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THE CROW AT MY WINDOW - PART II: THE OLD AGREEMENT
I did not sleep last night.
Not because Dante returned.
He did not.
And somehow, his absence troubled me more than his presence ever had.
For three nights that sable emissary had haunted my window, motionless beneath the sickly pallor of the moon; a black blemish upon the glass which seemed less a bird than some fragment of the outer darkness given feathers and purpose.
But last night the branch stood empty.
The woods beyond it were terribly still.
Not peaceful.
Expectant.
It was precisely midnight when the first sound came.
Tap.
My eyes opened.
Tap.
I sat upright.
Then,
Tap.
Three.
Always fucking three.
I looked toward the window.
Nothing.
Only my own pale reflection staring back from the glass.
Then came another sound.
THUMP.
Beneath me.
The floor trembled.
THUMP.
Something in the walls groaned.
Then,
THUMP.
Silence returned.
But it was no longer an empty silence.
Something had filled it.
There are moments when the human mind perceives a thing before reason permits us to understand it.
Some ancestral faculty, older than language, whispers:
Do not look.
I did not look.
I made coffee instead.
Some horrors deserve caffeine.
At 3:17, Dante returned.
He appeared upon the sill without sound.
Behind him, others had gathered.
Three upon the roof.
Two upon the fence.
None moved.
None cried.
Their multitude of black eyes were fixed not upon me...
but upon the earth.
Dante carried something.
I opened the window.
“Bit fucking late for correspondence.”
He released it into my palm.
A stone.
Small.
Black.
And horribly cold.
Not the coldness of winter.
This was the cold of deep places untouched by sunlight; of forgotten crypts and buried things upon whose graves mankind had unknowingly built its little cities.
Upon it had been carved a crown.
Crooked.
Primitive.
Bexxy's crown.
My heart sank.
“No.”
Dante lowered his beak.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound awakened something within my memory.
Something I had spent years starving.
“I said no.”
Again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned the stone.
There were markings upon its reverse.
At first they appeared meaningless; wretched little angles and crooked lines whose geometry seemed somehow offensive to the eye.
Then I remembered how to read them.
God forgive me.
THE CROWN HAS RETURNED.
For several moments I could only stare.
The spoon.
The walnuts.
The watching murder.
The dungeon.
The coronation.
Dear Bexxy believed herself the victim of an increasingly elaborate conspiracy orchestrated by one remarkably vindictive crow.
She was wrong.
Gerald had not been conspiring.
Gerald had been preparing.
“Goddammit, Gerald.”
Dante bowed.
Then,
THUMP.
Every crow outside lowered its head.
My amusement vanished.
The sound had not come merely from beneath the floor.
It had come from somewhere beneath beneath; from some impossible depth for which distance ceased having useful meaning.
And worse...
something about it felt familiar.
I looked toward Dante.
“The Agreement?”
Tap.
Yes.
A single strike.
Cold recognition crawled through me.
“Still binding?”
Tap.
Fuck.
I looked again upon that crooked crown.
“How long?”
Dante did not answer.
Instead, he turned east.
Toward Bexxy.
And understanding came upon me not as revelation, but remembrance.
The old stories had never spoken of a King.
They spoke of the return of one.
Crowns rot.
Kings die.
Generals are replaced.
But the office...
the office remains.
And beneath our houses, beneath our roads, beneath every comfortable little monument mankind erects to convince itself that the earth belongs to us;
older things remember.
I closed my hand around the stone.
“Tell Gerald I'll honor the Agreement.”
Tap.
“But Dante...”
He stopped.
“If he's awakened what I think he has...”
Something scratched beneath the floor.
Slowly.
Not like claws.
Like something enormous dragging itself against the underside of the world.
Then came three faint knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Dante recoiled.
That frightened me more than anything.
Because until that moment I had believed the tapping belonged to the crows.
I had been wrong.
Perhaps the crows had merely learned to answer it.
I looked at Dante.
He looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
We did not need to.
Gerald had crowned Bexxy.
Kitten had received the walnut.
The murder had gathered.
