Haunted: A Crow Showcase

By Cassandra L. Thompson

"We all have ghosts…"

 

Fifteen authors, twelve poets, one theme: haunted. A sometimes thrilling, sometimes poignant, always dreadful showcase of Quill & Crow Publishing House's beloved authors. Tour haunted houses and shadowy realms, witness dark rituals and baneful magic, and meet wicked spirits and mysterious creatures as each writer displays their very best version of what it means to be haunted.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quill & Crow Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985128543

Book preview

Persuaded by death’s impatience

The wait too long to bear

I, too, would have yearned for you

I, too, would have called to you in the shadows

Tempted you with a fruit of my own.

---

You told me about the buzzing

Your desire for an eternity of peace

Lobotomy dreams

Skull split open

Mind set free.

---

If the writing on the wall wasn’t enough

Then how about the blood?

A scream frozen in time sounds a lot like silence

And I haven’t stopped screaming since.

---

IT BEGINS HERE

BRANDY

Chapter 1

The Call of the Carrion Crows

Mary Rajotte

At the first glimmer of daylight, the deep caws of the carrion crows pierce the silence over Cilcain. Whether it is with goodwill or with warning depends on who heeds their call.

Some villagers gather for the consecration after lunch, but we’re still finishing the last of the figurines when the men arrive in the morning to prepare the fire pit behind the log meeting house. With their work shirts rolled up to their elbows, they drag forth dried branches, tossing in the remnants of our kindling and handfuls of pine needles to perfume the air. They stoke the spark to a flame, but the sweetly smoky scent doesn’t do much to temper the nerves of us womenfolk.

At the long, rustic oak table set in the village square, we wield chisels and gouges, feverishly paring away slivers of bark from stout lengths of wood. My brother, Jaime, arrives with the three teen-aged sons of our community elders, each carrying a shallow wooden crate whose many small compartments await our handiwork. Inside, whittled poppets only two inches wide and twice as long stare skyward as we finish, carving one for each resident of the village. When we finish, we use ash soot to color the beards and mustaches. Berries stain the lips and cheeks of the female figurines. Some add other personal touches like flower petals or strands of hair. The more realistic they look, the more likely they’ll serve their purpose.

Across the table next to her mother, my neighbor, Isobel Fletcher, works in silence. A strand of blond hair slips free from her cotton bonnet, catching what little sunlight filters through the clouds and smoke swirling overhead. I want nothing more than to reach across the excruciating expanse between us. To unfurl her tresses from beneath the covering used to enshroud our allure from the impulses of the menfolk. But my knuckles burn with the memory of a previous lashing for daring to do such a thing.

She reaches for a handful of sand from the small wooden bowl before me, and a sly twinkle sets her pale gray eyes alight when I move my hand beside hers, but then her gaze darts aside. Hot breath beside my ear makes my stomach clench.

Let not your temptation reveal the immorality that guides your heart, Grace, my brother, Jaime, says.

Cupping the sand in my palm, I use it to smooth the rough edges left by my tool marks, ignoring how Jaime’s judgment flushes my cheeks. The taut tension of not being able to touch Isobel is like a lurking entity, one that threatens to tempt us together in front of those who would rather lash our backs than allow our love to bloom. So, I turn my focus to my work, no matter how my longing torments me.

The bingbong of the brass bell in the meeting hall’s steeple summons those still working. I place my poppets into the last empty spaces, ignoring Jaime’s gaze as he and the other boys take the crates.

With the carvings complete, we womenfolk join our families, converging with the other villagers who have come from the comfort of their modest log cabins. At the meeting hall entryway, we proceed by household, the same way we will sit inside. When Isobel passes, I graze my fingers across her arm.

Someone will see, she whispers, yanking away as though her skin has grazed a hot coal.

Behind me, Jaime nudges me toward Mother and Father ahead of us, who pace up the middle aisle to join the congregation. Subdued chatter intertwines with the eeriness of the creaking floorboards and the hollow thwack of so many boots shuffling into position. Once all the families settle, shifting and sliding into the long wooden benches, Gavin McCleary takes up his place at the front of the room. Three pine chairs—one each for himself and the other two village elders dressed in their ceremonial linen neckbands and already seated—form a semi-circle.

It’s always a blessed sight when our community gathers this way, Gavin says, clasping his hands. We fill our days with hard work and camaraderie, making our nights a sweet celebration of all we accomplish together.

Jaime and the other boys appear at the end of the benches with the poppets carved for last year’s consecration. The head of each family removes their dolls, passing them down the line.

