The Keeper of the Crows Read online

  Kyle Alexander Romines

  To my parents—the first one is for you.

  “And it came to pass at noon that Elijah mocked them and said, ‘Cry out loud: for he is a god; either he is lost in thought, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is sleeping and must be awakened.’ ”

  —1 Kings 18:27

  Prologue

  The days were growing shorter. Dry leaves abandoned the crooked husks of trees in droves, scattered by searing winds. Autumn had crept upon Gray Hollow slowly, draining the life from lush cornfields and pastures.

  Jeffrey Daniels eased his truck onto the dirty gravel road without bothering to signal. There was no one around for miles anyway. The truck, an old 1980 Ford F-150, left a thick trail of dust in its wake as it traveled along the road. It took little time for a layer of dirt to cling to the truck’s faded brown paint. Jeff didn’t care; the vehicle was a relic passed down from his father. If he possessed the money, he would have replaced it long ago. Unfortunately, a series of bad investments, coupled with his failure to advance beyond a high school education, left Jeff without the funds necessary for the upgrade.

  Things weren’t always going to end up this way. Jeff was a star athlete in high school, and what he lacked in intellect he made up for in work ethic. That was something else he picked up from his father. A widower, Jeff’s demanding father taught him the value of hard work. Many of his earliest memories were of working the fields. After his senior year of high school, Jeff left Gray Hollow and never looked back. Until now. He was finally unable to resist the call of the town—and of the Alistair farm.

  Jeff hastily brought the aluminum can up to his lips and choked down the frothy liquid.

  “Ugh,” he grunted. It was warm. The vehicle bounced over the gravel rocks, causing him to spill the remainder of the beer on his jacket. “Stupid truck,” he muttered as he glanced at the gas gauge. There was barely enough fuel to get back into town. Jeff hurled the empty can down on the floorboard and brought the vehicle to a halt. A rusty metal gate barred his entry to the farm. Jeff almost laughed when he saw the locks fastened around the wooden post.

  Like anyone would want to break in here, he thought.

  The sun waned above, casting an orange glow on the farm. An old barn stood nearly twenty feet beyond the fence. Like his truck, the barn’s red paint was faded, and planks of rotten wood contributed to a general state of disarray. A cornfield rested just outside the barn, with a small grassy hill overlooking the whole property. Jeff grabbed a cooler from the back of his truck and hoisted it over the gate adjoining the wooden fence. A wave of reluctance washed across him when he rested his hands on the cold metal. After hesitating, Jeff shook his head and yielded to the silent calling that prompted his return to the abandoned farm. It wasn’t like anyone was going to find him out here. The farm lay deserted since the last member of the Alistair family passed away almost twenty years ago. The government now owned the property. All the while the Alistair farm lingered in limbo, waiting. Waiting for him.

  “Here goes nothing,” Jeff said before he began climbing over the fence. A blast of freezing wind sent a chill through him, but it was too late to turn back now. He trudged through thick piles of multi-hued leaves. Dusk was fast approaching over the October horizon. Jeff stared into the thick rows of corn. He remembered all too well what secret lay hidden within. That the corn would still be growing in an ordered pattern after all these years disturbed him for some reason. He caught another chill, this one not from the cool breeze.

  The government probably planted them, he thought. Even as the words formed in his head, Jeff found the probability unlikely. He didn’t understand why the town would waste money by planting corn in an abandoned field. As he rounded the corner, Jeff spotted a dark figure in the cornfield. He nearly jumped out of his skin before realizing the figure wasn’t human. A stitched amalgamation of cloth and straw hung from a pole that towered above the rows.

  “It’s just a scarecrow,” he said to himself, letting out a sigh of relief.

  Don’t be so uptight, Jeff. The guilt was making him nervous. The sense of relief died when he recognized the design of the scarecrow. Even from this distance, the straw and cloth obscured by the corn in front of him invoked a strong response. He knew all too well who stitched it together.

  From what he could see, the scarecrow was marred by time. There were torn patches in its clothes, the colors having faded following years of sun and rain. Somehow the passage of time made the scarecrow seem even more sinister. A snapping sound to his right startled him. Jeff turned and saw a crow perched on one of the cornstalks. The bird fluttered onto the brown grass.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked the bird. The crow stared up at him with eyes of swirling blackness. He kicked at the animal, which flew back into the cornfield.

  Great, now you’re talking to birds, Jeff thought. He frowned and trekked off angrily toward the hillside. The grass under the solitary tree looked at least somewhat inviting. Jeff settled against the tree, greeted by an oppressive silence. What did you expect, coming back here? You can’t change anything.

  Dealing with the tension the only way he knew how, Jeff grabbed a can from the cooler. The liquid fizzed when he popped the top. He threw his head back and let the golden beer flood down his throat.

  “Twenty years,” Jeff said aloud, as if it made the words more real. The drink wasn’t having its desired effect. Rather than fading away, the memories were becoming sharper. He drove all the way from Virginia for resolution. Instead, the tragedy of twenty years ago was just as fresh in his mind as it ever was. Jeff finished the beer and reached for another can.

