Frowning, Connor turned around and pushed against the wardrobe with all his strength. To his surprise, it moved just enough to expose what lay hidden on the other side.
It was a thin, plain wooden doorframe with no door. Entranced, Connor stood facing the open doorway. He couldn’t explain it, but something inside of him—no, something outside of him—beckoned from beyond the threshold, just like the whispers he’d heard in the barn and cornfield. Unable to resist the call of whatever waited on the other side, Connor went through the doorway.
He trudged up a set of stairs, one step after another, toward a shadowy landing at the top.
It’s an attic, he realized as he reached the landing. His skin crawled with fear.
A strange, unpleasant smell hung about the room. A thick layer of dust covered the attic, which was packed full of old trunks, boxes, and furniture. Cobwebs, highlighted by punctuating flashes of lightning outside a single window, dangled everywhere.
But Connor hardly noticed any of those things. Instead, his gaze fixed on something carved into the wall. He crept forward, his heart gripped in terror and beating louder than the thunder. Lightning flashed again to reveal the uneven, jagged letters.
Keeper.
Connor spun around, and in the storm’s light, he saw dozens of etchings across the attic’s walls. Everywhere he looked, the same word had been carved, over and over again.
Keeper.
Connor stumbled backward, and something brushed against his head. He glanced over his shoulder and found himself face to face with a boot. When he took another step back and tripped over an overturned chair left on the floor, Connor fell flat on his back. He stared at the chair, then turned his eyes toward the ceiling.
Above, what was left of Jasper Blackwell hung from the rafters, a rope around his neck.
Chapter SEVEN
Connor couldn’t remember exactly when the sound of sirens died away.
Even then, red and blue lights continued their dance across his bedroom walls. Somewhere outside his window, a pair of police cruisers sat idly as the police combed every inch of the secret attic. Night had fallen over the farmstead, though given the storm, Connor could hardly tell the difference.
The wardrobe had been pushed aside to the room’s corner to fully expose the doorway. He sat at the base of the staircase that led into the attic with a vacant expression etched across his face. Connor felt numb—removed from the situation somehow, as if he were a thousand miles away. A chill had settled over the house, and his teeth chattered violently. He wasn’t entirely sure it was because of the cold. Connor pulled the blanket draped across his shoulders tighter and clung to it for warmth. He was dimly aware that Buddy had given him the blanket, a simple act of kindness that nevertheless meant the world to him.
But now Buddy was keeping Megan entertained downstairs, and Connor was alone again. At least she hadn’t seen what remained of the house’s previous occupant. It had been her voice that stirred Connor from his trance when he heard her coming up the stairs to find him as part of their game. Mercifully, she had been spared from the sight of Jasper Blackwell’s skeletal remains. Connor, however, had now seen two human corpses, including his mother’s.
It seemed that death had followed him to the farm.
Heavy boots thudded overhead, and he heard the policemen coming down the stairs. His father followed at their side with a somber look. They all ignored Connor, who moved out of their way without a word.
“I called the bank’s representative before you arrived,” Russ said. “She should be here any minute. According to her, Blackwell was missing for some time.”
One of the officers, a stout man with a thick mustache, stared at the empty stairway for an extended pause. “We searched the house a couple months back. We didn’t find this doorway at the time, or any other real sign of him. It’s hard to believe he’s been here this whole time.”
“You didn’t think to check the attic?”
“We didn’t know there was one. It looks like Blackwell removed the attic door from its hinges so he could drag the wardrobe backward to cover the entrance. He went through a lot of trouble to avoid being found. By the way, how long have y’all been living out here?”
“My kids have only been here a few days now.” Russ folded his arms across his chest. “My brother’s been here a bit longer, taking care of the farm. Any idea how long Blackwell’s been up there?”
The officer scratched his head. “That’s what doesn’t make sense. Blackwell’s been missing for months, but the corpse is more or less intact. I can’t make heads or tails of it. We’ll have to wait and see what the coroner says. Still, there’s no doubt it was a suicide.”
