THEY SAY CROWS CAN REMEMBER FACES by Warren Benedetto (California, 47)

Content Warning: This short story includes scenes of bullying, violence, and slight gore


          The stone hit Ava in the back of the head. She stumbled and fell, spilling her schoolbooks
out of her arms and onto the dirt road in front of her. Gravel dug into her palms as she threw out
her hands to break her fall. Her knees skidded painfully across the ground.
​          “Have a nice trip!” a boy’s voice called out from behind her, to a chorus of laughter. “See
you next fall!”
​          Ava brushed her long, black hair out of her face. She was hollow-boned and delicate,
looking far younger than her 11 years. Her dark eyes welled with tears. She quickly wiped them
away with the frayed cuff of her sweater.
​          A chilly autumn wind blew across the Kansas field, causing the corn stalks lining the
road to whisper in the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, faint and far away, a gas-powered
tractor growled. It was probably from Mr. Conklin’s farm – he was the only farmer in the area
who was wealthy enough to own a tractor – but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t close enough to help
her. Nobody was. She was on her own.
​          A group of kids about her age, two girls and a boy, ran past her. One of the girls stuck out
her tongue. The other laughed. Their shoes kicked up clouds of dust into Ava’s face as they
passed.
​          ​The girls were sisters, Sarah and Beth Winters. They were pretty and clean, with crisp red
bows tied in their flaxen hair. They were the kinds of girls who had everything they needed and
got everything they wanted; they never had to ask for anything twice. They wore matching blue
dresses with warm red sweaters that looked like they were bought from a department store. Not
handmade, like Ava’s shapeless brown smock. They weren’t twins – Sarah was two years older
than Beth – but they were inseparable. Even now, they held hands as they skipped away into the
distance. Ava hated them both, equally.

​          ​The boy was Carl. He must have had a last name, but Ava didn’t know it. It didn’t matter
– there was only one Carl. He was a lumbering giant, easily a foot taller than anyone else in the
class, with an oversized head that reminded Ava of a rotten pumpkin. His ruddy cheeks were
sunburned and freckled from a long summer of torturing rabbits and stoning squirrels. He had icy
blue-gray eyes, the color of the sky before a winter storm. His belly hung over his belt, straining
the buttons of his denim shirt. He was big and stupid and mean and cruel. Not in that order.
​          Ava touched her fingers to the back of her head, where the stone had hit her. It wasn’t a
big stone, but it was angular and sharp enough to draw blood. She drew her fingers away. Her
scalp didn’t seem to be bleeding too much – the wound would scab up just fine – but it was
enough to bring on a fresh swell of tears. She swallowed hard, choking back a sob. No, she
thought. No crying. Not this time.
​          She was angry. At them, yes, but also at herself. She should have heard them coming.
She was off in her own world again, like an idiot. She should have known they were behind her.
They usually were. Sometimes they left her alone if she was far enough ahead of them, but if she
was in range – throwing distance or shouting distance, depending on the day – they rarely passed
up the chance to torment her. Especially Carl.
​          In the winter, he threw snowballs. The rest of the year, it was rocks, or rotten fruit, or
worse. A few weeks ago, he threw a dead rat he found on the side of the road. He picked it up by
the tail, holding it at arm’s length as he hurried to catch up with Ava, then slung it at her from
close range. It slapped her on the side of the face, exploding in a putrescent eruption of maggot-
infested entrails. The squirming, blood-blackened mass slid down her face and onto her shoulder,
then rolled down her chest to the ground. Ava gagged at the smell, hot vomit spilling from her
lips and down the front of her dress.
​          Compared to that experience, Ava preferred the rocks. They hurt more, but at least she
didn’t have to spend the rest of the day at school stinking of puke and decay.
​          Once Carl and the two Winters sisters were far enough down the road, Ava picked herself
up off the ground, brushed the dirt and gravel from her scraped knees, and gathered up her
books. She would be late for school again; Mrs. Harrison would be angry, as usual. Ava would
try to explain, but she knew the stodgy old teacher would hear none of it. She would put Ava
alone in the corner at the front of the room, facing the rest of the class, under the painting of
Jesus and the Apostles at the Last Supper. The “prayer corner,” she called it, where she expected
– commanded – that Ava pray for forgiveness for her sins.
​          Ava never did.

