Page 15 of Crown of Thorns
Pushing myself out of my chair, I make my way to the light switch, nearly tripping over a discarded book I must have forgotten to store in the cupboard.
The sudden light makes me squint, and I raise an arm above my eyes. I swear, when the time shows it’s nearly midnight, and the string of missed texts Melo left me.
“Where are you?” She asks when she picks up my call.
Rubbing the stubble on my jaw, I stifle a yawn. “I fell asleep in my office. I’m coming home now.”
“You fell asleep? I was worried sick!”
“I thought you were at that party?”
“I changed my mind. I made you something instead. I was waiting with a bottle of wine… but I drank it while you were sleeping.”
I chuckle and make work of closing my bag. “Well, open a new bottle, I’ll be home before you know.”
“On it.”
Pocketing my phone, I pull on my coat to leave. While locking up, I hear sounds. Dimmed laughter, followed by hushed voices.
I’m way past curfew. I grimace at the meaning of the word. It used to mark the difference between danger and safety.
Not here. Not anymore. Those years have passed.
But my heart hasn't gotten the memo, threshing in my chest. I don’t like the darkness for obvious reasons. At night, evil strikes. At night, they’ll search your stuff, steal your food, and your money.
At night, the streets aren’t safe.
It’s a college, I tell myself.
It’s nothing.
It’s Friday night, and all these students live here. I don’t have to be scared. But old habits don’t die, and the corridor looks too dark, too foreign.
A chill runs down my spine. The storm outside has gone eerily quiet, like it’s holding its breath. The walls creak. The smell of dust and something coppery invades my senses.
Something clatters on the floor, and I jump, the flashlight on my phone flickering around.
It’s nothing.
Footsteps.
My hand trembles when I lift my phone, yelping when I trap a figure in my light. Cloaked from head to toe, he wears a Venetian mask. His eyes, black and intense, stare right at me.
“What the hell?” I cry out.
My phone slips out of my hands and clunks onto the wooden floor. Fuck. I bend down and search frantically. When I pull it back up, the stranger is on the move. My legs move before my brain can stop me. What if it’s a prank? A student? I should call security. But I don’t. I run.
We round the corner, where scorns have been lit against the walls, giving the narrow corridor a sinister flicker. Strangers in ancient, framed photos stare at me, their gazes hollow but their eyes twitching as they seem to follow my every move.
The corridor bends in impossible ways. My footfalls echo too loudly, like I’m trespassing somewhere forgotten.
He's way ahead of me, moving surprisingly fast for a vision of terror, until he vanishes into the wall like smoke sucked through a crack.
My heart drums out of my ribcage, and my steps are far from being measured. “Where are you?” I ask the empty hall.
Slowly, I approach the spot where I last saw him. There’s a large painting of a dark forest with a glowing moon. And a crow, sitting on a branch, its black, beady eyes staring right at me. The moon glows faintly, lit from within. The crow’s gaze gleams, not just pigment, but memory. Warning.
Granddad always said the crows watched over us. That they remembered things men forgot. Back then, I thought it was just one of his stories. Now I’m not so sure.