Cilcain started with only five households, Gavin says. As each new life expands our congregation, we carve these effigies to signify their place in our extended family.

As he speaks, father hands my poppet to me. Clutched to my chest, the silkiness of the doll’s hair, my hair, snakes across my palm, sending a shiver down my back. Even after only a year, I don’t recognize myself in its time-darkened face. Its smile, once prominent, now draws in a thin line below its cheeks, no longer blushed with potential, but hollowed with wistful realization. I’ll never be able to exemplify their shallow perfection or present myself as a proper likeness of the servile young woman they wish me to be.

Let us go now, together, as we do every year, Gavin continues, to honor our traditions and surrender these offerings for the promise of Cilcain’s continued prosperity.

With the poppets distributed, Gavin directs the congregation to rise. We file from the benches one family at a time and make our way outside to the bonfire. I push past my parents, racing to intercept Isobel before she leaves, but her mother steps up and grabs me by the elbow.

You will not continue to engage in this blasphemy. She squeezes until her fingers dig into my bone. The Lord won’t forgive you for how you try to befoul my daughter. Instead, he will expose your depravity.

Shoving me aside, she leaves to join the other women engaged in mindless chatter huddled under their blanket shawls next to the bonfire. The men stand off to the side, talking of tomorrow’s work, of the harvest, the weather. The children weave in and out of the adults in conversation, but don’t really take notice of the proceedings until the poppets are brought forth.

Father and Mother are already in position and as I make my way to join them, faces turn at my approach. Firelight licks the air, searing each gaze with sanctimonious hunger reflected at me.

As I pass Isobel, I lean close. Meet me tonight.

Grace, no.

Please, I say, tucking a dried apple blossom into her palm. You know where.

She gasps, closing her hand around it before I dart away. When I glance back in her direction, Isobel crumples the glassine petals and stomps the remains in the dirt before Mrs. Fletcher appears at her side. Father takes me by the wrist and pulls me into place beside Mother, not daring to utter a word but glaring at me all the same.

As Gavin and the other elders gather with the boys carrying their crates, the throng swells, edging fireside.

Join with your neighbors to cull our old selves as a reminder of the inevitability of death, he says. 

One by one, each family tosses their poppets into the fire. Each addition provokes the flames to rise and send serpentine curls of cedar smoke skyward.

May this remind you, he continues, that we are all dust and one day, to dust we will return.

For a few moments, we each regard the bonfire, watching the figurines overcome by flame. When finally the congregation disperses, the tension of the moment dissipates. Subdued conversation percolates through the gathering as the men distribute small tumblers of gin. When enough time has passed that everyone seems appropriately distracted, I cinch my woolen shawl over my shoulders and break free, slipping behind the meetinghouse. Stone-colored clouds diffuse the sunlight over the forest, but I need no help to find my way. I walk this path in my dreams, the place where shaded ferns meet the glooming woods. I follow it past the sycamore trees to the spot Isobel and I first stole to as girls. Where we sang beneath sweet-grass that stretched tall enough for us to evade judgment. Where spiny-leaved juniper bushes cloistered us from the prying eyes of those who demanded we remain apart.

When I push through the bramble bush, the thicket is empty. The carrion crows have vacated their twig and bone nesting places and are nowhere to be found. Undisturbed spider webs drape from branch to branch. The space under our wild cherry tree, where the grasses once lay flattened from our encounters, now grows high and untamed.

A branch cracks in the growing darkness of the woods. My stomach lurches. I spin to find Isobel stepping from the shadows. I ache for her embrace, tearing up at the sight of her. When she steps towards me, I catch a quick flash of her scent, like honeyed sunlight. Yet she sidesteps my touch, revealing her mother behind her, holding onto Isobel’s arm to keep her from getting too close. 

The nerve you have of tempting my daughter, Mrs. Fletcher says, lunging at me. 

Her loose hair whips my forearm before I can draw it back, but I meet her gaze without wavering. 

That you would deny love such as ours shows more about your own spiteful soul than any perversion you accuse us of.

"You are wicked, Grace. Wicked."

When she turns to leave, I swipe the air to reach Isobel, but my fingers get tangled in Mrs. Fletcher’s hair, pulling a clump by the root.

She howls, backhanding me across the face. Everyone shall know of your lustful temptations, you vile girl.

They race off, but I give chase, staggering over gnarled tree roots and brittle branches. Though Mrs. Fletcher’s words fade, the torment on Isobel’s face gnaws at me. Even as her mother pulls her away, Isobel’s hand stretches for me in desperation. Every shadow in the darkening woods as I follow seeps in from the forest edge, to snarl, to paralyze, to shame.