​          “Look, she’s doing it again,” Carl said. He took a huge bite of a sandwich, his third.
​          It was lunch time. The students were out on the playground behind their one-room
schoolhouse, playing on wooden equipment hand-crafted by the church’s Men’s Club during a
series of sweat-soaked, prayer-fueled summer Saturdays. There were swings, some seesaws, a
metal slide, and various other play structures.
​          Carl sat atop a large wooden wall made from stacked logs. Sarah and Beth sat on either
side of him, swinging their legs. Other children of various ages were clustered in small groups
around the yard, playing jacks, jumping rope, swinging, and seesawing. Everyone except Ava.
She was alone in the corner of the playground by the edge of the wood, staring up into a tree.
Talking.
​          “She’s so weird,” Sarah stage-whispered.
​          Beth squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun. “Who’s she talking to?”
​          “Not who. What,” Sarah corrected.
​          Carl pointed one thick-knuckled finger. “In the tree,” he said through a soggy mouthful of
food. “See the crow?”
​          Sure enough, a large crow was perched on the branch above Ava’s head. It looked down
at her, head cocked to the side, listening. Ava pulled a small piece of bread from the slice in her
hand and tossed it up to the bird. The crow caught it in mid-air and gulped it down greedily.
​          “Maybe it knows her,” Beth offered. She leaned out so she could see Sarah on the other
side of Carl’s protruding belly. “Like Uncle Jeff’s bird, remember?”
​          “Right. It knows her,” Carl replied sarcastically.
​          Sarah nodded in agreement with Beth. “It could. Crows can remember faces. Our mom
said so.”
​          “Uncle Jeff used to always feed the same crow whenever he came over to our house,”
Beth added. “He’d get out of his truck and a minute later this huge black crow would swoop
down, right to his shoulder, looking for bread. He used to keep a slice in his shirt pocket, just for
that.”
​          “It probably wasn’t the same one,” Carl mumbled.
​          “Sure was!” Beth said, defensive. “How many people do you know that have a crow land
on their shoulder?”
​          “Okay, then.” Carl lifted his sandwich in the air in a mock salute. “To Uncle Jeff.
World’s Worst Scarecrow.”
​          Beth punched him playfully in the arm, laughing. “You’re the worst!”
​          Carl finished chewing, licked his fingers clean, then wiped them on his pants. His
expression turned serious. He nodded towards Ava. She was still looking up in the tree, talking
to the crow. “You know what I think? I think she’s a witch, like her mom.”
​          “Her mom’s a witch?” Beth asked, surprised. She shot a questioning look at Sarah to
confirm.
​          Sarah rolled her eyes. “Oh, great. This again.”
​          “Everybody knows it,” Carl insisted. “Ask my dad. Remember a few years ago, when all
our sheep died?”
​          “You said wolves did that,” Sarah reminded him.
​          “Their eyes were ripped out!” Carl exclaimed. “Wolves don’t do that. Not normal ones,
anyway.”
​          “What does, then?” Beth asked, wide-eyed. She was hanging on Carl’s every word.
​          Sarah whispered to Carl, just out of Beth’s earshot. “Stop. You’re scaring her.”
​          Carl ignored Sarah, instead explaining to Beth, “Witches talk to animals. They tell them
to do things. Use them to get back at people they don’t like. That’s what her mom did to us.”
​          “But why?”
​          “My dad says she’s jealous. She used to be sweet on him. Still is, he says.”
​          “If Ava’s a witch, then why doesn’t she look like one?” Sarah asked, challenging him.
​          “She doesn’t need to. Real witches look normal, just like us. But they’re not.”
​          “Maybe he’s right,” Beth said. “Maybe she is.” Her voice was full of awe.
​          Sarah kicked at Carl. “Great, now she believes you.” She shook her head. “She’s not,”
she said to Beth. “He’s just joshing you. There’s no such thing.”
​          “No?” Carl jumped down from the climbing wall, landing with a thud. “Okay. Let’s ask
her.”
​          “Carl, don’t –” Sarah began, but Carl was already loping over to Ava. He thrust his hands
deep in his pockets, trying to project an aura of innocent curiosity.
​          “Hey, Ava,” he called. “Whatcha doing?”
​          Ava froze. She quickly averted her eyes away from the crow, casting them downwards.
She toed the ground with one foot but didn’t turn around. “Nothing.”
