The Crow King

 

We've probably all heard stories about huge flocks of crows gathering on the outskirts of Moscow, swooping down on people, and pecking them to death. These are fairy tales, of course. But when you're walking through a park late at night and see an ominous black flock circling above you, croaking hoarsely, it's enough to make anyone feel uneasy. Nobody likes crows. There's something truly vile about them (like rats): as if they weren't just birds, but enemies lurking, maliciously, watching you from the shadows.

We used to play "The Crow King" back in kindergarten. It could be any black object: a stone, a worn-out tire, or even a strangely shaped shadow. Upon spotting it, you had to immediately "scream in terror" and point it out to one of your friends. Then the Crow King will come to him at night, not to you. For a while, this was our favorite scary story, terrifying us to the point of shaking in our knees. But all toys eventually become boring, and this one, too, was forgotten.

When I was already in school, I unexpectedly heard about the Crow King again from my grandmother. After learning that my friends and I were running to the park to shoot crows with a slingshot, she very persistently began to dissuade me from this activity, saying, "It won't be good." I was curious and learned from my grandmother that crows are considered "bad birds" by the people. Supposedly, "the devil himself is their king," and that you can only shoot crows on certain special church days, otherwise "he will come for you." For some reason, this nonsense made a strong impression on me—probably recalling childhood fears. So I never went shooting crows with a slingshot again.

Years passed. My grandmother passed away. I graduated from college, moved out from my relatives' house and into my grandmother's apartment, and gradually my life boiled down to four things: work, the internet, alcohol, and loneliness. And I was happy. And yesterday, as a thank you for a joint project, a friend of mine gave me a pretty good air rifle with a scope—he'd bought a more serious model and didn't need this one. The barrel was oiled and sighted in. When I got home, I quickly loaded it, set a stepladder by the window, opened the vent, and, camouflaged behind the curtain, began stalking my prey like a sniper. It didn't take long to find one: a lone crow perched, ruffled, on the wires, practically begging for a bullet in the side. I pressed the butt tighter to my shoulder, aimed the crosshairs at the beast, held my breath, and slowly, evenly squeezed the trigger.

Boom! The gun hit me softly in the shoulder, and the crow, as if electrocuted, tumbled awkwardly and fell like a crumpled rag into the snow outside. It hit the ground and lay motionless for a few seconds. But suddenly it twitched, thrashed, and, with one wing sticking out hideously, began to scream shrilly and piercing, flailing its legs and twisting its neck. It was so vile and disgusting that any joy I'd felt at the shot instantly vanished. I wanted to end the agony. But to aim down from the third floor, I had to lean out the window. I was afraid of being seen. So I had to watch for another five minutes as the poor bundle of feathers screamed and writhe in its death throes. And when the crow finally died, I was in utter disrepair.

I folded up the stepladder, got some vodka out of the freezer, sliced some sausage, and, turning off the light in the kitchen, was about to head to the computer. Suddenly, I heard a banging sound behind me, like pebbles being thrown at the window. What the hell? I turned around. Outside, on the ledge, sat a crow. Its neck stretched out, its round black eye gleaming, it seemed to be studying me intently. Then it jabbed its beak hard against the glass several times. And then froze again, clearly waiting for my reaction. It looked completely strange and unkind. Even scary. I hissed – no reaction. Slowly placing the bottle and snack on the table, I reached for the rifle lying on it. The crow crouched slightly, as if about to take flight, and suddenly began furiously banging its beak on the glass. I rushed to the window, but it quickly swooped down somewhere below. For a moment, I thought it was the dead crow. But from the window, I saw the corpse still there, and a dozen living crows sitting silently around it. I threatened the hags with my rifle and, angry at myself for my momentary fright, went to the computer and started drinking.

Towards midnight, after playing and surfing the internet, I began to doze off from exhaustion and alcohol. I was about to turn off the computer when suddenly I heard a familiar knocking sound. The sound was coming from the room, which had a large window and an exit to the balcony. I felt a bit uneasy, but slightly frightened and very, very angry, I went to chase the scum away. I turned on the light in the room and slowly moved toward the window. Invisible behind the thick curtains, the crow persistently pecked at the glass. Ready to scream, I abruptly pulled the curtain back. And froze.

It was pitch black outside. Lit by the chandelier, all that was visible was a hand... or paw, pressed tightly against the glass. A narrow, pale palm, slightly larger than a human's. A thumb turned down sharply. And three fingers pointing up. Long, dark claws. Black hair (or feathers?) on the wrist. And beyond—darkness.

Paralyzed with fear, I watched the slow tapping.A huge claw slammed against the glass. I saw only that terrifying paw and my own reflection, frozen in the dark window. The knocking stopped. The thing behind the glass, apparently having had its fill of admiring my terrified eyes, scraped its claw across the glass. Then I heard a low, hoarse, completely inhuman laughter, more like a croak, a dull thud, and the flapping of enormous wings. And then there was silence.

That was yesterday. Now all my windows are closed and curtained. That damned rifle lies under my hand, and a knife is on the table. But I understand that it could enter me at any moment, and even holy water and a crucifix are unlikely to stop it. I want to believe that my fear has satisfied it, and the Crow King will not come to me again. Or maybe he retreated only so I could suffer, to learn what true fear is...

I really want to live until dawn. I want to live. But just in case—goodbye. I have some more vodka. I drink it for you.