The Whispers of the Crows

by Kyle Alexander Romines

  Something moved within the rows nearby, and Megan fled, crying silently at her doubt that there was any way out.

  * * *

  Over the last few weeks, Connor had spent more time inside the cornfield than anyone. But now, under the cover of night and the rising fog, he found himself lost again. His hand stung with pain where he had cut himself. However painful, the wound had accomplished its task. He was free—free to find his family, whatever came next.

  The ghosts were gone, but the whispers were still there, if dormant for the moment. He hoped that by smashing the jack-o’-lanterns he had set the spirits free. If the scarecrow was still tied to the farm, it couldn’t hurt anyone beyond the land’s boundaries. And maybe—just maybe—it could be destroyed.

  At the moment, he was only worried about surviving and finding the others. He remembered seeing his father and sister outside the cornfield in the moments before the vision had taken over. He prayed they were still alive. If they could just make it until dawn . . .

  Unable to see much amid the fog, Connor ran from row to row. His foot caught on something stirring across the earth, and he fell on his stomach over a huge figure. A soft moan rang out from the person underneath him, and Connor saw his uncle lying on the ground, covered in mud and blood.

  “Uncle Buddy?”

  “Connor?” Buddy said weakly.

  Connor helped prop him up. “You’re alive.”

  “For now. The thing must have thought I was dead. You were right about the scarecrow.” When Buddy shook his head, he appeared uncharacteristically old. “I knew something was wrong. I should have said so.”

  Connor grabbed his uncle and shook him. “We have to find the others. We need to get out of here.”

  Buddy climbed to his feet and stood, wobbling slightly, so Connor took his hand to steady him. They moved together through the rows. “Can’t see a thing in this fog.” Buddy removed his cigarette lighter from his pocket and held the flame in front of himself—revealing the scarecrow’s face hidden in the darkness.

  “Run!” Connor said. They tore through the stalks, moving like they were possessed. Buddy fell behind and vanished, and soon Connor was alone again, the scarecrow following somewhere within the fog.

  * * *

  Russ swore under his breath and instantly regretted it. That thing was still out there—with his kids, no less. Futile words were of no use and would probably only draw the scarecrow to him. He crawled along the earth, inch by inch, and blindly grabbed fistfuls of mud in the dark. The fog had come out of nowhere, though he guessed that it, too, was the scarecrow’s handiwork.

  His shirt was soaked in blood. Russ leaned over and gingerly touched the wound across his chest. The scythe had left its mark. He pushed himself up and used the stalks to right himself. He took a couple steps forward before his knees buckled, and he collapsed against the mud. The pain in his leg was so unbearable that his eyes watered. His crutch was lost somewhere outside the cornfield.

  A twig snapped in the fog, and he perked up and listened for the sound’s source. Other than the low rush of the wind against the corn, the night was quiet. He slid forward in the dirt, little by little, and crawled between the rows. Moonlight glistened over an object that lay in the mud beneath one of the stalks. Russ reached out, and his hand closed around the cool metal barrel of the shotgun he’d dropped earlier. He’d picked it up the moment he saw through the illusion of Liz, but the crows had pushed him into the field before he could fire at the scarecrow.

  A scream echoed somewhere in the night. Russ snatched the shotgun and forced himself to his feet. Connor? He winced from the pain it took to stand on both legs. He limped forward slowly and clutched the shotgun as if it were his misplaced crutch.

  Something moved quickly through the rows, stirring the cornstalks ahead as it drew closer. Russ swung his shotgun up and took aim at the dark figure approaching. He let out a sigh of relief when Megan burst through the stalks in front of him.

  “Daddy?”

  Relieved he hadn’t pulled the trigger, he lowered the shotgun and hobbled to her side. He felt as if he’d nearly had a heart attack. “I’m here.” He stared in the direction she had come from. “Is it following you?” He kept his gun at the ready.

  She hid behind him and followed his gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “What about your brother? Do you know where he is?”