  He looked up at the darkening sky. A deep red hue now dominated the horizon, signifying the impending sunset. Muffled screams echoed in his head, and tears burned his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean it,” he whispered. “Honest.”

  The crow was standing in front of him again, its head cocked in Jeff’s direction. He tried to meet its gaze, but he couldn’t. It was just like all the others. Watching him. Judging him.

  “You don’t know me!” he shouted, hurling the can at the bird. He could see his breath in the cold autumn air. The can sailed over the bird and rolled out of sight in the tall grass. This time the bird didn’t move.

  A second crow appeared near the base of the hill, followed by a third. Jeff’s skin started to crawl as he noticed dozens of the birds forming a circle around the hill. He looked up, following a shadow overhead. The tree’s empty branches were covered in even more black crows, staring down at him in unison. The cold air biting his nose let him know this was no delusion induced by his beverage of choice.

  With a rustle of wings, the birds began rising into the air. Striking out at him from all directions, the crows enveloped him in a thick cloud, nipping at his skin and clothes.

  “Get off me,” Jeff tried to yell as he struggled to his feet. The swarm muffled his voice as he fled from the tree.

  This is crazy, he thought. It was as if the birds were diseased—or possessed.

  Jeff stumbled into the cornfield in an attempt to escape. He tore deeper and deeper into the rows in an effort to find refuge.

  Then they were gone. The sound of beating wings vanished, replaced by the eerie silence of the wind against the corn husks.

  “Thank God,” Jeff muttered while trying to catch his breath. He leaned against a wooden post. That was when Jeff realized something was seriously wrong. He stared up at the empty post.

  Hadn’t the scarecrow been there before?

  In the sky, the sun was beginning to set. Jeff realized he needed to get back to the truck before nightfall. A hiss echoed behind him. He spun around
but saw nothing. Footsteps sounded from between the rows. Something was inside the shadowy labyrinth with him. Jeff heard the hissing sound again. This time, out of the corner of his vision he spotted a figure dart past one of the corn rows. Was that laughter he heard?

  He was sweating now, his heart pounding with fear. A rustling sound came from his right. This time Jeff thought he saw a hat on top of the figure, which ran with a limp. The shape vanished again. Jeff was too scared to care if he was imagining things. He just knew he needed to get to the truck.

  Before he could react, he felt a painful sensation in his left leg. His knees buckled, and Jeff fell forward to the ground. Something had cut him. Jeff looked quickly in every direction in the darkening cornfield and searched for the unseen assailant.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry!”

  Then he heard the voice.

  “Jeffrey,” something called to him through the cornstalks. The voice was little more than a soft whisper, but he knew it right away. It was the voice he heard in his dreams.

  Then rugged cloth scraped past his face, and something jagged slashed against his throat. Jeff gagged and blood began pouring from the cut. He held his right hand tightly against the wound and forced himself to stand. Fear coursed through his veins, and he knew if he didn’t get help soon, he would die. Jeff lumbered desperately through the stalks until, miraculously, his truck came into view.

  The birds rematerialized in the distance on the horizon. As he emerged from the cornfield, they immediately began flocking toward him. He ran as fast as he could to reach the truck and battled to maintain focus. His body threatened to betray him. Despite his best efforts, blood seeped across his fingers. Jeff flung the door open and stumbled into the front seat. He thrust the keys into the ignition, his rearview mirror reflecting the approaching flock of crows.

  The truck refused to start. Jeff cursed and tried again. This time the engine roared to life. Headlights illuminated the impending night as he pressed his foot against the gas pedal, racing against time. Unseen, the creature of straw watched him from the cornfield. It retreated back into the rows until becoming one with the darkness.

  The truck bounced over the gravel road, gaining speed with every second. Jeff felt hazy, but the memory of the inhuman voice in the cornfield kept him awake. He wondered if he would ever be able to sleep again. The sense of unease did not lift when he cleared the Alistair farm. More blood was pouring from his wound, and there was not another car in sight. He reached for his cell phone to call for help. In his haste, he knocked the phone below his seat.

  Only the pale gleam of the crescent moon lit the black night. Rows of trees lined both sides of the curvy road. Jeff grappled for the phone, taking his eyes off the road to search for it. The moment he succeeded in grabbing the phone, the injured man looked up—just as a flock of crows crashed against the front of his truck, smashing through the windshield. Jeff swerved and felt the Ford tear through a metal guardrail. His vehicle spun out of control and plunged into the forest below. The massive tree was the last thing he saw.

  Part One

  Awakening

  Chapter One

  “Are you sure?” Thomas repeated. Surprise registered on his face.

  “Absolutely,” replied the voice on the other end of the office phone. “I was riding my bike out in the country when I saw it. There was a truck crashed into a tree in the forest just off Black Gnat Road.”

  Thomas leaned back in his chair, searching out his notepad from amongst the clutter of his desk. He snatched a pen and cradled the phone against his ear in a delicate balancing act. “Just riding your bike?” he asked, listening to the silence on the other side. “You weren’t looking for anything else, were you? I’m not a sheriff’s deputy. You can tell me the truth.”

  “No, I swear. I mean, I stayed the night behind the mill, but that’s it. That’s just between us, right?”

