Member-only story
Black Raven
Warnings may come in the smallest forms.
It was early autumn, the air was warm with just a whisper of a chill. I stood on my back deck watching the flame in the fire-pit die down to a flicker. On the horizon, the sky was a majestic deep cerulean while the top of the sky was painted an Indian red.
Dusk was coming. Landing on the railing beside me was a raven the size of a table-lamp. I almost jumped at the sight of it. Clamped in its mouth was a tiny scrap of paper. The bird cocked its head at me. At that moment, it dropped the piece of paper which floated into my open palm. The bird let out a squawk as I flipped over the crumpled scrap of paper. Scribbled on the other side were the words “Don’t let it in.”
“Don’t let what in?” I asked the bird. It let out a cackle as it flapped its massive wings, taking off into the night. Many would think of this as a sign of some sort — a bird delivering a message. Knowing that birds always pick up random junk, I paid no mind to the message. I stuffed the paper in my pocket and went inside.
I live alone.
A few months ago, I moved into a charming bungalow 20 miles out of town. I bought this house for the nature setting and seclusion. I don’t call myself a recluse by any means. When I’m not trapped in the house writing away, I’m running outdoors. I also throw the occasional bonfire with…
