Crows Soixante

The cold wind blew in off the Narragansett Bay. I sat sipping hot coffee and staring blankly in to the dark October sky. Insomnia and insanity had been constant companions since…well for quite some time now.They had progressed rapidly since my daughter’s death last summer, and the divorce.
A man should never ask “what next” for fear that he may well find out. That night is when I noticed the return of the Crows.

It was 3 am. The pitch black night, cut only by the porch light and a large cloud covered fall moon. I saw them from my back deck. They were lined up on the barbed wire fence that separated my land from the old Landry place. They are ugly fucking things, their blood red eyes visible in the dark.

Normal people would think little of it. Bird’s roost, they would say. I on the other hand left normal behind years ago. I had followed the curse of the Crows for quite some time now. As a matter of fact, it were now my career. I lost interest in the job with the Providence Journal, and the bean counter editor now running the news desk. He was a contrite little bastard by the name of Michael Corbin. He gave me the creeps, educated at Brown with an air of arrogance that followed him. He knew little of the news business, and even less about the temperament of a writer. I left shortly after the divorce.
That is when I began writing a book on the Crow phenomenon. I assure you my writings will not be found in the Audubon field guide of North American birds.

I had done months of research, both on crows/death, as well as Vodka Martinis. I was as it turned out, seemingly in a race to destroy myself, Or solve the mystery of why they followed me, why they exposed me to death.
That or to spend what equity I had in the house and exhaust my 401k before ending it all awash in vodka.

My close friends and family had known of the Michael Crowe story, my families brush with a serial killer. My research had found my experiences were not unique. I had come across many accounts of others who felt haunted by the birds as well. If one were to look more closely at mass death or killings, overlooked by most reporters and witnesses, (who were most likely in shock with the horrid events before them.) was the remarkable recurring presence of the crow. Time and time again, I found people whose memories were probed could later make a connection.
What I still did not understand is why they roost near death, Why warn me? It is not as though I could do a thing, except this, so I began my book, I had no idea where it was leading, or where the book could possibly end.

A little research showed that not only were my daughter’s premonitions about the bad birds accurate, I have documented that in earlier writings, but that indeed I seemed to be the chosen one. The American Crow is not normally found this close to the coast. Their only real predators were the Owl,and the Seagull. Both were prevalent in this part of Rhode Island. My house sat less than one hundred yards from the bay.Scientifically speaking, they should not be here. Yet they were. But I had no idea what they were doing here, or trying to tell me.

Once I accepted the notion, I began to document everything. And my Vodka Martini intake increased along with my knowledge.

I watched carefully through the Insomnia and Martini induced fog, I could see their numbers increasing each night over the last month. I could see their blood red eyes staring at me. They roosted in the oak outback; they covered the barbed wire fence.

This made my blood run cold. As the month of October progressed, the Crows began to leave me blood offerings or some would tell me, warning signs of things to come. I only know they disturbed me.

I would awake in the morning and as my coffee brewed, walk out to the deck. During daylight hours,the crows were nowhere to be found. But on my deck a fresh kill. At first it began as field mice. I attributed them to my daughter Amy’s old cat, who I had inherited after her death. After a week of increasing numbers of Crows roosting, and awakening to as many as 50 mice in various states of decapitation on my deck, I began to believe. There were a total of 62 kills. They stopped suddenly.

I came down the next day to make coffee, flipped on the news to Prov channel 10.I watched carefully, as a live news crew covered an exhumation of a crime scene in North Providence. A crime scene in North Providence was not an uncommon event; it was the hub of Mafia related activity in the city. It were the name and the story that caught my attention.

I listened intently as the reporter described my former editor Michael Corbin as the suspect. I witnessed him handcuffed and taken away via sky chopper 10.

I did a Google search to try to learn more, I realized fully how little I knew about the temperament of Newspaper editors. I always considered most to be no good bastards, but this was beyond even my expectation. The search turned up this gem that also made my blood run cold.

CORBIN: From an Old French and Middle English byname
composed of the word corb, “crow, raven,” and a diminutive suffix,
hence “little crow” or “little raven.”

I poured my coffee out and made a pitcher of Martinis.

Later that week, the body count pulled from Corbins basement was confirmed at 62. I finished my book that week .

I am moving to Florida. I plan to write about osprey and alligators.

I am assured there are no Crows.


~ by onthedarkside on October 31, 2011.

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