And somewhere beneath my dear friend's home, something ancient had recognized its King.
But now...
something beneath mine had recognized me.
Dante opened his wings.
“Tell our dear King,” I whispered, “that Gerald's war did not begin beneath her house.”
The crow paused.
“No.”
I looked down toward the darkness beneath my feet.
“Tell her nothing.”
Dante departed.
The night swallowed him so completely that for one dreadful instant I wondered whether there had ever been a bird there at all.
Then I noticed something upon the sill.
Three words had been scratched into the wood.
Not by Dante.
The marks came from the inside.
PHASE ONE COMPLETE.
I stared at them for a very long time.
Then somewhere beyond the trees,
or beneath them,
or perhaps from that immeasurable gulf of black earth separating mankind from whatever dreams below;
came a sound.
Low.
Ancient.
Familiar.
Hmmm.
I closed my eyes.
“Gerald, you feathered son of a bitch.”
So.
Bexxy has her crown.
Kitten has her walnut.
Gerald has his army.
And Dante?
Dante has come to remind me of something I had prayed time itself might forget.
The Old Agreement has been invoked.
And somewhere in the dark...
something has answered.
I did not sleep last night.
Not because Dante returned.
He did not.
And somehow, his absence troubled me more than his presence ever had.
For three nights that sable emissary had haunted my window, motionless beneath the sickly pallor of the moon; a black blemish upon the glass which seemed less a bird than some fragment of the outer darkness given feathers and purpose.
But last night the branch stood empty.
The woods beyond it were terribly still.
Not peaceful.
Expectant.
It was precisely midnight when the first sound came.
Tap.
My eyes opened.
Tap.
I sat upright.
Then,
Tap.
Three.
Always fucking three.
I looked toward the window.
Nothing.
Only my own pale reflection staring back from the glass.
Then came another sound.
THUMP.
Beneath me.
The floor trembled.
THUMP.
Something in the walls groaned.
Then,
THUMP.
Silence returned.
But it was no longer an empty silence.
Something had filled it.
There are moments when the human mind perceives a thing before reason permits us to understand it.
Some ancestral faculty, older than language, whispers:
Do not look.
I did not look.
I made coffee instead.
Some horrors deserve caffeine.
At 3:17, Dante returned.
He appeared upon the sill without sound.
Behind him, others had gathered.
Three upon the roof.
Two upon the fence.
None moved.
None cried.
Their multitude of black eyes were fixed not upon me...
but upon the earth.
Dante carried something.
I opened the window.
“Bit fucking late for correspondence.”
He released it into my palm.
A stone.
Small.
Black.
And horribly cold.
Not the coldness of winter.
This was the cold of deep places untouched by sunlight; of forgotten crypts and buried things upon whose graves mankind had unknowingly built its little cities.
Upon it had been carved a crown.
Crooked.
Primitive.
Bexxy's crown.
My heart sank.
“No.”
Dante lowered his beak.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
The sound awakened something within my memory.
Something I had spent years starving.
“I said no.”
Again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned the stone.
There were markings upon its reverse.
At first they appeared meaningless; wretched little angles and crooked lines whose geometry seemed somehow offensive to the eye.
Then I remembered how to read them.
God forgive me.
THE CROWN HAS RETURNED.
For several moments I could only stare.
The spoon.
The walnuts.
The watching murder.
The dungeon.
The coronation.
Dear Bexxy believed herself the victim of an increasingly elaborate conspiracy orchestrated by one remarkably vindictive crow.
She was wrong.
Gerald had not been conspiring.
Gerald had been preparing.
“Goddammit, Gerald.”
Dante bowed.
Then,
THUMP.
Every crow outside lowered its head.
My amusement vanished.
The sound had not come merely from beneath the floor.
It had come from somewhere beneath beneath; from some impossible depth for which distance ceased having useful meaning.
And worse...
something about it felt familiar.
I looked toward Dante.
“The Agreement?”
Tap.
Yes.
A single strike.
Cold recognition crawled through me.
“Still binding?”
Tap.
Fuck.