The second officer didn’t seem convinced. “What about those words carved into the wall? Something about all this doesn’t sit right with me.”
His colleague sighed. “Blackwell was a bit of a recluse. This fits with all the stories about him losing his mind.”
The second officer looked to Russ for answers. “What about you? Does ‘Keeper’ mean anything to you?”
Russ thought about it for a moment and shook his head. “Nothing at all.”
“What about the drawings in the basement?” When Connor spoke, the three men took note of him for the first time. He pulled on his father’s sleeve. “Did you tell them about the scarecrow?”
“What’s he talking about?” the officer with the mustache asked Russ.
“My son has an overactive imagination.” Russ looked Connor over, and his eyes betrayed a hint of sympathy. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks. He and his sister just lost their mother.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Maybe it would be better if he waited downstairs with his sister,” Russ said. “Do you have any more questions for him?”
Before the officers could answer, the screen door opened and slammed shut below. Connor heard someone coming up the stairs, and within moments, an anxious Liz Hayes stood at the bedroom doorway, breathing heavily. Liz looked from the officers to Russ, and her gaze fell on Connor.
She knelt in front of him and wrapped her arms around him in a hug, her clothes damp from the rain. “You poor thing.” She released him after a moment and looked back at the others. “I came as soon as I heard. Is it true?”
“I’m afraid so,” answered the officer with the mustache. “It’s Blackwell. He’s upstairs.”
Liz put her hand to her mouth. “My God. How awful.”
Russ put his hand on her shoulder—an uncharacteristically reassuring gesture, Connor noted absentmindedly. The second officer left the room, and Connor soon saw him approaching one of the police cruisers outside the window.
“We’ll have a few questions for you, ma’am,” the remaining officer said. “And we’ll need to take a statement.” The driving rain reverberated against the roof.
“Of course,” Liz said. “I didn’t know him very well, but I’m happy to help any way I can.”
“Thank you.” The officer politely tipped his wide-brimmed hat.
“Come on, Connor.” Russ prodded him along with a gentle palm against his back. “Let’s go downstairs.”
They passed the second officer—who had returned with an empty body bag in tow—on their way to the kitchen, where Megan and Buddy waited. Bandit lay underneath the table. The dog growled at the strangers moving through the house but stayed where he was.
“I wasn’t imagining things.” Connor felt disappointed his father hadn’t backed him up with the police. “There was something wrong with those drawings.”
Russ let out a deep breath and pulled Connor aside, out of earshot of Megan and Buddy. “Mr. Blackwell was a very sick man.” He pointed to his head. “Sometimes, when people’s minds aren’t working right, they do things that aren’t normal. There’s nothing su
pernatural about it.”
“I can’t get it out of my head,” Connor confessed. “Every time I see him, I think of Mom.”
“I’m sorry you had to see that. I know things have been hard on you since you came here. Heck, part of that’s probably my fault. No one ever taught me how to be a father . . .” Russ trailed off and stared past Connor for a short interval. “I know what it feels like to lose a parent. I was fifteen when my dad died.”
Connor was stunned by his father’s sudden admission. Russ had revealed more about himself in the span of the past few minutes than he had in the entire time Connor had known him. “How did he die?”
“It was a heart attack. He was alone when it happened. We found him facedown in a field, the tractor in a ditch.” Russ bit his lip. “My dad was my best friend. We did everything together on the farm. I guess you could say I’ve tried to avoid getting close to people since then. Except your uncle—I can’t seem to get rid of him.” A gentle chuckle followed the last remark.
“I’m sorry he died.” The storm quieted for a moment, making Connor’s soft words sound louder. “I’m sorry you had to be alone.”
“I’m not alone. And neither are you.” Russ hesitated for a moment. Then he reached down and hugged Connor for the first time. It was a brief embrace, ending almost as soon as it began. “We should get back to the kitchen.” Russ pulled away awkwardly, as if unsure the hug had been the right thing to do. “Megan and Buddy will be wondering where we’ve gone to.”
