. Save for a few cuts and bruises, he was relatively unharmed. A fractured fibula was his most grievous injury, and after an appropriate casting procedure, they were on their way back to the Blackwell Farm.

  “This will set our schedule back,” Russ muttered as they neared the farm.

  Buddy chuckled. “Good to see you’re getting back to normal. Luckily, you made sure we were running ahead of things.” He helped Russ out of the truck, and Connor watched his father adjust to walking with a cast and crutch. Buddy patted Russ on the back. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick up the slack.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Russ shuffled through the doorway.

  The phone was ringing inside as they entered the house. Russ sighed, exasperated, and grabbed the corded phone from the wall. “Yes?” He paused, and he looked at Connor with a troubled expression. “Is that so?” After a time, he hung up the phone.

  “What is it?” Buddy asked.

  “They took a look at the truck. It looks like someone had cut the brakes,” Russ said. “Connor, where were you this afternoon?”

  Connor’s eyes widened in surprise. “I was with Jezebel! I promise!”

  Buddy stepped between them. “Now, Russ, I know you got banged up a bit, but the boy didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  Russ shook his head, as if trying to solve a riddle with no answer. “Except . . . his hands were stained. Buddy, check his bedroom. Tell me what you find.”

  Buddy sighed and marched up the stairs. “I’m telling you, this is out of line,” he called from above. “You’re going to feel silly when . . .” His voice trailed off. They listened as Buddy’s boots stomped across the floor of Connor’s bedroom. A few seconds later, his heavy footsteps echoed down the stairs. “These were in the trashcan in Connor’s room.” He held a set of dirty towels and grease-covered tools.

  Chapter FIFTEEN

  He thought he would be glad to leave the farm, but he was wrong.

  The family was bunched together inside Buddy’s rickety camouflage truck. Connor sat quietly in the passenger seat and watched the trees go by. With his father out of commission, it was Buddy who was at the wheel, though Russ had insisted on going all the same. And while the adults would have been fine leaving Megan at home if Connor were there to look after her, he was the entire reason for the journey, which meant she had to come along too.

  The mood in the truck was somber. They drove in relative silence. Buddy had attempted some awkward jokes at the start of the trip but had long since given up trying to make conversation where there was no conversation to be had. Megan, for her part, kept glancing at the other passengers, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of a puzzle she was missing.

  Keenly aware of his father’s gaze, Connor faced the window. The trees became fewer and fewer as they passed through Booneville on their way out of town. Connor watched the residents going about their day, unaware of the evil that lurked closer than they could guess. Before long, the town faded in the rearview mirror, and soon the truck was on the highway headed northwest.

  He knew he should have felt lucky for the chance to get away from the farm for a few hours, free from the scarecrow and his nightmares, but he couldn’t help feeling a sense of defeat. The scarecrow wanted to hurt his family, and he was powerless to stop it. Worse still, no one believed him, and they blamed Connor for the scarecrow’s actions. Was this what it wanted—to turn his family against him so that they wouldn’t believe him until it was too late?

  They drove for almost two hours before arriving in Lexington. It was one of the state’s largest cities, though there were still miles of countryside and pastures wherever he looked that gave it a distinctly Kentucky flavor. The trip’s last minutes seemed to take the longest, as Connor dreaded what was coming.

  The psychiatrist’s office, one of many business suites fitted into the complex, was in a tall building far removed from the hustle and bustle of downtown. Each suite lay behind a wooden doorframe with a fogged glass window, differentiated only by engraved inscriptions beside each door.

  “This looks like the one,” Russ said, stating the obvious when they came to one that read Child Psychiatry. A matronly secretary sat at a desk just behind the door. “Good morning. I’m Russ Stevens. I believe we spoke on the phone earlier? We have an appointment to see Dr. Isaacs.”

  The secretary made a few strokes on the keyboard beneath the monitor at her desk. “The doctor will be with you in a few moments.” She gestured for them to sit in the reception area.

  Connor took out his tablet, and after successfully connecting to the Internet for the first time in recent memory, began researching ‘Baal,’ the word Jasper Blackwell had etched into his bedroom wall. He flipped from image to image of horrific horned monstrosities, until at last he came to an illustration that caught his eye: a crow perched beside a cave filled with creeping darkn
ess. It was nearly identical to the sketch Jasper Blackwell had drawn.

