Chapter 4: Whispers in the Eaves

The Vance family home hadn't changed in the six years since Elias had left for college. The same faded blue paint peeled from the clapboard siding, the same creaky porch swing swayed in the evening breeze, and the same massive oak tree dominated the front yard—its gnarled branches reaching toward the second-story windows like arthritic fingers.

But now those branches were full of watchers.

Crows perched along every available surface, their obsidian eyes tracking Elias's movement from truck to front door. They maintained perfect silence, which was somehow more unnerving than their usual raucous calls. In the gathering dusk, they looked like living shadows against the darkening sky.

"Been like this all day," his father muttered, shouldering Elias's duffel bag. "Never seen so many birds in one place. Your mother thinks it's some kind of migration pattern, but I've lived here my whole life and this isn't natural."

The front door opened before they reached it, spilling warm yellow light across the porch. Eleanor Vance emerged with flour-dusted hands and a worried smile, her graying hair pulled back in the same practical bun she'd worn for decades.

"There's my boy," she said, pulling Elias into a fierce hug that smelled of vanilla and rising bread. "You look thin. And tired. I knew that city was no good for you."

If only exhaustion were his biggest problem. Elias returned the embrace, letting himself sink into the familiar comfort of maternal worry. For a moment, he could almost pretend this was a normal visit, that he wasn't bringing a supernatural nightmare to his childhood doorstep.

"Mom, about those birds—"

"Oh, don't mind them. They're probably just roosting for the night. Sometimes nature does odd things we can't explain." She ushered him inside, but not before casting an uneasy glance at the oak tree. "Though I'll admit, they're making me nervous. Haven't heard a peep from them all day, and that's not like crows at all."

The interior of the house wrapped around Elias like a warm blanket. Nothing had changed—the same faded floral wallpaper in the hallway, the same family photos marching up the staircase, the same smell of his mother's cooking wafting from the kitchen. This was sanctuary, the one place in the world where he'd always felt safe.

The illusion lasted exactly forty-seven minutes.

Dinner was pot roast with baby potatoes, just as his mother had promised, served on the good china she reserved for special occasions. They ate at the dining room table instead of the kitchen nook, candles flickering between them like tiny beacons of normalcy. His parents peppered him with questions about city life, his job, whether he was eating enough vegetables and getting sufficient sleep.

Elias answered on autopilot, his attention split between their conversation and the sounds from outside. The house's old windows let in every whisper of wind, every rustle of leaves—and underneath it all, the subtle shift and flutter of dozens of birds settling in for the night.

It was his mother who first noticed the tapping.

"What's that noise?" she asked, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth.

Elias had been hearing it for several minutes—a rhythmic tap-tap-tap against the dining room window. He'd hoped his parents wouldn't notice, that he could finish dinner and excuse himself to bed before the Master's network made its presence known.

The tapping grew more insistent. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

"Probably a branch," his father said, but his voice carried doubt. The nearest tree limb was twenty feet from that particular window.

Elias knew he should ignore it, should keep eating and pretend nothing was wrong. But the sound was driving needles into his skull, each tap a reminder that he was being watched, catalogued, reported upon.

He turned toward the window.

A crow perched on the narrow sill, its beak striking the glass with mechanical precision. When it saw him looking, it stopped tapping and pressed closer to the pane, coal-black eyes boring into his.

Tell them, the bird's voice whispered in his mind. Tell them what you are. What we are. What's coming.

"Elias?" His mother's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You've gone pale. Are you feeling all right?"

More tapping joined the first—multiple birds at multiple windows, creating a percussive symphony that echoed through the house. His parents looked around in growing alarm as the sounds multiplied and intensified.

Tell them about the Master, the voices chorused in his skull. Tell them about the hunt. Tell them about the others who came before.

"Others?" Elias whispered without thinking.

"Others what, son?" His father was half-risen from his chair, napkin still clutched in one hand.

The tapping stopped abruptly, leaving behind a silence that felt pregnant with threat. Then, from somewhere in the walls themselves, came a new sound—a rustling, scratching noise like claws on wood.