As Connor followed his father into the kitchen, his sister and uncle waiting at the table, he suddenly found he didn’t feel quite as lonely as he did before.
* * *
He watched the kitchen clock’s hands continue their inexorable march until they completed one circle, then another. If he concentrated, he could hear the ticking over the thunder. An eternity seemed to pass before the police finally carried Jasper Blackwell, his body shrouded in a black bag, down the stairs.
Connor remained in the kitchen while Russ exchanged final words with the officers and Liz Hayes in the parlor, and Megan played with Bandit and Mister Bear on the floor. Too drained of energy to join in, Connor simply watched. He glanced at his unusually silent uncle, who held an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
The screen door shut, and Russ, accompanied by Liz, returned to the kitchen. Connor heard the police cruisers vanish down the gravel road.
“Is it settled?” Buddy asked Russ.
“For now.”
“Good.” Buddy stood up. “I need a smoke. Miss Hayes.” He nodded politely as he passed her.
“Please, call me Liz.”
Buddy smiled on his way out of the kitchen, and Bandit pursued him into the next room.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Russ asked Liz.
“Water, thank you.”
Russ plucked a glass from the cupboard next to the sink and filled it to the brim with water. He handed the glass to Liz, who placed it on the table.
“Hello, Megan.” Liz offered both children a warm expression.
Megan stuck her head out from beneath the table. “Hello. Mister Bear says hi, too.”
Russ looked at the clock and let out a sigh. “Look at the time. I hope you don’t mind waiting while I put the kids to bed.”
“Of course not,” Liz said.
“Come out from under there, Megan,” Russ said. “It’s time for bed.”
“OK.” Megan walked to her father and slipped her free hand into his, and Russ did not let go.
“Are you coming, Connor?” Russ asked.
Connor cast a shy glance back at Liz. “I don’t want to sleep up there tonight.”
Russ nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll have Buddy fix up the sofa for you.”
“Can you bring my nightlight down?”
“Nightlight?” Russ looked confused for a second but then nodded. “Sure.” He disappeared up the stairs, leaving Connor alone with Liz.
“I’m sorry you were the one to find him. You know, you’re very brave.” There was a kindness in her smile, and he almost wanted to believe her.
“My mom used to say that. But I don’t feel brave at all.”
When Liz started to reply, the screen door opened again, and Bandit ran into the kitchen, jumped on Connor, and licked him happily.
“Good boy.” Connor petted the dog as Buddy trudged up the stairs. The blue heeler wagged his tail and sat beside him.
Moments later, Buddy reentered the kitchen, a stack of blankets folded across his arms. “Russ tells me I’m to make up the sofa for you.”
Connor waved farewell to Liz on his way out of the kitchen.
“Bye then,” Liz said. “I hope you sleep well.”
After what he had seen in the attic, Connor felt as if he would never sleep again. Still, the day’s events had left him exhausted. While Buddy prepared the sofa for him, Connor trekked up the stairs and brushed his teeth, opting to sleep in his clothes rather than enter his room to grab a set of pajamas. His uncle tucked him in when Connor returned. Buddy switched off the light, which cast the room in near-total darkness, with only the light coming from the kitchen to keep the shadows at bay. Thunder shook the house, and Connor clutched his blanket, afraid. He heard someone approaching and shut his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
A pair of boots rattled across the floor. Connor took a peek and saw Russ kneeling by the outlet, where he plugged in the nightlight. His father rose and crossed the room to Connor’s side. He brushed Connor’s hair with a calloused hand, probably thinking his son was already asleep.
“Thank you,” Connor whispered. He felt his father’s hand inch back, but it remained on his head for a few moments longer. Then Russ left the room without a word.
