The Keeper of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  “I told you, I was looking for the wallet.”

  “Earlier you told me you didn’t touch him at all. You propped him up, didn’t you? You moved the body.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s two lies now, Al. Things aren’t looking any better for you.”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I’m not saying you did, but we’re going to keep you here until we figure out what really happened inside that vehicle. If someone saw you get into the truck with Jeffrey Daniels while he was still alive, it won’t be hard for someone to put together a case that you killed him for his money. If that happens, you’ll need a lawyer. I know you can’t afford one, so I’ll talk to Judge Underhill about appointing one for you.”

  “Thanks, Sheriff Woods. And thanks for the towels and mattress, too. You’re a real nice lady.”

  If circumstances weren’t so serious, she might have laughed. The absurdity of a potential murder suspect complimenting her during an interrogation was almost too much to bear. As she stood up to leave the room, Heavy opened the door.

  “Thomas Brooks is here to see you. I’ll take Pittman back to his cell if you want to speak with him.”

  “Thanks,” Jezebel replied as she stepped into the hallway. Immediately, she could tell the journalist was angry about something.

  “Thomas,” she said. “We received the toxicology report. The victim wasn’t over the legal limit, regardless of all the cans on the floorboard. His blood-alcohol was elevated, though.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Thomas asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  She didn’t appreciate his tone. “Excuse me?”

  “You know very well Al Pittman didn’t kill Jeffrey Daniels. He definitely isn’t capable of the cruelty inflicted upon the body. I haven’t even lived in Gray Hollow six months, and I know that.”

  “That’s your opinion.” She stopped. “Wait a minute. How did you know that the victim’s name was Jeffrey Daniels? He wasn’t even from Gray Hollow.”

  “Thanks for keeping me in the loop,” he said sarcastically. “Don’t worry. I’m more than capable of doing a little research on my own. I’ve been following up on your leads for you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Does the name Jack Grayson ring a bell? The man who runs the feed mill? Did you interview him to confirm Pittman’s story?”

  “I didn’t have to,” she said defensively. “We found Daniels’ wallet in Pittman’s jacket, which proves he lied to me.”

  The news seemed to catch Thomas off guard. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether or not to press the subject further.

  “When I spoke with Jack Grayson, he told me Al raced back to the mill on his bike so he could call you. He didn’t borrow any money to make the call, which sounded strange. He was using the cash he got out of the wallet.”

  “Which means he lied about not touching the body,” she repeated.

  “Jezebel, the man is homeless. Of course he would lie about looking for money. Why do you think I give him tips for information?”

  The use of her first name did not go unnoticed by Jezebel. She had done him a favor by keeping him involved, and now he was telling her how to do her job. Thomas was dangerously close to crossing a line from which he couldn’t return.

  “His prints were all over the body,” she said, hoping that an explanation would give him the chance to reconsider his approach.

  “Did you find any evidence of blood on Al? If he cut Daniels’ throat he should be covered with it.”

  She paused. “No. We didn’t.”

  “Then you should let him go. Pittman hasn’t done anything wrong, and he certainly didn’t kill Jeffrey Daniels.”

  That was the last straw. Jezebel swept a strand of hair out of her face, glaring at Thomas.

  “How dare you try to tell me how to do my job? In case you haven’t noticed the badge on my chest, I’m the sheriff here, not you.”

  Thomas laughed derisively. “It’s the same story, all the time. You’re so worried about ‘doing your job,’ that you forget about justice.”

  Jezebel had to battle the urge to strike him. “Before I make you wish you had never showed up here tonight, let’s both stop pretending you care about justice, Mr. Brooks. It’s certainly not why you’re interested in this case.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know your type. You like to complain about the system, but we’re the ones who keep you safe. That’s why Al Pittman is staying put. I’m not going to risk this town’s safety to prove a point to you.”

