Twisted Crows by Will Canduri

Author:Will Canduri
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BPRO Editorial
Published: 2023-02-21T19:19:40+00:00

Crow 13

Terror at Lake St. Clair

The lock on the door is stuck.

Leaving might not be the best option, but I heard screams, and I’m sure they didn’t come from my habitual nightmares. The floor is made of wood; it’s frozen and very squeaky. The thick fog doesn’t allow me to see out the window; so, I take my coat and throw it over my pumpkin pajamas. I try to loosen the lock with the handle of an old decorative cane that, seconds earlier, was resting on the flagstone wall that houses the chimney.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I say aloud.

Again, the gut-wrenching screams invade the cabin. A chill runs up and down my neck, and the cane falls over. Then, I head for the room where the lady is hidden and now lies on top of a red, felt blanket. She isn’t breathing anymore; it’s hard for me to breathe, too.

A gargoyle secured to her chest with both hands and an upside-down black cross at the foot of her bed invite me to flee in terror. Tumbling down the dark hallway, I shout, grief-stricken, and run toward one of the windows of the main room. It’s sealed shut, and so are the others. The lock on the door confirms that I’m trapped, with only a cane and a rosary of golden beads.

“What’s going on out there, Teresa?” I shout to my friend from inside the cabin. The dew on the windows begins to take on a red tinge.

“What the hell? This can’t be happening to me!” I think, horrified.

The pale hands guide me through the darkness, and I remember that the candelabra doesn’t work and that the gas lamp is outside with the adventurers. I sit down on the blue rug in front of the chimney to relax, when what I really want to do is hear Teresa tell me that everything is all right. That it’s all part of a game they invented to frighten me.

What can you expect from a bunch of kids who spend Halloween night by the lake, keeping warm with glasses of cheap booze?

Beneath the chilling shadows, head lowered and hugging my bent knees, I rock back and forth. My sweaty fingers clutch the rosary beads. My breathing explodes, agitated, within a silence that can seem loud when the mind tries to flee from reality. The odor of the lake penetrates deep into my heart, making it beat violently. I don’t want to look at the windows. I don’t want to hear the screams. I don’t want to rock back and forth anymore.

Behind me, the chimney walls start to creak. A thousand pieces of something slips from the ceiling. I get up, turn toward the chimney and run away toward the front door, my back turned. Both hands cover my surprised mouth, twisted in the most grotesque grimace of measureless panic. With my cabin door now very close, I trip over the cane with my left foot and recall that it’s still on the floor. I

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