I looked again upon that crooked crown.
“How long?”
Dante did not answer.
Instead, he turned east.
Toward Bexxy.
And understanding came upon me not as revelation, but remembrance.
The old stories had never spoken of a King.
They spoke of the return of one.
Crowns rot.
Kings die.
Generals are replaced.
But the office...
the office remains.
And beneath our houses, beneath our roads, beneath every comfortable little monument mankind erects to convince itself that the earth belongs to us;
older things remember.
I closed my hand around the stone.
“Tell Gerald I'll honor the Agreement.”
Tap.
“But Dante...”
He stopped.
“If he's awakened what I think he has...”
Something scratched beneath the floor.
Slowly.
Not like claws.
Like something enormous dragging itself against the underside of the world.
Then came three faint knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Dante recoiled.
That frightened me more than anything.
Because until that moment I had believed the tapping belonged to the crows.
I had been wrong.
Perhaps the crows had merely learned to answer it.
I looked at Dante.
He looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
We did not need to.
Gerald had crowned Bexxy.
Kitten had received the walnut.
The murder had gathered.
And somewhere beneath my dear friend's home, something ancient had recognized its King.
But now...
something beneath mine had recognized me.
Dante opened his wings.
“Tell our dear King,” I whispered, “that Gerald's war did not begin beneath her house.”
The crow paused.
“No.”
I looked down toward the darkness beneath my feet.
“Tell her nothing.”
Dante departed.
The night swallowed him so completely that for one dreadful instant I wondered whether there had ever been a bird there at all.
Then I noticed something upon the sill.
Three words had been scratched into the wood.
Not by Dante.
The marks came from the inside.
PHASE ONE COMPLETE.
I stared at them for a very long time.
Then somewhere beyond the trees,
or beneath them,
or perhaps from that immeasurable gulf of black earth separating mankind from whatever dreams below;
came a sound.
Low.
Ancient.
Familiar.
Hmmm.
I closed my eyes.
“Gerald, you feathered son of a bitch.”
So.
Bexxy has her crown.
Kitten has her walnut.
Gerald has his army.
And Dante?
Dante has come to remind me of something I had prayed time itself might forget.
The Old Agreement has been invoked.
And somewhere in the dark...
something has answered.
GERALD & THE FEATHERED BANDITS — PART III: THE MIDNIGHT PROCESSIONView quoted post on X
Midnight.
There are certain things in life that should concern you.
A random knock at your door when you aren't expecting anyone.
Your dog staring intently into an empty corner of the room.
Hearing your name whispered when you're the only soul in your home.
A child calmly telling you in detail how they died.
And now apparently...
being summoned into the woods at midnight by a crow who just recently kidnapped your best friend and threatened to seize her fucking toe.
Yet here I stood.
At 11:57 PM.
Outside.
Wearing my crown of sticks.
Because apparently when Gerald said "we ride at midnight," he indeed expected formal attire.
Kitten stood beside me gripping the walnut Gerald had given her.
She had not let go of it since receiving the damned thing in the dungeon.
Not because she'd grown emotionally attached to it.
But because Gerald had made it exponentially clear that losing it would have...
consequences.
"I still don't understand why I have to carry this fucking walnut."
"It's probably ceremonial."
"He threatened my toe over this god forsaken organization."
"Technically, I was the one who threatened your toe. Gerald just merely provided the options of such threats."
She slowly turned toward me.
"That somehow makes it worse."
Fair.
11:59.
Nothing.
No Gerald.
No crows.
No humming.
Just darkness.
Then...
Midnight.
Every light on the block went out.
Not flickered.
Not dimmed.
Just out.
Kitten grabbed my arm.
"Bexxy."
"Yeah."
"Was that Gerald?"
"Genuinely I don't have any idea anymore."
Then we heard it.
Click.
A talon scrapping against metal.
Another.
Click.
Then another.
Click.
One by one, shapes began appearing along the power lines.
Crows.
Hundreds of them.
Completely silent.
No squawking.
No wings.
Nothing.
Just black silhouettes appearing against the moonlight.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then Gerald landed on my mailbox.
