Curse of the Crow

The sun had not yet cleared the mountain when it began again.

Sam heard the crow. It was perched on the post out by the well. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before that. It was black and ugly and silent when it looked at him, and loud when it turned away. Always cawing. Never gone.

He poured coffee into the tin mug and drank it hot. It scalded his throat. He didn’t mind. The air was cold and the stove had gone out sometime during the night. He didn’t bother with the fire. Not today.

They had buried Eliza yesterday. Three men from the town came up with the box. It was a pine box and she looked like she was sleeping in it, only her eyes were sewn shut and her lips were dry. He could not bring himself to look long.

They said it was fever. Maybe it was. But it started when the crow came.

It had shown up the same day the dog died. The dog was old, half-blind, and didn’t bark much. But it did bark that day. Barked and barked at the fencepost where the crow sat. Then it dropped dead before noon, no sound, no cry.

Then the chickens. Three gone in one night. No blood. No feathers. Just gone.

Eliza said it was nothing. "Crows are just birds," she said. “Don’t let your head make ghosts.” But he saw her praying more at night. He saw the beads in her hand, and her lips moving in the dark.

The crow never left the post. It did not fly. It did not eat. It cawed and stared and cawed again.

On the third night, Eliza woke screaming. She clawed at her neck and said something was choking her. Her skin turned red and her eyes bulged like something had pulled tight on her windpipe. She went still before he could light the lamp.

The doctor said stroke. He did not look at the marks on her throat.

Now it was Sam and the crow.

He took the rifle from above the door. The wood was cold. He checked the chamber. One round.

He stepped outside. The crow cawed once.

There was frost on the ground, and the sky was pale like dirty milk. He walked slow toward the post. The crow did not move.

“You done here,” he said.

The crow turned its head.

He raised the rifle. It felt heavier than it should.

The crow opened its beak. But no sound came.

He pulled the trigger. The shot cracked sharp across the field.

The crow was gone.

Only the post remained. Empty. Silent.

He stood there for a time, the rifle still up. Then he lowered it.

He walked to the post. No feathers. No blood. He touched the wood. It was warm.

He turned to go back to the house and saw the second crow on the roof.

It was larger. Its feathers dull. It cawed and the sound made his teeth ache.

Another landed on the fence.

Another on the chimney.

Another on the windowsill.

They did not blink.

He turned the handle on the door and stepped inside. He shut it and latched it. The room was dark.

He sat in the chair. The coffee was cold now.

He heard them outside. Scratching. Tapping. Cawing low like men whispering bad things. Like they were waiting. The crow was never just a bird—it was a reckoning, and now death sat outside, scratching softly, waiting to be let in.

He did not light the lamp.

He sat and waited too.

The day did not come again.