The Half That You See Rebecca Rowland (smart books to read txt) 📖

Three steps away from the fireplace, Gary put down the blanket and pushed the sputtering lantern toward the panes. It took him only a second to see, but it was a second that drained all the resolve from his soul. The fireplace now held at least a dozen crows, all staring at him with vacuous, unblinking eyes. They moved toward the light of the lantern and began to tap, slowly at first but then faster and louder.

“This can’t be real,” Gary moaned. “How can this be happening?” The birds answered by tapping even louder, a dozen beaks smashing like tiny jackhammers against the panes.

With the last of his resolve, Gary threw his blanket against the glass in an attempt to mute the sound of the birds. He stepped back and over the screaming of the wind, swore he could hear the birds hiss at him, a dozen crazed and hateful voices. Gary stood in the near pitch-black darkness, the lantern now almost out of kerosene. Part of him wanted to stay there, to stand and scream at the top of his lungs until he was out of breath, out of oxygen, scream until the sunlight came and washed away all the darkness in his life.

Instead, he walked stiffly to the kitchen for the Armagnac then into his bedroom. He finished the bottle, then passed out on the floor next to the bed just as the crows stopped their tapping.

Gary stood in a large field of knee-high grass and shivered. Gusts of cold wind buffeted him, cutting through his baggy t-shirt and torn jeans; he crossed his arms tight over his skinny, thirteen-year-old chest to try and stay warm. Why didn’t I wear a jacket? he thought, then just as quickly wondered why he would need a jacket in the middle of July in Kentucky. He looked around the rolling hills of his Uncle Jake's and Aunt Mildred's farm, then felt a thick layer of unease descend upon him when he realized he couldn’t remember coming outside, or walking into the fields, or—

“Hey Gary, you gonna stand there holding your weenie all day or are you gonna come and help me find Jackson?"

The loud voice behind him took Gary out of his thoughts. He turned to see his portly, fourteen-year-old cousin Lenny standing at the base of one of the hills. Gary took off in a sprint, running full out in the crunching grass, enjoying the feelings of abandon and freedom that the speed brought to him. Gary felt so alive, even as the cold wind rushed through his hair and across his face, making his eyes water and cheeks burn.

“I’m here,” he said when he reached Lenny. “What’s up with Jackson? Did he take off after some bunny again?” Jackson was his cousin’s beagle, a loud, boisterous dog that lived for two things: to chase rabbits and to cuddle in the lap of whoever would have him.

Lenny, strangely dressed in a faded brown leather jacket and matching snowmobile pants, crossed his arms and starred at his cousin with piercing black eyes.

“What’s going on, Lenny? Where’s Jackson?” Gary tried to take a step back but he couldn’t, his legs suddenly immobile, his feet seemingly frozen to the ground.

“What do you mean?” Lenny said, stepping sideways and pointing to the ground. “Jackson is right here.”

In a small, circular space devoid of grass, lay Jackson. His white and brown body was torn apart, intestines and internal organs laying scattered about like broken, bloody toys. Maggots the size of large worms undulated in Jackson’s steaming guts, and in the next instant, a crow was suddenly standing on top of the dog’s body, its sharp beak glistening like a black diamond in the light of the setting sun. The bird looked up at Gary with dead eyes, then, like a rattlesnake striking a cornered rat, it snapped down and tore out the bloated tongue of the dog. The crow made two quick jerks of its head and the piece of meat disappeared down its throat.

"What's the matter, Gary?" Lenny asked in a sickly-sweet voice. "You look kinda sick.” Lenny squatted down beside the prostrate body of the dog and stroked its bloated body. "Hey, maybe you're hungry. I bet that's it.” With one lazy motion, Lenny scooped up a handful of writhing maggots and shoved them in Gary's face. "C'mon now, don't be shy—it’s bad manners to refuse food from your kin.”

Gary wanted to scream, to shove away the stinking, living mass of larvae that his cousin held inches from his mouth and nose, but a total paralysis had taken hold of him.

"I'm hurt," Lenny said. “I offer to share food with you and you snub me." He cocked his head in jerky motions, still staring with lifeless eyes at Gary.

“What’s that saying?” Lenny continued. “Something about a cat having your tongue?” He nudged the crow, which looked up at him. “I think they got it wrong though—it’s not a cat who’s gonna have your tongue!”

The crow spread its wings, caught a gust of freezing wind, and rose slowly in the air like a feathered magician. It levitated in front of Gary, so close that he could see clearly into its eyes, black, soulless orbs that held a malicious hunger. Gary tried to move, to yell, to do anything, but only continued to stand in mute terror as the sound of the screaming wind and crazed laughter from his cousin filled his ears.

The crow’s beak lightly brushed up against Gary’s cheek like the caress of a lover; it was freezing cold and burned his flesh like a long sliver of dry ice. The crow jerked its head towards Gary's ear, and he heard a voice coming from its beak: a voice, deep and seductive; the voice of Doug Freeman. "I'm comin' inside, boy, I'm comin' inside," the Doug Freeman crow-voice said over and over like a scratched CD.

Gary finally managed to scream as the crow’s