Which reminds me...through all of this...I STILL HAVENT BEEN ABLE TO GET MY FUCKING MAIL.
Irrelevant.
Except...
Gerald looked different.
Around one leg was a tiny piece of crimson cloth.
Around the other...
a little silver chain.
And hanging from his beak was—
"Is that my fucking necklace?" Kitten whispered.
Gerald looked at her.
Hmmm.
"WHEN DID YOU TAKE THAT?"
Gerald turned his back.
Apparently questions were not on tonight's agenda. Figures.
Then the cortege began.
Gerald flew.
The militia followed.
We did as well.
Because at this point, if Gerald walked into a fucking volcano I'd probably sigh, grab some snacks, and follow him just to see how the plot developed. Fuck it, why not?
We entered the woods.
The deeper we walked, the quieter everything became.
No insects.
No wind.
No leaves moving.
Nothing.
Even our footsteps seemed wrong.
Muted even.
Like the forest was swallowing the sound.
Kitten moved closer.
"I don't like this."
"You haven't liked any of this."
"AND HAVE I BEEN WRONG YET?"
...
I loathe when she does that.
Ahead of us, Gerald landed on a crooked branch of a large decaying tree. Weird choice.
Hmmm.
We stopped.
He looked at Kitten.
Then at the walnut.
She held it up.
"Yes, I still have your stupid fucking nut."
Gerald puffed his feathers.
"Sorry. Your incredibly important sacred nut."
Gerald nodded.
Progress. *spirit fingers*
Then he looked at me.
More specifically...
at my crown.
I adjusted it.
"What?"
Hmmm.
"Gerald, I wore the fucking crown. What more do you want from me?"
He flew down and landed upon a stone.
Except...
it wasn't just a stone.
There were markings carved into it.
Ancient ones.
There were circles.
There were lines.
And symbols I didn't recognize.
But directly in the center...
a crown.
The same crooked, uneven shape as the crown sitting on my head.
My stomach dropped.
"Kitten.."
"Yes?"
"Remember when we thought the stick crown was stupid?"
"I STILL think it's stupid."
"There is literally an ancient drawing of it."
"Two things can be true at once."
Gerald tapped the stone.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The ground shook.
Nope. Absolutely the fuck not.
The earth beneath the stone cracked open with a low grinding sound.
Cold air scuttled out from beneath us.
And suddenly there were stairs.
Going down.
Because apparently Gerald's real estate portfolio consists exclusively of places that would get us murdered in the backrooms.
Kitten looked towards me.
I looked towards Kitten.
"I'm NOT going down there."
Gerald:
Hmmm.
Kitten:
"Fuck you Gerald."
Gerald slowly looked at her feet.
...
"STOP LOOKING AT MY FUCKING TOES."
I grabbed her arm.
"Come on."
"I hate you right now."
"You've stated that already."
And down we went.
Gerald first.
Me second.
Kitten third.
And behind us...
the crows.
Thousands of them.
Silent.
Watching.
Descending.
At the bottom was a subterranean abyss.
Cobblestone walls.
Old candles.
Bones.
Before anyone gets dramatic—
animal bones...I think.
Yeah we're going with animal bones.
For legal purposes.
And in the middle of the cavernous hall sat a giant wooden table.
Gerald landed on it.
The other crows arranged themselves against the walls.
Every single one facing us.
Kitten whispered:
"This feels a bit cultist."
"They're crows."
"Crows could have cults."
"Can they?"
"LOOK AROUND YOU."
Again.
Fair.
Gerald tapped the table.
On it was a map.
to our neighborhood.
Except this map was old.
Extremely old.
There were no modern streets.
No homes.
Just the forest.
A creek.
A few strange symbols.
And one vast black circle.
Directly underneath...
my home.
I stared at Gerald.
"What the fuck is that?"
Gerald didn't hum.
For the first time since meeting him...
Gerald didn't make a sound.
He solely stared at the circle.
And suddenly...
every crow in the chamber lowered their heads.
That was considerably worse than humming.