  “Do you really think Al Pittman killed Jeffrey Daniels?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

  “No,” she said. “I’m keeping him off the streets until we figure out what’s actually going on. I thought you wanted to help with that. If you don’t like the way I run this office, though, you’re free to leave at any time. By the way, I don’t know how they do things where you’re from, but I have a title and I would appreciate if you used it. It’s Sheriff Woods.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Thomas said. He threw his arms up in the air in exasperation. “Just so you know, Sheriff—Jeffrey Daniels isn’t a stranger to Gray Hollow.”

  “You have exactly one minute to explain what you meant by that.”

  He laughed again, the sound of which caused her to see red. “You can read all about it in the paper.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “And you can spend the night in jail for obstruction of justice.”

  Thomas wore a look of utter disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me. Those charges will never stick.”

  Jezebel guessed he wasn’t used to being challenged, but that was about to change. “Deputy Randall,” she said. “Why don’t you show Mr. Brooks the inside of one of our cells?”

  ***

  Dusk ensnared the landscape, cloaking the horizon in a gray pallor. The night was waiting.

  Something else was waiting too. An unearthly howl traveled across the sky, carried by the winds. The howl echoed over the fields of Gray Hollow. It was the sound of death.

  Dry leaves scattered along the edge of a decaying forest. The forest was incredibly old, home to trees twisted in horrifying positions as if diseased somehow. Their branches stretched out like fingers with talons, waiting to seize unsuspecting prey. Thickets of razor sharp thorns and briars ran the length of the forest, perpetually shielded from the light.

  A winged shadow descended from the sky. The crow landed in the center of a patch of rotting pumpkins outside a small cave. Surrounded by brush and fallen leaves, the cave was almost impossible to see. Even in the daylight, the inside appeared completely sable.

  As the sky grew black, the darkness within the cave radiated outward. It reached out its consciousness, searching for its vassal. The power was still there, buried in the old cornfield miles away.

  The darkness felt the energy of the first sacrifice. Slowly it woke from its slumber. Its return would be much swifter. Decades had passed, and it was hungry. Soon, its servant would feed it once more. That, too, would take time. The darkness did not have the strength to revive the thing buried within the cornfield. Not yet.

  When the vassal rose again, chaos would be unleashed on Gray Hollow. More blood would be spilled, offered up to the entity within the cave. It had kept the boy alive for a reason.

  Soon, its servant would unleash its dark children on Gray Hollow, and night would be filled with the taste of vengeance.

  It was almost time.

  Chapter Four

  The night was pitch black by the time Thomas reached his house. After turning off the car’s ignition, he lingered quietly for several minutes. Only by divulging what he’d learned about Jeffrey Daniels had he narrowly avoided spending the night in jail. Thomas realized too late he had taken the wrong approach with Jezebel Woods, who didn’t seem swayed in the slightest by his apologies. Even so, there was an unmistakable look of realization on her face when he’d said Jeffrey’s
name.

  A quick glance at his cell phone showed no evidence of a response from Eve. Not that he expected one.

  “What a day,” he mumbled. He opened the car door and saw a pair of eyes shimmer from behind a bush in front of his house. The reporter fumbled through his passenger seat for the remains of the sandwich he was eating on his way to the mill earlier. He tossed the sandwich to the black cat, which sniffed the bread halfheartedly. Choosing to ignore the sandwich, she brushed against his legs, purring.

  “Sorry. That’s all I’ve got this time,” Thomas said to the stray. A few days after moving to Gray Hollow, he’d been napping on a lawn chair when the cat came slinking by. Needless to say, Thomas was startled when he woke to find himself staring into the feline’s eyes. In the beginning, the two tolerated each other out of necessity. The house he purchased was in a small neighborhood on the edge of town; the stray could have come from anywhere. As time wore on, Thomas warmed to the cat. Maybe it stemmed from loneliness. Whatever the case, theirs was the perfect arrangement. He wasn’t home long enough during the day to take care of a house cat.