Heartbroken I am, but anger seethes from my core. Back in the village, I race home, but not before I notice a wicker basket left on Isobel’s porch. I rifle through the contents until I find one of Mrs. Fletcher’s aprons. The stitching is loose and threadbare from years of wear, so the small pocket on the front comes off easily. Clutching the fabric square to my chest with the strands of her hair, I hurry home where Mother and Father are inside preparing dinner.

Behind our cottage next to the woodpile, I find a bucket of feed for the chickens and the tarnished oil lantern father has left for me to do my chores by. I stop long enough to snatch up his leather tool pouch and a small length of wood from the stockpile.

After securing the coop’s latched gate, I lay down a trail of seed for the birds. When they are clucking happily with distraction, I turn over the bucket, using it as a stool so I can get to work.

With my intention focused, I whittle away enough wood shards that the figurine soon takes shape. Imagining every hateful thing Mrs. Fletcher has said to me, I work the carving knife with ease, capturing the rounded disappointment of her shoulders, the rigid stance of her close-mindedness, the harsh thin line of her mouth that spews such vitriol. With the tip of the knife, I carve her eyes deep, pressing dirt and chicken leavings into both cavities to reflect how she looks upon Isobel and me with such revulsion.

Narrow slits cut into the head are the perfect place to thread Mrs. Fletcher’s hair in place. The small fabric rectangle I tore from her apron slips easily around the figurine’s body. A length of thin twine and a needle from father’s tool belt help me secure the makeshift dress by stitching it up the back.

Clasping the poppet, I take it to the darkened woods, slipping into the shadow of the tree line behind Isobel’s home. A thick twig clutched in my hand unearths enough dirt for me to inter my creation before I cover it over.

May your body decay as this poppet wastes within the earth.

The soil settles over my offering, shifting at the prickling touch of ground beetles already slinking their pincers into the doll, befouling the wood. Turning, I allow the promise in the whispering wind to carry me home. My intention is strong. It won’t take long.

A few weeks thereafter, with the ceremony behind us, a pall looms over Cilcain. As I set out for the schoolhouse, I discover the reason. Gathered in a huddle with the other students, Jaime sees me and breaks from the group to pull me aside.

Have you heard the news about Isobel?

The mere mention of her name sends a phantom memory of her fingers across the nape of my neck, for the longer we are kept apart, the more I am haunted by the absence of her. I’ve seen less and less of her since bonfire night.

That’s because she’s taken ill, Jaime says. She hasn’t been out of bed in a week. Father says she may not survive the month.

I turn toward the Fletcher house, but Jaime catches me by the arm and pulls hard. I have to see her! I say.

These transgressions with her will only bring you more trouble, Grace.

How?

The Lord punishes those who sin as you have.

My skin crawls hearing those hateful words parroted from Jaime’s mouth. In a surge of energy, I shove him. Even though he’s twice my size, he goes down onto his backside, allowing me the chance to flee. I make it to the Fletcher house, going around to Isobel’s window. Through the knitted lace drapery, she is a ghastly doll in a bed two sizes too big for her frail frame. Her hair fans out around her head, lifeless against the starched white pillow. Her face is stone-gray and her cheeks sunken. In the rocking chair beside her, Mrs. Fletcher, though her face is strained with worry, is otherwise the picture of health.

But how? My charm. It did nothing...to her.

The horrible realization sends me staggering backward, careening away from the house toward the forest edge. There, I fall to my knees and scrape off the loose topsoil until I grasp the poppet I’d buried the previous evening. With the dust brushed aside, I search the tiny dress for some answer and find it in the distinctive whimsy of Isobel’s decorative hemstitch on the sullied fabric, fabric from her apron, not her mother’s.

Mold permeates the cracks in the wood where tiny ants crawl free. Stinging splinters slip under my fingernails when I scrape the rot away. Using my apron to wipe the doll clean, I bring it together in both hands, holding it to my lips, whispering to it a benediction.

From the earth to the moon, I beg to the heavens. Undo what I’ve done.

I cradle the poppet, pushing up onto my feet and heading for Isobel’s window. Jaime intercepts me, dragging me away.

Let me see her! I need to know if she is awake! Will she live?

Instead of placating my pleas, he drags me out to the road in the direction of the meeting house, where Magistrate Pryce waits in the doorway with the other elders who each hold a bundle of birch rods. 