  A door opened to an adjoining room, and a man wearing a sweater and horn-rimmed glasses stepped into the reception area. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Isaacs.” His eyes found Connor’s, and he smiled. “And you must be Connor.”

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.” Russ took the tablet from Connor, and when he saw the image across the screen, he shook his head and showed it to Buddy.

  “Of course.” The doctor returned his gaze to Connor. “Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me?”

  “Alone?” Connor asked.

  Isaacs nodded. “Don’t worry—I don’t bite.”

  If he was looking for a laugh, he didn’t get one.

  Connor looked to Russ and Buddy for guidance. They seemed OK with the arrangement, so Connor followed the doctor into his office. It was a wide room, splashed with brightly painted colors. Playful images of happy-looking animals marched across the walls in an orderly procession. Nevertheless, there was an artificial, sanitized quality to the room, as if it was designed based on what a child might like, to an adult. It reminded him of the mural in his old middle school—an unpleasant memory.

  Isaacs gestured to a blue chair that looked like it was made of plastic. “Please, have a seat.”

  Connor sat across from the psychiatrist, who seemed to want him to go first. Instead, he kept quiet, and the two stared at each other for a prolonged period before Isaacs once again broke the impasse. “Your father tells me you’ve been going through a bit of a rough period. Is that true?” Connor looked away as the doctor continued. “I was sorry to learn that your mother passed away recently.”

  “She didn’t ‘pass away.’” Connor met the psychiatrist’s gaze and held it. “She bled to death.”

  Isaacs flinched uncomfortably before changing the subject. “After your mother’s death, you and your sister moved in with your father. How do you like the countryside?”

  Connor lowered his eyes. “It’s OK, I guess.”

  “Do you get along well with your father?”

  “I love my family. I would never do anything to hurt them.”

  The psychiatrist’s lips formed a thin smile. “That’s not what I asked.” He studied Connor through his glasses with a cold, clinical look, the way a biologist might study a cell under a microscope. “I understand that not long after moving into your new home, you discovered a dead body. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “To have encountered death so frequently at this young age . . . it’s only natural it would cause emotional disturbances, frustration, even depression. But you have to be careful not to let these feelings get out of control.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about the scarecrow. When did you find it?”

  “Our first night at the farm.”

  “Interesting. And when did you discover what was in the attic?”

  “A few days later.”

  “And since then, strange events have been occurring on the farm? Things that you’ve been blamed for . . . acts you believe are being perpetrated by the scarecrow?”

  Unsure how to respond, Connor bit his lip. As far as he was concerned, the less he said, the better. There was no way this man would ever believe him if he shared the truth about what was happening on the farm. If he thinks I’m crazy, he’ll want to put me in a hospital somewhere. Then there won’t be anyone around to protect the others.

  “I’m afraid. My mom used to check on me whenever I got scared, but now I’m in a strange new house, and I feel so alone. Like it’s just me, all by myself, in the dark.” It was the truth, even if it wasn’t what the psychiatrist was looking for. Connor actually felt better sharing the emotions he’d been experiencing, though he was careful to stay away from mentioning the scarecrow.

  They talked for several minutes until eventually Isaacs looked down at his watch. “I think we’ve had a very productive conversation today, Connor. I want to thank you for opening up to me. You’re taking a big step by sharing your feelings.”

  He led Connor back to the waiting room, where the rest of the family appeared to have grown anxious.

  “How’d it go?” Buddy patted him on the shoulder as Russ spoke with Dr. Isaacs.

  “Your son has been through a great deal,” Connor heard the psychiatrist tell his father. “I believe he’s suffered from some generalized anxiety for a long time. It’s clear that Connor has come to associate the deaths he’s experienced with the imagery of the scarecrow. It terrifies him, so much that he is literally afraid it will come to life.”

  “I can take the darn thing down if it’s really that important,” Russ said.

  “I think that removing the scarecrow at this point would only reinforce that there was something to fear. As he acclimates to these experiences, he will naturally begin to lose his dread of the scarecrow.”

  “What about his behavior?”