  Megan shook her head as the fog rose around them. The cornstalks parted again, and the scarecrow stepped out of the rows, its dead gaze set on them.

  Chapter TWENTY-TWO

  Connor had finally found his family, but the scarecrow had reached them first.

  When Connor heard Russ’s voice coming from close by, he slowed to a halt and turned in the direction of the sound, where the scarecrow’s outline was faintly visible in the fog. Ignoring the corn in his way, Connor ran straight toward them.

  “Stay back!” Russ shouted, brandishing the shotgun as the scarecrow advanced. A gunshot exploded into the night, and the scarecrow disappeared.

  “Is it dead?” Connor heard Megan’s voice from inside the fog.

  “Keep away from it.” The worry in Russ’s voice was palpable.

  As Connor neared their voices, he saw Russ approach the scarecrow through gaps in the stalks. The thing lay flat on its back, and it had dropped the scythe. Russ kept the shotgun trained on the scarecrow, which lay motionless in the dirt. He prodded it with the tip of the barrel, and suddenly the scarecrow reanimated. Its hand curled around Russ’s boot and pulled him off his feet as Megan screamed. Russ tried swinging the gun around, but the scarecrow crawled on top of him, closed a gloved hand around his neck, and began to squeeze.

  Connor burst through the cornstalks with a fierce cry and took the scarecrow by surprise. He stabbed it in the back several times in rapid succession with the pocketknife Russ had given him, and dust and ash poured from the tears in the cloth on its back. The scarecrow released its hold on Russ and turned on him. It ripped the knife from Connor’s hand and batted him to the ground. The scarecrow loomed over him, and Connor scrambled back, defenseless.

  The shotgun’s blast echoed again and knocked the scarecrow off the ground.

  “Come on.” Russ helped Connor to his feet. As the three hurried away, the scarecrow rose again behind them.

  “This way.” Connor led the others through the dense cornfield.

  “Don’t look back.” Clearly in pain from the abuse suffered by his injured leg, Russ hobbled behind.

  Just when all hope seemed lost, they spilled out of the cornfield and into the night, where the glow of the farm lights pierced the receding fog. The scarecrow emerged behind them, hundreds of crows looming in the sky at its back. Russ took aim at the birds and fired into the cloud. Three birds dropped dead out of the sky, but seemingly impossibly, more took their place. Russ fired a second time before lowering the gun, aware of the futility. They backpedaled toward the largest of the barns, but the massive wooden doors were shut, and there was nowhere left to run.

  The scarecrow seized upon a pitchfork that had been left in one of the hay bales.

  “Keep away!” Russ warned, but the scarecrow drew closer.

  An engine roared to life somewhere in the night. A blinding pair of headlights fell over the scarecrow. Connor looked past the scarecrow and saw the enormous tractor approaching. When the scarecrow looked over its shoulder, it let out an evil hiss and raised the pitchfork like a scepter. Scores of crows descended from above and cracked the protective glass cab, but the tractor kept going, gathering speed.

  “Get out of the way!” Russ shouted, and they jumped out of the tractor’s path.

  The tractor hit the scarecrow at full speed and smashed through the barn doors. The tractor and scarecrow disappeared inside the barn, where the tractor finally came to rest against the rear wall. Russ
beckoned for him to stay, but Connor wandered through the gap in the barn doors.

  The tractor’s engine still hummed in the background. Its headlights filled the barn with light. Streams of gasoline leaked from punctured drums and spread across the ground.

  The door to the tractor opened, and Buddy tumbled down the steps. His clothes were ripped from the crows’ attack, and blood stained his long gray beard.

  “Uncle Buddy!” Connor called as he started toward his uncle, but Buddy held up a hand to warn him away.

