The Whispers of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  This book is for Connor, Megan, and anyone who is afraid.

  Now a word was brought to me stealthily, my ear received the whisper of it. Amid thoughts from visions of the night, when deep sleep falls on men, dread came upon me, and trembling, which made all my bones shake. A spirit glided past my face; the hair of my flesh stood up. It stood still, but I could not discern its appearance. A form was before my eyes; there was silence, then I heard a voice . . .

  —Job 4:12-16

  Chapter ONE

  Sometimes he wondered if the walls had eyes.

  Connor advanced down the narrow corridor with caution, the hall pass clutched tightly inside his whitened fist like a talisman against evils unseen. His footsteps echoing faintly against the sanitized tile floor produced the only sound he’d heard since the door to his fifth-grade classroom slammed shut behind him.

  “Why did they have to put the bathroom so far away?” Talking to himself always comforted him.

  The closest bathroom was located in the sixth-grade wing of the middle school where he’d started the new school year only a few weeks ago. The sensation of pressure in his bladder continued to build as he walked, and Connor quickened his pace. He’d managed to hold it until sixth period, but the urge to go had become overwhelming.

  At eleven years old, Connor was one of the younger students in his new school. He was short for his age and rail thin. Most of the girls he knew had more muscle than he did. It didn’t take long for the school bullies to notice the shy, bookish student. Knocking his textbooks out of his arms or off his desk quickly became a favorite pastime. Lately, they’d stepped up their aggressive behavior, stalking him whenever he strayed from the teachers’ sight. Connor, in response, did his best to avoid being found alone and vulnerable to their attacks. He tried not to use the bathroom if he could help it. Most of the time he was able to last until the final bell announced the end of seventh period. Today was not one of those days.

  The march from his history class to the lavatory felt like an eternity. How differently the school appeared when empty. The lockers and hallways took on an eerie quality in the absence of the noisy horde of students and teachers. Connor pictured what the school might look like at night—and promptly wished he hadn’t. He shut his eyes as if to banish the image from whence it came, back to that shadowy netherworld of the mind where fears lurk.

  There it was again—the sensation that he was being watched. A quick look around confirmed he was alone. There were no teachers or students anywhere in sight. Connor knew what his mother would say. She’d tell him something about being brave, but she didn’t understand what it was like to live with fear. Nothing scared her, at least not that he could tell.

  The restroom was abandoned. The only noise was the air streaming through the vent. Connor exhaled with relief. When he was finished inside the stall, he unlatched the lock, hastily scanned the room, and scurried to the sink. Ice-cold water rushed from the faucet, prompting an involuntary shiver. When he looked up at the mirror as he reached for the soap, Connor saw someone standing behind him.

  A group of someones, to be exact.

  Connor spun around, the faucet still splashing at his back. Three eighth graders lingered near the restroom’s entrance. Two of their number, both oversized gargoyles, approached. Derek, a tall and muscular boy with puffy hair and a rueful smirk, hung back and leaned against one of the stall doors.

  “Look who we have here.” Derek’s eyes swept over Connor like a bird sizing up prey. “We’ve been looking for you, string bean. I almost thought you were going to give us the slip today.”

  “No such luck,” said another of the bullies.

  Connor shuddered. The two bullies closest circled him, loyally waiting for their orders. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he stood rooted to the spot. His muscles felt leaden and immobile. He couldn’t even open his mouth to voice a plea.

  Derek’s grin faded. “Hold him.”

  In an instant, their arms were fastened around his own, pinning him in place. Connor’s paralysis broke, and he tried squirming out of their grip, but they were either too strong or he was too weak. Derek landed a powerful punch to the stomach, and Connor dropped to his knees.

  “Please . . .” He stumbled to his feet. Derek’s next punch caught him square in the eye. Connor tumbled back toward the sink, where water spilled to the ground as the faucet ran over.

  “I’ve just got one question.” Derek forced Connor’s head toward the overflowing sink. “How long can you hold your breath?”

  The breath caught in Connor’s throat. His struggles accomplished nothing. The water was inches from his face—he could feel it dampening his hair.

  Before he could answer Derek’s question, a long, shrill screech clanged across the intercom. The bell announcing the end of sixth period rang loudly through the halls, and the sound of students exiting their classes echoed in the background.

  One of the oversized bullies voiced concern for the first time. “The teachers will be coming soon.”

  In the mirror, Connor saw Derek’s face contort in anger. For a moment, he thought Derek might continue regardless; but then Derek seemed to think better of it, and his hold relaxed. Connor slumped to the floor, gasping for breath.

  Derek leaned down and whispered in his ear. “If you tell anyone about this, you’re dead.”

  Connor only nodded, too frightened to speak.

  “Oh—and clean yourself up.”

  One of the others threw a paper towel at Connor’s feet. The trio left the bathroom, their laughter lost among the noises of the hallway crowd.