  “I’m home,” Thomas said caustically when he entered the dark hallway. The house was a single story, and he had been amazed at the cheap price when he purchased it. Rates in Gray Hollow were extraordinarily low compared with what he was accustomed to in the city.

  Aside from a fan spinning in the next room, the house was utterly quiet. Of the two houses next to his, one was currently empty. When Thomas arrived, the owners had a ‘for sale’ sign out in front. The sign hadn’t budged during his stay. The other house belonged to a traveling salesman who was rarely home.

  The floorboards squeaked beneath his feet as he made his way over to the light switch. He flipped on the light, illuminating a room devoid of all but the most necessary furniture. At least everything was clean.

  Thomas walked into the kitchen and turned on the overhead light. He set his things down on the table before fixing a glass of ice water, then sipped at the drink while wrestling with the questions gripping his mind. The image of the crows in the window kept coming back to him. It was the one detail he had no explanation for. Thomas rubbed his temples in an effort to clear his head. The pill bottle loomed on the counter like a seductive temptress. For as long as he could remember, Thomas struggled with insomnia. Most nights he was able to drift off in a few hours or so. Sometimes it was worse.

  As a writer, it was Thomas’ memory for detail that plagued him. When he went to bed his mind remained in high gear, continuing to process thoughts from earlier in the day. He just couldn’t stop thinking. Considering how busy as he was that afternoon, Thomas knew he wouldn’t have an easy time getting to sleep. In the space of one day, he managed to alienate the sheriff, his boss, and Eve. Thomas pushed his notes away. He didn’t want to think about the death of Jeffrey Daniels any more.

  Jezebel was right to be angry with him. When am I going to learn to keep my mouth shut? Thomas wondered. Her comments about his motives were dead on. Why had he marched into the station and demanded the release of Al Pittman? The behavior was unlike him. Thomas wanted to believe it was out of a desire for justice, but in his heart he knew otherwise. There wasn’t any harm in keeping Pittman in jail for the time being. No, Thomas needed to prove to himself that he was devoted to fairness, to honesty. That was probably because he wasn’t actually devoted to either of those things.

  “That’s the thing about facts,” one of his journalism professors said to him once. “Sometimes they’re ugly.” Which led to the inherent contradiction of twenty-first century journalism, in Thomas’ opinion. People wanted a narrative, not a collection of facts, and nine times out of ten they wanted that narrative to be entertaining. That was fine with Thomas; he was very talented at advancing causes. That talent eventually morphed into a thorn in his side. Thomas found it hard to keep himself out of his articles, only able to ignore the urge for a time. Every person, even a journalist, was subjective at the core. Surely he couldn’t be expected to avoid all biases.

  Thomas shook his head. This was the last thing he wanted to think about now. He rose from his chair and grabbed the bottle on the countertop. He swallowed a sleeping pill. The kitchen went dark as he flipped off the switch on his way to the bedroom. Despite the pill, sleep proved elusive. Memories of his past life continued to plague him. Not so long ago, he had everything he always wanted. Then his perfect life collapsed around him.

  He only had himself to blame. When a woman came forward claiming that she was involved in an extramarital relationship with a popular attorney general who was speculated to run for Governor of New Jersey, he should have known the story was too good to be true. Thomas wasn’t convinced of her story, but she produced suggestive text messages on her phone. He also found a witness who said she could substantiate the claims—an old woman in the alleged mistress’ apartment.

  Thomas was anxious to write the article. He wanted to get it out before any other reporters caught wind of the story. It was, after all, a twenty-four hour news cycle. At the same time, he knew he was operating with very slim evidence. Thomas went against his reservations and published the story online anyway. Visions of awards and recognition danced in his head. He didn’t know his Achilles heel was about to do him in.

  “I stand behind what I wrote,” he had said firmly to Amy Schiller, the editor-in-chief. Schiller was a stern and demanding woman in her mid-fifties. The story was even more of a success than Thomas anticipated. At first, the attorney general tried to deny the story, but another source confirmed that the texts had indeed come from his phone. His wife left him, and the man was followed everywhere he went by the media. In a tragic twist, the man committed suicide.