  “It’s perfectly normal for someone his age to act out, considering what he’s been through.” Connor looked away when Isaacs noticed him watching them. The doctor lowered his voice, but not enough that Connor couldn’t overhear the rest. “In my opinion, it’s a clear-cut case of Adjustment Disorder. Connor would benefit from monthly sessions in this office and weekly grief counseling. Is that available in your area?”

  Russ frowned. “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “It might also be helpful to spend more time with children his own age.”

  “He says he’s made friends with a girl from one of the neighboring farms, and he’ll start school next week.”

  “That’s very good.” Isaacs started to turn away.

  “Doctor . . . what if all this doesn’t help?”

  “If the problem doesn’t resolve itself after several sessions, we can always attempt a trial run of benzodiazepines as an alternative.”

  “OK.” Russ and Isaacs shook hands. “I appreciate your help today.”

  Buddy lifted Megan from her chair. “Come on. Time to go home.”

  Back to the scarecrow, Connor thought miserably.

  * * *

  Night was still hours away when they returned home, a distinction that seemed to matter less and less with the passage of time. Black clouds covered the sky as far as Connor could see and hinted at storms to come. Crows flew over the truck as it bounced along the gravel road, toward the farmhouse that loomed beside the distant barns.

  Bandit ran out to meet them at the road’s end, where the empty house cast a shadow over the driveway. Connor got out and trudged up the porch to the house while Buddy helped Russ out of the truck.

  “Where are you going?” Russ shuffled toward the house on his crutches.

  “To my room. I want to be alone for a while.” Connor went inside before Russ could make a response. His bedroom door yawned open at the top of the stairs, awaiting his return, as if it knew he would never truly leave the farm. Overwhelmed, Connor shut the door and sank to the floor.

  The nightlight, the sole source of illumination in the bedroom, emitted a dim glow from the electrical outlet opposite his bed. It taunted him, reminding him of his own weakness and dependence on it. A crow appeared outside the window and began pecking on the glass with its beak. Connor grabbed the nightlight and hurled it at the window. The crow spread its wings and disappeared into the impending tempest.

  The nightlight bounced off the window and landed underneath the bed to leave the room in near-total darkness. Panicked, Connor threw himself across the floor and scrambled blindly for the nightlight under his bed. When his fingers brushed against the nightlight, one of the floorboards wobbled beneath his touch. Connor traced the outline of the floorboard, which seemed to be missing a piece. His hand closed around the missing edge, and to his surprise, the floorboard lifted out of
place. He reached into the hollowed-out space and touched something that felt like a key, which sat atop a dusty book of some kind. Connor removed the hidden items and laid them on his bed before switching on the ceiling light.

  The metal key shimmered under the light. Connor picked it up and turned it over in his hands. This was the key to the locked door in the barn. Blackwell had locked away the scarecrow and hidden away the key where no one would find it. Somehow, that had managed to contain its evil—until Connor accidentally discovered the scarecrow after his fall.

  He turned his attention to the book. Connor swept the dust away and opened the cover to the first page.

  ‘Journal,’ read the letters printed across the top. At the bottom, the name ‘Jasper Blackwell’ was scrawled in oversized cursive lettering.

  Connor almost had to remind himself to breathe. He flipped to the next page and began to read, one entry after the next, sometimes reading those that seemed important more than once.

  July 5

  I stumbled across the strangest thing today in the old barn—a scarecrow. I found it when moving hay out of one of the rooms. I have no idea how it got there. Someone must have left it there. The thing looks sinister enough, but it might be the answer to the problem with the crows. I have a notion to hang it in the field.

  July 10

  The corn is coming in nicely. Still too many crows in the field. I had the most peculiar dream last night. I can’t remember all the details, but I’m certain the scarecrow was in it. Odd.

  July 14

  I had the dream again.

  July 17

  I think I’m growing paranoid. I could swear that someone was following me around as I was working on the farm today. Thought I heard it too. I’m sure I’m imagining things. It was probably just the wind. The farm can be an awfully lonely place sometimes. It’s probably best not to dwell on such things. On a positive note, I’ve been trying to capture my dreams through sketches. They’re helping me to remember the things I miss when I wake. I’ve never felt this much creativity. It’s like something has stirred in me. Oh, and last night, I dreamt the scarecrow came to life.