"Oh my God," his mother breathed. "They're in the eaves."

The scratching grew louder, more urgent. Something was moving through the narrow spaces between walls, the hollow areas where insulation should be. Not just one something—many somethings, small bodies squeezing through gaps that shouldn't accommodate anything larger than a mouse.

Elias knew what they were before the first one appeared.

A sparrow emerged from the heating vent in the corner of the dining room, its tiny form somehow managing to navigate the ductwork. It perched on the metal grate, head cocked at an unnatural angle, and opened its beak.

The Crow King is coming, it chirped in a voice that belonged to no earthly bird. The Crow King remembers this place. Remembers the old stories.

More birds followed—finches, wrens, even a pair of starlings that must have torn their way through screen and insulation to reach the house's interior. They perched on light fixtures, picture frames, the hutch displaying his mother's good china. Their combined weight made the antique furniture creak ominously.

"This isn't possible," his father stammered, backing toward the kitchen door. "Birds can't... they don't..."

Long ago, the sparrow continued, its mental voice now joined by a dozen others, this valley knew the Crow King's power. The first peoples spoke of him in whispers, the dark one who commanded the sky-servants. They made offerings, built shrines, hoped to appease his hunger.

The scratching in the walls intensified, as if hundreds of claws were scrabbling against wood and plaster. Dust rained from the ceiling as something heavy moved through the attic space directly overhead.

But the Crow King was banished, the voices chorused. Cast out by those who feared his gifts. He wandered far lands, gathering strength, learning new hunts. Now he returns to claim what was always his.

"Elias," his mother whispered, her back pressed against the wall, "what's happening? Why are they... how are they...?"

The truth lodged in his throat like a stone. How could he explain that his presence had activated some ancient network, that his gift had marked him as prey for something that had haunted this valley long before his family had settled here? How could he tell them that their son had brought a monster home?

The Master remembers, the birds sang in unison, their mental voices rising to a crescendo that made Elias's skull throb. The Master never forgets. The Master has returned to finish what was begun.

A tremendous crash came from upstairs—the sound of something large forcing its way through a too-small opening. Plaster dust cascaded from the ceiling like snow.

Then, silence.

The birds in the dining room froze, their heads all turning toward the staircase in perfect synchronization. Even the scratching in the walls stopped, as if every creature in the house was holding its breath.

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, moving across the floor of Elias's childhood bedroom.

"Stay here," his father whispered, grabbing a carving knife from the sideboard. "Call the police."

But Elias knew the police wouldn't come in time, wouldn't understand what they were dealing with even if they did. This was beyond human law, beyond rational explanation.

The footsteps stopped directly above the dining room.

Then came a sound that froze the blood in Elias's veins—slow, rhythmic knocking against the ceiling. Not random thumping, but a deliberate pattern. Three short knocks, pause, three more.

The same pattern the Master had used on his apartment door.

Welcome home, the birds whispered in unison, and their mental laughter felt like broken glass scraping against his consciousness. Welcome to your nest.

A brown paper package sat on the front porch when they finally worked up the courage to check, tied with rough twine and bearing no postmark or return address. His father's hands shook as he cut the string.

Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a single black feather. Identical to the one left outside Elias's apartment, but somehow more ominous here in the place where he'd learned to walk, to talk, to believe the world was fundamentally safe.

Tucked beneath the feather was a photograph: the three of them at dinner, taken from outside the dining room window. In the image, they looked like a normal family sharing a meal, unaware that dozens of eyes watched from the darkness beyond the glass.

On the back, written in elegant script: Family dinner. How quaint. We'll have many more conversations soon. - M

The birds had vanished from the oak tree, from the eaves, from the heating vents. But their message was clear: nowhere was safe, no one was beyond the Master's reach, and the hunt had escalated beyond a simple game of cat and mouse.

Elias stared at the photograph until his vision blurred, understanding with crystalline clarity that his attempt to find sanctuary had instead brought danger to the people he loved most.

The Crow King had returned to his ancient hunting ground.

And this time, he wasn't hunting alone.