  * * *

  Connor sat alone inside the school’s reception room. It was a small, brightly lit area separated from the main lobby by a wall of clear glass. Aside from the typing coming from the secretary’s adjoining office, all was once again quiet. The receptionist was gone from her desk across from where he sat. But, unlike the path to the restroom, the reception area offered a sterile, unthreatening loneliness. No one would dare attack him in such proximity to the principal’s office. That provided some measure of comfort, at least.

  Connor studied the mural painted in vivid colors across the walls depicting cheerful students performing a variety of activities, most of them sports related. The mural made the school seem like a much happier place. Connor understood the truth—it was all a lie.

  A kind voice cut short his musings.

  “Connor?” His mother stood in the doorway, a visitor’s badge pinned to her shirt. Concern lined her face. Megan, Connor’s six-year-old sister, held their mother’s hand and watched quietly. His mother swept across the room in an instant and took his face in one hand, brushing his hair with the other.

  “Honey, what happened?” She softly touched his eye. “I spoke with the vice principal. Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” Connor’s eye no longer stung quite as much. He felt more shaken up than anything else. “Can we go home?”

  His mother bit her lip and looked across the reception area. She started to say something, but then her expression softened. “Of course we can.” She squeezed his shoulder and smiled brightly. “Why don’t we have pizza for dinner tonight? Double pepperoni—your favorite. What do you say, kiddo?”

  Even given the day he’d had, Connor couldn’t help but grin. “That sounds good to me.” He grabbed his backpack and trailed closely behind her.

  By the time they returned home, the bullying incident was already a distant memory. Connor did his homework in the living room, cross-legged, the contents of his backpack scattered across the floor
. Megan sat beside him at the coffee table, immersed in her crayons and coloring book. Occasionally he caught her sneaking a glance in his direction, and she always met his gaze with a wide smile. When he finished his homework, he borrowed some crayons and colored with her. Although he felt a little old for it, he knew his sister enjoyed when they worked together.

  The doorbell declared the deliveryman’s arrival, and a few seconds later their mother called them into the kitchen for dinner. Megan dropped her crayons in excitement and ran to the kitchen. Connor followed, licking his lips at the familiar scent of his favorite pizza. There was even soda waiting on the kitchen counter, a rarity from his health-conscious mother. Connor scooped up two slices of pizza from the cardboard box and plopped down at the table beside Megan.

  His mother’s voice was warm. “Enjoy. There’s ice cream for dessert. And I thought after dinner we might watch a movie—if you’ve finished your homework, that is.”

  Connor nodded eagerly as he chewed a mouthful of pizza. His mother always knew how to cheer him up after a bad day. It never ceased to amaze him. She seemed to possess a kind of magic power for bringing happiness, and he loved her for it. He was old enough to have realized that life wasn’t always as easy as his mother made it appear. She worked hard to pay for their modest house and to support Connor and Megan on her own, and she never complained.

  Megan tugged on his arm to get his attention so she could tell them about her day as she picked the pepperonis off her pizza.

  Connor stole them from her plate and listened, though his gaze remained fixed on their mother, who had hardly touched her food. The familiar smile to which he was accustomed had faded. “Are you feeling all right? You haven’t eaten anything.”

  She laughed, and the smile returned, but it seemed false somehow, as if for his benefit. “I guess I’m just not very hungry tonight.”

  Although her words didn’t match her face, Connor shrugged and leapt out of his chair to get some ice cream. After dessert, they watched his favorite movie. When they were finished, Connor brushed his teeth while his mother assisted Megan in getting ready for bed. In the bathroom, Connor stared at his reflection, which showed a prominent swollen eye from where Derek’s punch had connected. He counted himself lucky the eye wasn’t swollen shut as he inventoried his full appearance. His dirty-blond hair was buzzed short on the sides, though it was left long enough on top to hint at the possibility of curls. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and several blue veins were visible upon closer inspection. Turning off the sink, Connor flexed his arm and frowned disappointedly at the result. He sighed and turned away to change into his pajamas and head for bed.

  Wind howled loudly outside the house. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the soft thunder waking above the clouds. Connor knelt at the nightlight plugged into the wall across from his bed and flipped the switch. To his surprise, the light didn’t come on. Connor’s pulse raced. He never slept in the dark. Never.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Connor looked up and saw his mother standing behind him. She was the only person he trusted to share his fears with. She never laughed at him or made him feel like a baby. He nodded at the nightlight. “It’s broken.”

  “Do you think you’ll be OK if I leave the bathroom light on?” She pointed toward the hallway.

  “I guess.”

  “OK then. Tomorrow I’ll stop by the store to get a new nightlight.”

  When Connor slid under the covers, his mother bent down and kissed him on the forehead before tucking him in.

  She paused at the doorway. “I know things have been rough at school lately, but it will get better. And if it doesn’t, you can always talk to me about it. I love you, honey. Goodnight.”

  “Night.”

  * * *

  Thunder woke him. Rain pelting the house in torrents obscured the world of night outside his window. Connor stirred, instantly alert.