  “It’s in here.” Buddy looked around the barn for the scarecrow, which had seemingly disappeared. Without warning, the scarecrow moved out of the shadows and ran him through with the pitchfork. Connor screamed in terror as he watched Buddy land on the hay-strewn floor. He felt his father grip his shoulder and pull him backward. The scarecrow ripped the pitchfork free of Buddy’s gut and turned in their direction but paused when it heard Buddy’s mocking laughter. The scarecrow raised the pitchfork again over Buddy and stopped abruptly when it noticed the silver cigarette lighter clutched in his outstretched hand.

  “Go to hell, you wretched thing.” Buddy held the lighter above the flowing gasoline. The scarecrow let out a shriek and swung the pitchfork down, but it was too late. Buddy flicked on the lighter, a triumphant look on his face, and the flame shot out across the floor toward the canisters of gasoline.

  “Run!” Russ shouted.

  A deafening roar sounded behind them as the barn exploded. They landed in the grassy field, and searing heat flowed wildly behind them. Connor looked up at the barn, which smoldered like a giant torch.

  “He did it.” Russ watched the barn burn. “He saved us.”

  Connor stared at the barn, overcome by loss.

  But, at least it was over.

  Or was it?

  He squinted in the firelight and noticed a blackened figure adorned by fire in the barn’s doorway. As he looked on in terror, the scarecrow staggered out of the barn. Its coat had burned away, and half of its body was withered and charred by the fire. Incinerated crows lay dead at its feet. It was clearly weakened by the fire, but it hadn’t been destroyed.

  The remaining crows rushed down toward the scarecrow from the heavens, accompanied by the whispers, and the scarecrow’s stitched mouth opened and swallowed the darkness whole. The flames died away, and the scarecrow let out an angry cry and started toward them.

  Russ looked back at the driveway, where he’d parked his truck. “You have to make a run for it.” He clutched the shotgun. “I’ll stay here and ward it off.” He grabbed his children in a tight hug. “I love you. I wish I’d told you earlier.”

  Connor stood firm. “We’re not leaving you. We’re going together.”

  Russ grimaced as Connor helped him to his feet, and together they hurried down the trail that led to the house. The familiar path, which they’d followed dozens of times before, now seemed to stretch on without end.

  The sky began to lighten above as dawn approached. Behind them, the scarecrow lurched forward, propelled by its hatred and malice. When they neared the truck, passing the old well, Russ reached into his pockets for the keychain.

  His eyes widened as he drew his hand back, empty. “They’re not here. I must have dropped the keys.”

  Before Connor could answer, the scarecrow grabbed Russ and slammed him against the truck. The shotgun fell to his feet. The scarecrow seized Russ by the hair on the back of his neck and flung him to the ground before glancing from Connor to Megan, the latter standing with her back to the well.

  “Keep away from her,” Russ said as the scarecrow stepped forward. He crawled between Megan and the scarecrow, but the thing came at them both, undeterred.

  The sun peeked out from the clouds. Smoke began to rise from the scarecrow, and its movements started to slow.

  “Stop,” Connor said, and when the scarecrow turned its head to look at him, Connor leveled his father’s shotgun. He shook, the gun wobbling in his hands. His finger trembled, unable to pull the trigger.

  The scarecrow reached toward him, shadows pouring from its body in the sunrise, and Connor remembered his mother’s words.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” He pulled the trigger, and the recoil knocked him off his feet.

  The bullet caught the scarecrow in the chest. Connor heard a pop, and the scarecrow came apart, disappearing into the well. Connor allowed the shotgun to tumble from his hands, and he crawled over to his father and sister.

  “It’s over,” Russ said. He held them close as the sun rose over the farm.

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  He hadn’t heard the whispers in over a year.

  Connor walked down the trail and whistled into the wind—an old tune his uncle used to hum. A light cover of snow blanketed the earth, winter having rendered the farm truly breathtaking. He smiled when he noticed the snow angels Megan had left on the ground. The puppy his father had given him for his birthday, already a natural herder, nipped at his heels as they approached the black barn.