​          “Can you help us with something?” Carl asked, his voice honey-sweet. “Sarah and Beth
and me?” He motioned towards the sisters, who were still perched on top of the log wall. Sarah
beckoned to Carl to come back. He shook his head and held up his finger. One minute.
​          Ava didn’t respond, so Carl continued. “That bird up there.” He nodded toward the crow
still perched on the branch overhead. It peered down at them with focused attention, as if
eavesdropping on their conversation. “Were you just talking to it?” Still no response from Ava.
​Carl put his hands on his knees and leaned in close to Ava’s face, trying to look her in the eye.
“What are you two talking about, huh?”
​          Ava’s lips moved imperceptibly, her voice barely audible.
​          Carl cupped his hand to one ear and raised his voice. “What’s that? Couldn’t hear you.”
​          “He’s my friend,” Ava said, slightly louder this time.
​          “Your friend?” Carl said, incredulous. He laughed loudly, slapping his knee. Ava
flinched at the sound. “Your only one, I’ll bet.”
​          Ava didn’t answer.
​          “Does he talk back?” Carl leaned in closer, leering. Taunting. “What does he say? Does
he tell you he likes you? Does he tell you you’re pretty?”
​          Ava’s cheeks flushed. Hot crimson patches spread across her chest and up her neck.
​          “Hey, you know who talks to animals?” Carl said brightly, tapping his head as if the idea
had just occurred to him. “Witches. You’re not a witch, are you?”
​          Ava shook her head slowly.
​          “How about your mom? Is she a witch?”
​          Ava shook her head again.
​          “You’re sure? I won’t tell.”
​          Ava nodded.
​          “Okay, good. Just wanted to check.” Carl straightened up, cracked his neck, then started
to walk away. Ava seemed to relax. She glanced up at the bird.
​          Suddenly, Carl cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted across the playground.
“Hey, everyone! It’s okay! Ava said she’s not a witch! Her mom too! Also, not a witch!”
​          Other kids on the playground looked towards Carl, wondering what the shouting was
about. Some snickered among themselves. Others pointed at Ava and laughed. Ava bowed her
head, allowing her hair to fall over her face, shielding herself from their stares.
​          “They’re just friends! Ava and the crow. Best friends!”
​          “Carl, stop,” Sarah called. “Leave her alone.”
​          Carl walked back over towards the log wall, a grin on his face. “You’re such a spoil-
sport.”
​          ​“It’s just not funny, that’s all.”
​          Carl glanced back over at Ava. She was sitting on the ground, hugging her knees to her
chest, staring at her shoes. The crow glided down from the tree and landed at her feet. It pecked
the dirt around her, picking up stray breadcrumbs.
​          “Watch this,” Carl said. He reached down and scooped a rock from the playground sand.
It was heavy and round, about the size of a golf ball.
​          “Don’t!” Sarah hissed. “You’re going to get us in trouble!”
​          Carl snorted derisively. He gripped the rock like a split-finger fastball, then whipped it
sidearm towards Ava. The rock sliced through the air with deadly precision and caught the crow
square in the side of its head, instantly shattering its delicate skull and rupturing its eye. Ava
recoiled backward, shocked by the sudden violence of the impact. The crow flopped over on its
side. One of its wings extended at a crooked angle and gave a single weak flap.
​          Carl pumped his fist in excitement. “Yes! Direct hit!”
​          When Ava recovered enough to realize what happened, she let out an agonizing cry.
“Nooooooo!”
​          She gathered up the broken bird in her arms and cradled it on its back like a mother
holding a newborn. The crow’s head rotated loosely and grotesquely on its broken neck. Ava
slipped her palm under its head, supporting it.
​          Carl stepped closer, looking down over Ava’s shoulder at the dying bird. Its skull was
split wide open, crimson-flecked white bone standing out in stark contrast to the black feathers.
Thick ropes of blood and gore oozed from the wound, mixing with the clear fluid leaking from
its destroyed eye. The crow looked up at Ava with its one good eye. It blinked once, its pupil
turning white, then black again. Its beak opened and closed silently a few times, then stopped. It
was dead.
​          Sarah started climbing down from her perch on the wall. “C’mon, Beth,” she said,
tugging her sister’s hem. “Before we get in trouble.” Beth followed her sister to the ground.