  He squinted in the darkness. Save for the sliver of bathroom light that crept under his bedroom door, it was pitch black. The room took on a malevolent quality in the absence of light. The dark transformed ordinary furniture and toys into strange, unfamiliar shapes and forms. The shadow of the towering oak in the back yard stole into his room, its twisted branches crawling across the walls, reaching for him.

  Lightning flashed, and he noticed his closet door was open. Connor frowned. Hadn’t the door been closed before he lay down? He couldn’t remember. Then a thought occurred to him: What if I’m not alone?

  “Hello?”

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard something answer his call, though it was masked by the rush of wind. When the lightning struck again, he was almost certain the closet door had opened farther.

  “Mom?”

  There was no response.

  When the lightning flashed a third time, he saw a face in the closet, watching him. Connor’s eyes went wide, his heart stopped, and he let out a panicked scream.

  His mother entered the room, spilling the dim bathroom light into his room behind her. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  He pointed a trembling finger at the closet. “There’s something in there.”

  His mother turned on the light switch in the closet. The ‘face’ he had seen, a soccer ball, rolled to the ground at her feet. She switched off the light. “Oh, sweetie. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She knelt at the bedside and took his shaking hand in hers.

  “I thought I saw a monster.”

  His mother hugged him tightly to her chest. “I’d never let any monster hurt you.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You’re safe with me, kiddo.”

  “I know.” Connor bowed his head. “I’m sorry I get so scared.”

  His mother touched his chin and looked him in the eyes. “Everybody gets scared sometimes. Being brave doesn’t mean you don’t get scared. It means you don’t let fear stop you. Now, get some sleep.”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  His mom opened her mouth to speak but stopped in place.

  “Mom?” As Connor looked on, his mother grabbed her throat and started to choke. Lightning flashed, and blood erupted from her mouth. She pitched forward, vanishing in the shadows beside his bed. Connor flung the covers away and jumped down. His mother lay on the floor at the foot of his bed, blood gushing over her mouth and chin. “Mom!”

  She reached toward him, coughed, and tried to clear her throat, instead sputtering blood. “Connor.” Her voice was frighteningly weak. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  Then she twitched and fell still.

  Chapter TWO

  The truck hit a bump in the road, and Connor opened his eyes.

  Sunlight streamed in through the windshield. Megan was napping peacefully, her head resting on his shoulder. Connor kept still so as not to wake her. Better to allow her the refuge of her dreams, even if only for a moment longer.

  The breeze rustled gently through her hair. She looked serene in her slumber, like an angel. It reminded him of their mother.

  It’s you and me now, he thought, watching her sleep.

  The pickup continued inexorably along the country road, which seemed to go on without end. Connor couldn’t remember the last time he spotted another vehicle. There was only the constant presence of the open fields and pastures on either side of the road for company. It was as if they’d fallen off the edge of the world.

  His father was in the driver’s seat. One hand rested lightly on the wheel, and the other dangled in the breeze outside the open window. If his father noticed that Connor was awake, he gave no sign of it. The man kept his eyes fixed squarely on the road ahead.

  Connor studied his father in relative quiet, apart from the wind, the roar of the diesel engine, and the murmur of country music playing in the background. Other than their eyes—a nearly identical shade of blue—he and his
father could hardly have been more distinct in appearance. His father’s hair was smooth black, with only a peppering of gray at the temples and over his stubble to hint at his age. His skin was browned from long hours spent under the sun. He wore a plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, faded blue jeans, and dirt-stained boots.

  Russell ‘Russ’ Stevens had always been an ephemeral presence in Connor’s life; a birthday card here, a Christmas present there, and nothing of substance. A brief attempt at reconciliation several years prior had almost faded completely from Connor’s memory. Once a month there was a check in the mailbox for Connor’s mother, their father’s name on the envelope, but that was the extent of it.

  Except now his mother was gone, and Connor found himself sitting in a pickup with the stranger that was his father, traveling across the country to their new home. Yes, better to leave Megan to her dreams indeed. Reality was a nightmare.

  A peculiar scent clung to the truck’s dust-covered interior. The air conditioner didn’t work properly, which Connor suspected was the reason his father kept the windows down. The truck was old—besides the musty smell, the worn-down seats and missing radio dial made that clear enough—though one might never guess judging from outside. In contrast to the interior, the vehicle’s white exterior was almost spotless. Connor wondered what that said about his father.

  “You’re awake,” Russ said without turning his attention from the road, his gaze unwavering.

  “Where are we?”

  “We crossed the state line into Kentucky after you dozed off. We’re almost there.”

  Connor sighed and looked out the window without making a response, his curiosity having dissipated. They’d been traveling for over a day. The journey from Maryland to Kentucky was almost nine hours, not counting time for traffic, eating, and restroom stops. Megan had hoped they would cover the distance by plane, though Connor, afraid of heights, was secretly glad they hadn’t.

  Russ turned the truck onto a winding, uphill road, and the scenery began to change. Trees sprouting up around the truck obscured the sunlight as they cast their leafy shadows across the lonely road. Through gaps in the trees, Connor saw small homes and farms clustered together below the hill.