The Murder of Crows

The crows spoke to me. I swear to God that somehow, the crows spoke to me. They didn't speak in words, though. They spoke through the storm.

You see, at midnight exactly, a hundred crows cawed and thunder clapped. And somehow, I made out words in the sound of thunder that echoed from lightning that must have been miles away.

"Quinton Grimm," it said. "The Murder of Crows is coming."

I can feel something shifting inside my skin. Its talons are cold and sharp.

I'm a worm in the claws of something so much bigger than myself, and I am so scared.