  “Sure,” Thomas said, somewhat skeptical of the man’s claims. Al Pittman was Gray Hollow’s town drunk, a less than illustrious position. “To be clear, you saw a wrecked truck and just wandered down?”

  “Maybe I thought there could have been some money or something in the truck, but I didn’t know there was a body in it.”

  Finally, the truth comes out. Thomas smiled. As a reporter, he had always been able to pry information out of reluctant witnesses. In another life, he might’ve made an excellent lawyer.

  “You’re positive he was dead?”

  “Yeah,” the man replied. “His throat was cut. There was blood everywhere.”

  “When exactly did you find the body?”

  “I’m not sure. It took me awhile to ride into town to make the call. Around nine this morning, maybe?”

  Thomas scribbled the details down quickly on the notepad. As he stood up, he attempted to nuzzle the phone underneath his chin while he grabbed his things. He swung the brown leather jacket around his shoulder.

  “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

  “Well, I called the sheriff’s department first. I didn’t want to get in trouble.”

  Thomas tried to shake the feeling of disappointment. He had hoped to reach the area first. Now he would have to tiptoe around a crime scene.

  “You got my money?” Al questioned.

  “Just grabbed it,” Thomas said. He stuffed his wallet into his jeans pocket. “And, Al? Thanks.”

  He couldn’t believe his good fortune. If Al was telling the truth, that was. Some might consider it inappropriate to be so animated at the possibility of finding a dead body, but Thomas had been waiting for months for something like this to happen.

  This could be my ticket back to New York, he thought.

  “I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder to Max, the editor of Gray Hollow’s only newspaper, Hollow Happenings. It still nearly killed Thomas to see his name under the corny masthead.

  An unseasonably cold wind hit him as he stepped outside, disheveling his curly black hair. His pale blue eyes appeared darker in the shade provided by the trees outside the newspaper offices. He was surprised that the leaves had clung to their branches as long as they had, as they seemed to be in constant struggle to survive Gray Hollow’s seemingly unending drought. In that respect, they reminded him of his own bad luck.

  Thomas Brooks was never the most traditional journalist. Others often used that as an insult, but he viewed it as a strength. The actual inner-workings of a newspaper were far different than the false reality depicted in film. Thomas discovered this earlier than most as a member of his high school’s newspaper staff. The lackluster experience almost soured him on journalism altogether. Then everything changed.

  The student coordinator of the city anti-drug coalition visited Thomas’ school periodically to discuss the dangers of substance abuse. Her name was Kandy Wells, a young woman whose personal life told a different story from the staunch anti-substance abuse policies she advocated. Not only did she abuse various narcotics, but she and her boyfriend sold prescription pills to college students at parties. Thomas found the hypocrisy staggering. Although everyone in his small high school knew about the rumors, no one ever did anything about them. After deciding to expose her as a fraud, Thomas convinced his college-aged older brother to get them invited to a party at the local community college—a party he learned Kandy was going to attend.

  The following week his story appeared in the city paper, containing incriminating pictures and substantiated quotes. Kandy was fired by the anti-drug coalition amid the allegations, though no charges were ever filed. Thomas’ work catapulted him to an internship with the city paper. He earned a journalism degree in college, where a series of journalistic awards brought him to the prestigious New York Chronicle.

  Then he lost it all.

  “I said, where do you think you’re going?”

  The abrupt question ended his brief foray into the past. Having made his way to his car, Thomas turned around, one hand on the door of his Nissan Altima. Max Harper s
tood outside the building’s entrance, thick arms folded across his chest.

  “Sorry, Max. I didn’t hear you. What were you saying?”

  “You had a deadline on the property tax hike, in case you’ve forgotten. I expected it on my desk this morning.”

  “I won’t be long,” Thomas promised, opening the door to his car.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Let’s just say I might have found a story that’s more interesting than tax hikes. Trust me on this.” He slid into the car without waiting for a response, waving as he rolled out of the parking lot. The editor looked on with a scowl.

  He’ll feel better when I lay a murder story on his desk, Thomas thought. It was probably too quick to jump to the word murder. Even if Al’s story was true, the homeless man was hardly an expert on homicide. However, if the man in the truck was murdered . . . everything would change.

  He slid his sunglasses over his eyes and accelerated. Max was a pushover. Thomas certainly had more demanding editors in the past. Yet the man had done him an enormous favor by hiring him when no one else would. That counted for a lot, as far as Thomas was concerned.

  ***

  Jezebel ducked under the line of yellow tape. Leaves floated gently from the trees above, partially obscuring the truck smashed against the thick oak. She began walking down the steep hill slowly to avoid slipping as she kept her gaze focused on the scene below.

  Al Pittman was telling the truth, she thought. When the homeless man phoned the station from the Clayhorn Feed Mill, she was understandably dubious. Now she was glad she listened.

  After pulling on a latex glove, she looked over the shattered glass in the truck bed. The leaves crunched under the weight of her boots as she neared the truck.

  She radioed one of her deputies.

  “Logan, this is Sheriff Woods,” she said. “I don’t know how to say this, but it looks like Al Pittman was right.”