Connor closed his eyes and settled in for the night. The sofa was more comfortable than he expected, but his eyes, all too aware of what lay above, sought out the dark path that led upstairs. He concentrated on the rain. Before long, the individual raindrops coalesced into a continuous background hum, and he could make out the voices in the kitchen.
“Do you think he’ll be OK?” The voice belonged to Liz.
“I don’t know,” he heard Russ answer, and Connor detected the undercurrent of genuine uncertainty in his tone.
“You’re very sweet with them.”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t been much of a father to either of them, Connor especially. Their mom and I split up when they were little, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“What happened?”
“We were young, and I was stupid,” Russ answered. Connor imagined him shrugging. “I wasn’t made for life in the city. But when she passed, I was the only family the kids had left. Connor actually saw her die. I don’t think he’s gotten over it yet. And how could he?”
“It must be so hard on him, losing his mother at such a young age.”
“He’s a good kid though. He does his chores on time and looks out for his sister.”
Listening to the soothing murmurs of their voices, Connor began to grow tired.
“It’s late,” Russ said. “You’re welcome to stay if you don’t want to drive back tonight. I can make a pallet on the floor and you can have my bed.”
“That’s very thoughtful, but I should probably be going soon.” There was a short pause in the conversation. “You’re a good man, Russ Stevens. Better than you give yourself credit for, I think.”
I like her, Connor decided, stifling a yawn.
* * *
The hour was late. An eerie stillness had settled over the farmhouse, a sole beacon of peace amidst the deluge outside. An assault of endless waves of rain pelted the house’s walls and windows. The floors creaked and moaned periodically, though not unusually for such an aged structure. The furnace’s gentle whisper rose from the c
ellar and leaked through the vents to muffle the thunder. All the souls within had fallen silent.
Except for the single nightlight in the living room, the lights had been shut off all across the house. The white luminescence cascaded off the living room walls and held back the darkness that surrounded the boy sleeping on the sofa. Unable to find peace—even in his sleep—Connor shifted uneasily in his slumber. Blankets and pillows unconsciously kicked or pushed aside during the night were strewn across the floor. Bandit slept loyally at his feet.
As Connor twisted and turned, thunder resounding in the background, the nightlight began to flicker. Lightning flashed outside the parlor window, and the nightlight went out, leaving the house in utter darkness.
Connor murmured softly, his cries lost to the storm. In his nightmare, the scarecrow had waited for so long. He had woken it from its slumber, and little by little, it fed off his fear.
Connor tossed and rolled, his forehead damp with sweat. “No,” he muttered, as if trying to wake himself. Images of Jasper Blackwell’s corpse, the body swinging to and fro on the tattered old rope, flashed through his mind.
The crows left their perches, one after another, flocking to the cornfield in a black swarm. Thunder cracked in the heavens, and lightning struck the earth, illuminating the sinister-looking rows of corn and casting an eerie glow in the place where the scarecrow hung. Crows spread out everywhere across the cornfield: on the misshapen wooden cross, over rain-filled puddles of mud, and on the towering stalks that swayed under the torrent above.
“No,” Connor whispered again. Each image in his mind’s eye brought him closer to the scarecrow. Its masked face threatened to swallow him whole. Raindrops slid down the lifeless straw husk, the gloved hands nailed to the cross, and the brim of the hat sloped downward across its forehead.
Connor’s fears gushed into places better left alone, an endless reserve of strength for the scarecrow to draw upon. Strength enough to come to life.
A low hiss sounded through the cornfield. With a start, the scarecrow raised its head and looked up into the storm. Its hand clenched into a fist, pulling against its restraints. Inch by inch, the rusty nail slid from the plank until it tumbled into the mud beneath the cross. With a violent tug, the scarecrow tore itself loose from the second nail. Lightning flashed again, and the scarecrow stepped free, hulking among the stalks’ shadows. Then its gaze settled on the distant farmhouse, and it staggered through the rows toward the house, its hands dragging along the storm-ravaged leaves.
The Whispers of the Crows Page 6