Kitten whispered:
"Bexxy..."
"I see it."
"Why are the murder birds bowing?"
"YOU KNOW AS MUCH AS I KNOW!"
Gerald finally looked at me.
Then my crown.
Then the circle.
Everything clicked.
The surveillance.
The scouting.
The militia.
The coronation.
The dungeon.
Framing me. I still don't know what for...
Kitten.
The midnight procession.
Gerald didn't make me King because he liked me.
That raven-feathered little fucker had been drafting me.
For something...
...Something beneath my home.
"Gerald..."
He ever so slowly nodded.
Then he turned toward Kitten.
Her trial had begun.
Gerald tapped the walnut.
Then pointed toward the black circle.
Kitten stared at him.
"Absolutely fucking not."
Gerald:
Hmmm.
"No."
HMMMM.
"MY TOE IS NOT PART OF THIS NEGOTIATION!"
Gerald looked at me.
I shrugged.
"He's got you there."
"YOU ARE A TERRIBLE KING."
"Give me a week."
Gerald pointed again.
Kitten sighed as she walked toward the table.
And placed the walnut directly over the black circle.
Nothing happened.
We waited.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Kitten looked at Gerald.
"There. I did your dumb little—"
THUMP.
Something beneath us shifted.
The candles went out.
Every crow exploded into an ear curdling screech.
Kitten grabbed me.
"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!"
"GERALD?!"
Then—
THUMP.
Closer.
Silt fell from the ceiling.
Gerald flew onto my shoulder.
His claws dug deeply into my shirt.
And for the first time...
Gerald looked afraid.
Not nervous.
Not cautious.
Completely and irrevocably afraid.
Which was entirely fucking inconvenient. Gerald is supposed to be the terrifying one.
"Gerald..."
Very quietly...
barely more than breath...
Hmmm.
And somehow...
I understood him perfectly.
Whatever is it is...it knows the King has returned.
...
Kitten stared at me.
"What did he say?"
I looked into the darkness.
"Nothing."
"Bexxy."
"Nothing of importance."
THUMP.
"YOU ARE A HORRIBLE FUCKING LIAR."
"Stating the obvious..."
The crows abruptly took flight.
Thousands of wings beating through the chamber.
Gerald screamed.
And every bird vanished up the staircase.
I grabbed Kitten.
"RUN."
"YOU DON'T HAVE TO FUCKING TELL ME TWICE."
We sprinted.
Up the stairs.
Through the woods.
Branches tearing at our clothes.
Crows screaming overhead.
Something moving through the trees behind us.
Something BIG.
I refused to look back.
Kitten did.
She immediately regretted it.
"BEXXY."
"DON'T!"
"BEXXY!"
"I DON'T WANT TO KNOW."
"RUN FUCKING FASTER!"
Excellent feedback.
We burst through the tree line.
The streetlights sputtered back on.
And everything stopped.
Silence.
No footsteps.
No movement.
Nothing.
Gerald landed on my mailbox.
Perfectly calm again.
Of course he was.
I bent over trying to breathe.
Kitten was still clutching at my arm.
"Gerald..."
He looked at me.
"What the FUCK did you have us wake up?"
Gerald tilted his head.
Hmmm.
Then he dropped a tiny piece of paper at my feet.
Two words.
PHASE ONE.
...
I stared at him.
"WHAT THE FUCK IS PHASE ONE?!"
Gerald flew away.
Kitten and I just stood there in silence.
Finally she looked at me.
"I want it officially documented that I was completely against this from the beginning."
"Noted."
"I'm keeping my toe."
"We'll discuss it."
"THERE IS NOTHING TO DISCUSS!"
From somewhere deep into the darkness:
HMMMMMM.
Kitten looked toward the woods.
"I SWEAR TO GOD, GERALD!"
And somewhere beneath my home...
Something knocked a dangerous knock.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Ill fortunes always bears three fruits.
So anyway...
I don't think Gerald is trying to overthrow me anymore.
Which is great.
Unfortunately...
I am certain he made me King and we're going to war. With what? I can only assume it wont be any good.