Sarah regarded Carl with disgust. “You didn’t have to do that. It wasn’t hurting anyone.”
​          “Oh, stop! What’s the big deal? It’s just a bird!”
​          Sarah grabbed her younger sister’s hand and pulled her towards the schoolhouse. “Let’s
go.”
​          “Really?” Carl called after them. “You guys! C’mon, you guys!”
​          They ignored him and walked hand-in-hand into the school. Carl looked down at Ava.
She was hugging the bird’s lifeless body to her chest, rocking it slowly and whispering to it.
“Burn in hell, witch.” Then he ran off to catch up with Sarah and Beth.
​          Ava didn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes were fixed on a second crow, high overhead,
silhouetted against the afternoon sun as it circled over the playground. Watching.
​          
​          After class, Carl changed from his school clothes to his regular at-home attire: a pair of
denim overalls over a dingy white t-shirt and a pair of square-toed black boots with heavy rubber
soles.
​          ​He had chores to do. School was back in session, which meant winter was only a few
short weeks away. Already, the days were getting shorter and the sun was setting earlier. The
nights were chilly. Soon they would be freezing and his father would need to heat the wood stove
to keep their small house warm.
​          It was up to Carl to ensure they had enough firewood to make it through the season. That
meant spending long hours splitting logs and stacking the wood in the shed behind the house,
where it would stay dry until it was needed. It was hard work, but Carl found comfort in it. He
liked the weight of the ax, the way it arced through the air and split the logs so easily. It made
him feel strong.
​          Carl’s house was nestled back in the woods, a hundred yards or more from the road. It
was a tiny three-room shack with leaded windows and a rusted tin roof, hand-built by his father
from trees he felled in the forest. A small stream trickled nearby. Occasionally, Carl would fish
in the stream, but mostly he just pissed in it. When nobody was looking, of course.
​          Nobody was looking now, so Carl embedded his ax in the chopping block, ambled over
to the stream, unzipped his fly, and directed a spray of urine into the slow-moving water. He
whistled tunelessly. His eyes wandered across the trees on the water line until they settled on a
thick branch that extended from a tall, crooked oak on the other side of the stream. Sitting on the
branch was a large crow. It ruffled its feathers, then peered down at Carl.
​          “What?” Carl sneered. “You want this?” He moved his hips in a circle, pissing a ring into
the water.
​          “Caw!” the crow said. Then, with incredible quickness, it launched itself off the branch
and swooped directly at Carl’s head.
​          Carl ducked sideways, gasping in surprise. His boots squelched in the soft mud of the
stream bank. He lost his balance and fell hard, smacking his tailbone on the rocks embedded in
the dirt. His head hit the ground with a dull thud. A cry of pain and shock spit from his lips.
​          “Goddamn it! What the hell?”
​          Mumbling under his breath, he sat up and rubbed his hand across the back of his head.
There was no blood, thank God. He brushed the dirt and leaves out of his hair, then scanned the
trees overhead for the bird. It was gone.
​          He pulled himself to his feet, zipped his fly, then surveyed the damage. His overalls were
soaked up the back with foul-smelling mud, from his ankles to his asshole. More mud was
smeared across the backs of both arms. His boots were water-logged. Great, he thought. Now I’m
in for it. If his father saw what a mess he was, he’d tan Carl’s hide for sure.
​          Carl trudged across the yard, unbuckling his overalls as he went. He’d need to strip down,
rinse his clothes in the pump from the well, then hang them on the line to dry. Carl sat down on
the chopping block, unlaced his boots, and tugged them off his feet. Then he peeled off the
heavy, mud-soaked denim, dropping it in a wet pile on the ground. He retrieved a wooden bucket
from a rusty hook on the side of the woodshed, gathered his overalls in the bucket, then carried it
over to the black iron water pump nearby.
​          He started working the pump handle. After a minute or so, water began to trickle – then
pour – from the curved metal mouth of the pump’s spout. Carl ran one arm under the water, then
the other, rinsing away the now-dry mud. Then he cupped some water into his mouth and
splashed some on his face. The water was ice cold, with a coppery metallic tinge that reminded
him of how a bloody lip tasted. He patted his face dry on his t-shirt, then opened his eyes.
Mere inches away, a crow was perched on the water pump, studying him. It was eerily
still. Focused.
