The Swarm

It started as a breeze, a restless stir that whispered through the trees surrounding Black Hollow. No one thought much of it at first. Winds came with the season. But by the second day, the breeze had turned into a gale, and by the third, it had become a relentless force that clawed at every house, every soul in its path. The air was alive with an unnatural power, shrieking through the streets, forcing its way into homes with cold, violent fingers.

On the fourth day, the crows arrived.

It was early morning when the first flock appeared. Thousands of them, black as night, filling the sky like a living storm. They came with the wind, swirling overhead in tight, unnatural formations. Their caws cut through the roar of the storm, high-pitched and bone-chilling. By noon, they had covered every roof, every tree, every telephone pole. Their beady eyes, too intelligent, too aware, followed every movement. They didn’t move, didn’t attack, just watched—waiting.

The town was suffocating under the weight of the wind and the black sea of birds. Sleep was impossible. The wind screamed through every crack, rattling doors, and windows, moaning like the damned. It wasn’t just noise anymore—it was something deeper, a whispering in the wind that grew louder with each passing night. "Come to us... come outside..." The voices slid through the wind like a snake, crawling into your ears, into your mind.

People began to unravel.

Old Mrs. Calhoun was the first. She had lived in Black Hollow for over seventy years, and she was no stranger to storms. But one night, she tore open her front door and stumbled into the street, her thin nightgown whipping around her frail body. "Do you hear them?" she shrieked, pointing at the crows. "They’re talking to me! They won’t stop!" Her neighbors tried to drag her inside, but the moment she set foot outside, the crows swarmed. Hundreds of them, their wings beating like the pulse of some malevolent heart. The birds tore into her, their beaks and claws shredding her skin as she screamed and screamed—until she didn’t.

They found her body in the street the next morning, picked clean to the bone.

After that, no one dared to step outside. The wind howled louder, a deafening, unholy wail. The crows multiplied, covering every inch of the town in black feathers. The whispers grew stronger.

"It’s time… it’s time..."

The Johnson family tried to leave, piling into their old station wagon and speeding down the narrow road out of town. They never made it far. Their car was found three miles out, wrapped around a tree. The windshield shattered, the inside smeared with blood—but no bodies.

Just feathers. Hundreds of feathers.

By the seventh day, the town was drowning in madness. The wind now felt like it was alive—breathing, whispering, calling. People spoke of figures in the distance, shadowy shapes that stood at the edges of their vision, flickering like mirages, just beyond reach. The crows no longer watched—they moved. In the night, their talons scraped against windows, beaks tapping in a rhythmic, unnatural pattern. Tap, tap, tap.

That was when the dreams began.

Every night, the townspeople dreamt of the same thing: black wings, sharp beaks, and an endless sky filled with screams. They saw themselves standing outside in the wind, arms raised as the crows descended upon them, tearing flesh from bone. But it wasn’t just the birds—it was the wind. It twisted their limbs, broke their bones, and carried their souls away, leaving only hollow shells behind.

Pastor Edwards, desperate to calm the hysteria, held a midnight service at the old church. People huddled inside, candles flickering as the wind battered the walls. He stood at the pulpit, hands shaking, reciting prayers louder and louder to drown out the howling outside. But the moment the church bell tolled midnight, the wind exploded through the doors. The candles went out. In the darkness, they heard it: a single word, carried by the wind, spoken by a voice that was not human. "Join us."

And then the crows came.

They crashed through the stained glass windows in a torrent, feathers and blood, filling the church like a black tide. People screamed, but there was nowhere to run. The birds ripped and tore, their beaks finding eyes, flesh, throats. Pastor Edwards was the last to fall, the crows pecking away the words of his final prayer.

By morning, the church was empty. Only bloodstains remained, smeared across the floor like a grotesque mosaic. The wind continued to howl, but now it carried something darker.

The voices were louder, clearer, no longer a whisper but a command:

"Give in. Become one with us."

On the tenth day, the town was silent. The wind had stopped, as had the crows. Black Hollow stood empty, windows gaping like hollow eyes, streets littered with feathers. But if you dared to listen closely, you could still hear the faint echo of the wind, a distant whisper on the edge of hearing.

The wind would return. It always did.

And when it did, it wouldn’t come alone.