  There was only one problem with the story. It was completely false. The elderly woman admitted she wasn’t sure who exactly entered the “girlfriend’s” apartment. Her eyesight wasn’t what it once was, she claimed. The text messages indeed came from the attorney general’s phone, but were mistakenly sent by one of the aides who managed his many cell phones.

  Thomas’ career was destroyed. His so-called sources were flimsy at best, and he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He was fired almost immediately. Thrust into a limelight he never wanted, Thomas quickly discovered none of the other prominent media outlets would hire him. The resulting bitterness and conflict in his relationship with Eve led quickly to their breakup. A part of him would always resent Eve for not sticking by him when times were rough.

  Sure, she said all the right things, made all the right excuses. Things such as, “You know what your problem is, Thomas? You don’t trust anyone. You think you’re alone, and you’re not. You’re pushing me away.” Deep down, however, he couldn’t shake the feeling that she left him because he wasn’t successful anymore.

  Did I even want her to stay? The medicine was taking effect. If she didn’t really love me, maybe it was for the best.

  He was stuck in a town called Gray Hollow, and it was all for the best? A part of him yearned to return to the city, to his past life. Yet could it ever be the same, after suffering such disillusionment? Thomas worked hard during the day, which left little time to consider such possibilities. It was only at night that he was forced to face himself.

  Hollow Happenings was a small paper, but at this point he was willing to take whatever job he could. Thomas worked day and night to prove himself to his new editor. All he needed was one big story. Thomas felt his eyes close. The world was growing dimmer, and it was becoming more difficult to remember the events of the past clearly. Finally, he gave up and yielded to sleep.

  ***

  The scratching started again. In the darkness of the barn, something scraped against the frayed wood of the sealed door. Upon hearing the noise, a curious mouse sniffed at the dirt underneath the door.

  Tap. Tap.

  The sound grew steadily stronger. Slowly, the door started to pull back. Stale air gushed from the cobweb-covered room as the dark contents of the room were exposed to the n
ight air.

  The mouse scurried out of the barn. As it passed the farm equipment and ran toward the cool grass, the mouse found itself staring into the eyes of a large golden retriever outside the barn.

  “Get back here, Lizzy!” Gary yelled, calling for the dog. The dog hesitated, stared at the mouse, and then ran back in the direction of the farmhouse.

  Save for the dim light provided by the sliver of moon, the sky was perfectly black. A coyote howled somewhere in the distance. Then everything fell silent, like the night was waiting for something.

  Gary stood under the flickering porch light, gazing across the farm. Subconsciously, he felt something calling to him, beckoning. The farmer narrowed his eyes, a grim expression on his face.

  “What’s gotten into you?” he asked Lizzy. He rubbed the dog’s thick fur.

  Gary stared at the Halloween decorations. In the night, the once benign decorations seemed infinitely more threatening. His skin prickled as his imagination played tricks on him. Logan Randall’s visit unnerved him a great deal more than he cared to admit.

  A hand wrapped itself around his shoulder. Gary jumped back, startled.

  “Are you coming in?”

  His wife, Mary, stood in front of the screen door. She shuddered in the cold and folded her arms across her chest.

  Get a hold of yourself, Gary thought.

  “In a few minutes,” he said. Lizzy curled up at his feet, watching the two adults with interest. The dog periodically glanced back at the barn, a gesture neither of them acknowledged.

  “Is something bothering you?”

  He was tempted to laugh. After all these years, he could never predict what his wife would do in any given situation—but she could read him like a book.

  “No,” he lied. “I just like watching the farm, that’s all. We had a good harvest this year.”

  Truthfully, something was bothering him. He had little inclination to share the subject with his wife. The secret was his burden to carry. Alone.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “It’s freezing out here. I don’t know how you stand it.”