Chapter 5: The Old Crow's Warning

The legend lived in the town library's dusty archives, buried in a collection of local folklore that hadn't been disturbed in decades. Elias found it on his third day of desperate searching, while his parents huddled at home with the curtains drawn and salt scattered across the windowsills—an old wives' tale his mother insisted might help.

The Crow King of Millbrook Valley, read the faded typescript, compiled by some long-dead historian in 1943. Among the indigenous Kalapuya peoples, stories persisted of a dark figure who commanded the birds of the air. Known by various names—the Chirping Man, the Feather Prince, the Master of Wings—this entity was said to possess an unnatural gift for speaking with avians of all kinds.

Elias's hands trembled as he read further.

According to tribal elders interviewed in the 1920s, the Chirping Man was originally human—a medicine man whose abilities grew beyond natural bounds. His power corrupted him, turning gift into curse, healing into hunting. The birds became his army, his eyes and ears throughout the territory. Those who shared even a fraction of his talent were sought out and... collected.

The word 'collected' appeared in the original handwriting, as if the typist had hesitated over it. Below, a note in different ink: Several informants refused to elaborate on what 'collection' entailed, growing visibly distressed when pressed for details.

But it was the final paragraph that made Elias's blood run cold:

The Crow King was eventually banished through unknown means, though the method appeared to require great sacrifice from those who opposed him. The elders warned that his exile was temporary—that he would return when the stars aligned properly, drawn back by the presence of others who carried his cursed gift. The Kalapuya believed such individuals were born to feed his power, to strengthen his connection to the spirit world through their suffering and eventual submission.

Elias closed the book with shaking hands. The Master wasn't just a stalker or even a madman with supernatural abilities. He was something far older, far more dangerous—a remnant of the valley's dark history, awakened by Elias's return to his ancestral hunting grounds.

His phone buzzed. Another text: Enjoying your research? Libraries are wonderful places. So much knowledge, so many secrets. The old crow by the cemetery knows more than dusty books ever could. - M

Elias looked around the empty reading room, skin crawling. How did the Master know where he was, what he was doing? Then he spotted it—a single sparrow perched outside the window, perfectly still except for the subtle turn of its head tracking his movements.

They were always watching. Always reporting.

But the text contained information as well as menace. An old crow by the cemetery—that had to mean something specific. Millbrook Cemetery sat on a hill overlooking the town, established in the 1800s when the first settlers arrived. If there was an ancient crow there, one old enough to remember the legends...

The cemetery gates stood open, wrought iron twisted into decorative spirals that had turned green with age. Weathered headstones marched up the hillside in uneven rows, some so old their inscriptions had worn smooth. The newest graves occupied the lower section, while the oldest climbed toward a grove of ancient oak trees that pre-dated the town itself.

Elias found the crow in the highest branches of the largest oak, a massive specimen that looked older than the cemetery itself. The bird was enormous—easily twice the size of any crow he'd ever seen, with feathers so black they seemed to absorb light. One wing hung at an odd angle, suggesting an old injury that had never healed properly.

When the crow saw him approaching, it let out a harsh cry that echoed across the hillside.

Young fool, the voice scraped against Elias's consciousness like rusted metal. You should have stayed in your stone nest. This place remembers blood.

"Are you the one the Master mentioned?" Elias called up to the tree.

The crow's laugh was like breaking glass. Master? That thing calls itself master now? How precious. How utterly, pathetically human.

It spread its good wing and half-glided, half-fell to a lower branch, close enough that Elias could see the ancient intelligence in its dark eyes.

I knew him when he was still pretending to be human, the crow rasped. Before he learned to shed his skin like a snake. Before he discovered that power tastes sweeter when stolen from the willing.

"How long have you been here?"

Longer than your kind have walked upright. I watched the first peoples build their sacred fires in this valley. I saw the Chirping Man corrupt their ceremonies, twist their gifts into weapons. I was here when they finally found the strength to cast him out.

The crow's head tilted, studying Elias with unsettling intensity. And I have been waiting ever since for someone foolish enough to call him back.

"I didn't call him. I didn't know—"

Your very existence is a summons, young fool. Every time you hear our voices, every time you understand our words, you send ripples through the spirit world. He feels those ripples like a spider feels vibrations in its web.

Wind rustled through the oak leaves, carrying with it the distant sound of wings. Lots of wings.

The crow's good wing twitched. They come. His servants gather for the hunt.

"How do I stop him?" Elias's voice cracked with desperation. "The book said he was banished before. There has to be a way."

The old ways required sacrifice. Blood freely given. Power willingly surrendered. The crow's eyes glittered with malicious amusement. Are you prepared to give up everything, little gifted one? Your ability, your connection to our kind, perhaps your very life?

Before Elias could answer, the sky began to darken. Not with clouds, but with wings—hundreds of them, flowing over the cemetery like a black river. Crows, ravens, hawks, even owls that should have been sleeping in daylight. They moved with unnatural coordination, forming a vast spiral above the hillside.

Too late, the ancient crow hissed. He comes to test you. To see if you are ready for collection.

The largest bird in the formation—a massive red-tailed hawk—broke from the spiral and dove toward them. But this wasn't the same species that had followed his bus. This creature was wrong somehow, its proportions subtly off, its eyes too large and too knowing.

Run, the old crow commanded, launching itself awkwardly from the branch with its damaged wing. Run, and perhaps you will live another day to make the choice.

Elias ran.

Behind him, the hawk struck the ancient crow with talons like knives. The old bird's scream of pain and rage echoed across the cemetery, but it was quickly drowned out by a sound that made Elias's soul shrivel—dozens of birds crying out in perfect unison, their combined voices forming words:

The Master calls. The Master commands. Come home, little gifted one. Come home to your cage.

He sprinted between headstones, leaping over low monuments and dodging around elaborate mausoleums. The aerial army followed, their shadows racing across the ground like living darkness. When he risked a glance back, he saw the ancient crow still fighting, using its good wing like a club to fend off three attackers at once.

A raven dove at Elias's head, claws raking across his scalp and drawing blood. He stumbled, nearly falling, then forced himself upright and kept running. More birds joined the attack—crows diving from above, smaller birds flying directly at his face to obstruct his vision.

The cemetery gates seemed impossibly far away. His lungs burned, his legs felt like lead, and the cuts on his scalp sent warm blood trickling down his neck. But behind the physical pain was something worse—the sensation of dozens of alien minds pressing against his consciousness, trying to worm their way inside.

Submit, they whispered in unison. Submit and the pain stops. Submit and join the collection.

He burst through the cemetery gates and kept running, not slowing until he reached his parents' house. Only then did he dare look back.

The birds had stopped at the cemetery boundary, forming a living wall of feathers and beaks. They perched on the wrought iron fence, on nearby power lines, on every available surface, all facing toward town with predatory patience.

Waiting.

His mother screamed when she saw the blood, rushing to clean his wounds while his father paced the kitchen with nervous energy. They peppered him with questions he couldn't answer—how had he gotten hurt, why were the birds acting so strangely, what was happening to their quiet town?

But Elias's mind was fixed on the ancient crow's words. Sacrifice. Blood freely given. Power willingly surrendered.

There was a way to stop the Master, but it would cost him everything he was, everything that made him special. His gift—the ability that had been both blessing and curse since childhood—would have to be destroyed.

The question was: did he have the courage to make that sacrifice?

Outside, the birds began to sing. Not their natural calls, but something else—a harmony that sounded almost like laughter.

The Master was coming.

And the final hunt was about to begin.