Some members of our community are stunned by your willful behavior, Gavin says. They have seen that you continue to engage in impure acts with Isobel Fletcher. And that the depravity of these acts has struck her down.

It isn’t vile! I shout. We love, is all. Yet you make it some loathsome thing.

Temptation is a blight that can take hold with tenacity, Gavin says, holding out the wooden rods. We must eradicate it before it afflicts us all.

With Jaime coercing me inside, the men block the exit so I cannot break free. Behind them, Mother clings to Father’s chest, refusing to watch. Jaime pushes me from behind into the middle of the room, forcing me to my knees. He thrusts my arms outward, bracing my elbows from underneath so I cannot move.

The men loom over me, raining blows across my palms. The slap and sting surges like thorny vines up my wrist to my elbow. I lurch backward, but Jaime is too strong, and he holds me there against my will until the men dole out a half dozen more lashes each. 

Finally, they stop and my brother releases me. Collapsing to one side, I absorb the shock-waves of pain, refusing to cry out as mother sobs quietly beside me until father ushers her away. Jaime lingers a moment longer before stepping over me and following them.

Leaning above me, Gavin taps the floorboards with his birch rods. This impiety of yours is a malignancy that should not exist. Lord willing, we shall exorcize it from you.

He leaves me on the floor to cower, and I remain there until the sky slinks into the color of my bruises. When finally I can move, I push myself up, wincing at the pain of my injuries. When at last I can stand, I notice the elder’s linen neckbands hung along the back wall, each on its own wooden peg next to an orderly row of plain white bonnets.

I scramble forward, snatching one down and tearing a small scrap from it before I do the same to the others. Sitting prominently on display, the crates with the newly carved poppets await next year’s ceremony. Before they are tucked on a shelf for safe-keeping, I pick out the figurines of the men who have shamed me. When I have crudely wrapped each one in their fabric scraps, I gather them and take them outside to the compost heap at the back of the structure.

The smell is perfectly wretched, thick with rotting potatoes, and soured with spoiled milk and maggot-infested meat scraps, a fitting stench for such vile men. Burrowing with my bare hands, I work even as I retch until I’ve removed enough dirt to inter the dolls, shoving them face-first into the filth. After each inhalation, I breathe out every hateful thing uttered by them.

Blasphemy. Depravity. Sinful. Impure.

Tired of a life in hiding, I channel my rage, squishing the muck between my fingers with glee. Spittle and tears salted by all the animosity I’ve endured sanctify my offering.

Wicked. Wicked. Wicked, I say, urging my hex into the hungry soil.

When the ground swallows them, when the muck curdles over the effigies and I have nourished my wish, I leave my charm to work its magic. 

Weeks come and go, lifeless and windswept, with time swirling like fallen leaves in an unending circle before coming to a standstill. The center courtyard is empty. The fields are unkempt. I remain alone, sequestered in my room. Another afternoon threatens to be as devoid of hope as any other when, outside, a single clanging of the brass bell in the center of the village pierces the stillness.

After a long pause, another toll sounds. Silence...and then a third, out of sync, nagging like an absent thought at the edge of my awareness. Only when the chimes come more frequently and with more vigor am I pulled from my desolation out onto the wooden porch. Next door, Isobel, with her wrinkled dress and her hair disheveled, stares up at the sky as though she has just awoken from a dream. Relief floods over my shoulders at her presence, but when the bell chimes again, harsh and off-key, it’s not as an invitation but a warning.

Bingbong.

I take a step forward.

Bingbong.

Down the steps.

Bingbong. Bingbong.

A whiff of something pungent draws me around the house.

Bingbong. Bingbong.

There in the back garden, thinly stalked fungi protrude from the earth, pale and rigid like skeletal fingertips. When I pull them free, a putrid stench comes with them, one pervaded by disembodied voices spewing the very hate I tried to eradicate.

Vile. Shameful.

The voices prick at my nerves, growing louder.

Impure. Wicked.

Behind me, Isobel gasps. I collapse, hunching over the grave, desperate to hide my heinous act, but it does nothing to stop the noise, a maddening crescendo that comes not from my head but all around me. I claw at the dirt to unearth the moldered poppets, but still, the telltale refrain of their wretched utterances grows louder, louder, louder the more I try to smother them.

Wicked. Wicked. Wicked.

I rise and clamber toward Isobel, tearing her away so she will not see my horrifying harvest. But I cannot hide the horror of the dolls, and she gapes at them, at how the effigies of the elders, of her mother, have decayed into miniature monstrosities.

"I