​          “Jesus!” Carl swatted at the crow. The bird hopped backward down the pump handle and
flapped its wings to maintain its balance, but it didn’t flee. If anything, it seemed even less
afraid. “Get out of here!”
​          The bird just glared at him, its coal-black eyes sparkling with fearless defiance. “Caw!”
In an instant, three more crows descended from a nearby tree, landing on the ground a few feet in
front of Carl.
​          “Fuck off!” He kicked at the wooden bucket, knocking it over in their direction. “Leave
me alone!” His soaking overalls tumbled out of the bucket onto the ground. A flood of water
rolled towards the birds. They calmly lifted into the air until it passed, then settled back down on
the sodden grass. Then they, too, began to call.
​          “Caw! Caw! Caw!”
​          Several more crows called out in response. Within seconds, the three crows on the ground
were joined by five more. Then ten. Then twenty. The calls grew louder as their numbers
multiplied, in turn drawing even more. Some emerged from the woods; others materialized on
the horizon, silhouetted against the fading afternoon light. They perched all around Carl: high
and low, on trees and on the ground, on the roof of the house and on the woodshed. All of them
calling, their cries overlapping.
​          As they multiplied, their calls started to morph into something different. It didn’t sound
like they were screaming “Caw!” anymore.
​          It sounded like they were screaming “Carl.”
​          Carl looked around wildly. The crows were closing in from all sides, a maelstrom of
shadows swooping and circling in ever-tighter formation around him. They blotted out the sky
above, leaving nothing visible overhead but a roiling ocean of black feathers. Carl picked up the
wooden bucket and hurled it at the birds in front of him. The crows in its path dipped and
swerved to avoid the projectile, then quickly reassembled in the same formation, circling him
closer. And closer.
​          The crow on the water pump was the first to strike. It launched itself like a rifle shot
aimed right at Carl’s head. Carl threw up his arms to shield his face. The crow’s beak struck his
forearm, carving a thick slice through the freckled flesh. Fresh blood surged from the wound.
​          Carl turned to run, but he found his path blocked by still more crows. He kicked and
swung at them, feeling his hands and arms connecting with their bodies, their hollow bones
collapsing on impact. But there were too many. Their beaks tore at his arms. His legs. His torso.
Others launched themselves at his head. At his face.
​          Carl stumbled backward. His feet tangled in the soaking overalls on the ground, twisting
his leg at an unnatural angle. As he fell, his shin bone snapped with a sickening crack loud
enough to be heard even above the din of the crows’ calls. The splintered end of the broken bone
tore through his skin. He hit the ground hard, fracturing his ribs and knocking the wind from his
lungs. He gasped for air, clutched at his leg, and screamed.
​          Then, the crows were upon him.

​          Ava lay on the cot in her bedroom, listening. In the distance, she could hear the cries of
dozens of crows. Hundreds, maybe. And something else, almost lost in the cacophony. Screams.
​          Suddenly, there was a tapping on her window. Ava sat up and swung her feet to the floor.
The cot springs squeaked with relief as she stood. She glided across the room and peered through
the dusty glass. She smiled.
​          There, on the roof outside the window, was a crow. It held something round and white in
its beak.
​          An eye.
​          Ava opened the window. The crow placed the eye delicately on the windowsill, then
stepped back. The eye rolled towards Ava. She picked it up and examined it in her palm. The orb
was grayish-white, with fine red blood vessels spidering throughout. The short stub of the
severed optic stalk protruded from the back. The iris of the eye was an icy blue-gray, the color of
the sky before a winter storm.
​          “Thank you,” Ava said to the crow.
​          The crow blinked, then bowed its head, inviting Ava to pet it. Ava reached out and gently
ruffled the feathers on the back of the bird’s neck.
​          ​“Now,” she continued. “Bring me the other.”





Warren Benedetto writes dark fiction about horrible people, horrible places, and horrible things. He is an award-winning author who has published over 100 stories, appearing in publications such as Dark Matter Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, and The Dread Machine; on podcasts such as The NoSleep Podcast, Tales to Terrify, and Chilling Tales For Dark Nights; and in anthologies from Apex Magazine, Tenebrous Press, Scare Street, and many more. He also works in the video game industry, where he holds 35+ patents for various types of gaming technology. For more information, visit warrenbenedetto.com and follow @warrenbenedetto on Twitter and Instagram.