  He entered the barn and switched on the overhead light. It was warmer inside, but his breath was still visible in the chilly air. The horses stuck their heads over the stall doors when they saw him coming. Connor climbed up to the loft and returned with his arms full of hay squares. He fed each horse as the puppy scampered excitedly between his feet. The horses’ water had frozen over, so he took a stick and broke through the ice to allow them to drink once more.

  “Come on,” he said to the puppy and shut the gate behind them as they left the barn. “It’ll be bedtime soon.”

  The family had moved to the new farm a few months ago, after all the business associated with the Blackwell Farm had been resolved. It had taken some time for law enforcement to clear Russ of wrongdoing, but in the end, there simply hadn’t been enough evidence to charge him with a crime. That, and a well-placed phone call from the Gray Hollow Sheriff’s Department. The deaths of Buddy Stevens, Liz Hayes, and Tommy and Keith Evers would forever remain an unsolved mystery. Russ said he had always wanted to live in the mountains, so the family packed their bags and headed west in search of a fresh start.

  Snowflakes continued to flutter down as Connor trekked back, his footprints erased by the falling snow. Smoke rose from the chimney into the sky. The house’s lights glowed in the evening like a beacon among the mountains, beckoning him home.

  Music played within the house’s walls. Megan had taken up the violin and proved surprisingly adept at it for her age. Russ, who had inherited Buddy’s banjo, sometimes joined in on the act, and although Connor wasn’t particularly musically inclined himself, he enjoyed listening to them play. He pulled off his scarf and gloves. The hint of the old scar where he had cut himself with the pocketknife—a fading reminder of all that had transpired the previous year—was barely visible. Connor kicked the snow off his boots and went inside.

  The music stopped. Megan scooped the puppy into her arms and laughed as it covered her face with kisses. His cheeks flushed from the cold, Connor grinned and sat by the fireplace.

  “Look what Daddy brought back,” Megan said.

  Connor noticed an enormous Christmas tree pressed against the wall. “Is that a real tree?”

  “Yes sir,” Russ said. “This year, we’re doing Christmas right. I was hoping we might decorate it tonight before bed.” He set a box full of ornaments and trimmings on the floor. He walked with a slight limp, as his leg had never fully healed.

  Together, they set about the task.

  When they were finished, the trio stepped back and enjoyed the results of their labors, side by side. They watched the sunset from the living room while sipping hot cocoa by the fire. When Megan grew tired, Russ carried her up to bed. Connor, also spent from a full day, patted his dog’s head and walked to his room, looking forward to a good night’s rest.

  He t
urned off the light and went to bed.

  Acknowledgments

  This novel was a long time coming.

  The Keeper of the Crows was published in 2015, but I originally wrote that story in 2010, over the course of my final year of college. Aside from a faint notion I might pen a sequel one day, there really wasn’t a firm story in mind. So, I set the idea aside and focused on other projects.

  Then Keeper was released, and everything changed. I was unprepared for how well the book would be received, especially in my hometown, which has shown me so much support. Most of the time, when someone offered praise for the book, it was usually followed by a question about if I was working on a sequel.

  So, I decided to give some serious thought to what a sequel to Keeper might look like.

  I quickly realized that if I was going to return to such a familiar concept, I wanted to tackle it in a completely different way.

  The Keeper of the Crows had a broad scope, with multiple subplots and supporting characters. By the end of the novel, the entire town was threatened by what one of my editors once referred to as the “Scarecrow Apocalypse.” I knew that I wanted a sequel to be smaller in scope, more personal and intimate. That meant fewer characters and a slower buildup. Instead of an army of scarecrows, there would only be one.

  It also meant a new set of characters. For fans of Thomas Brooks and company, don’t worry—as Thomas’s brief appearance here hints, I still have plans for him and the characters from the first book.

  It was important to me that the sequel to Keeper be its own story. But I still didn’t know what I wanted the story to be about.

  Around this time, I discovered that two people close to me struggled with fear and anxiety, especially at night. When I listened to stories of how their minds played tricks on them, distorting their perceptions of reality, The Whispers of the Crows was born.