HALLOWEEN SHORT STORY - “A CROW IN NIGHTSTONE” PART 2
A Crow in Nightstone — Part II
The Troll and Tankard was nearly silent now. The laughter that had once filled its rafters had fled like startled birds, leaving only the soft creak of the sign outside, swinging on its chain in the fog. The hearth had burned low, its light reduced to a dull, pulsing amber that made the corners of the room seem deeper than they were—like doorways into someplace else.
Crow sat at the bar, one hand resting on his untouched ale. His reflection stared back from the pewter rim—pale, drawn, and older than he remembered. Road-worn lines carved his face like dry riverbeds. He seemed to drift in and out of thought, until the question returned, the one that had been gnawing at him since he’d crossed the threshold.
“So… you said you just saw me, aye, Mr. Barkeep?” His voice cracked into a half-laugh, brittle as old parchment.
He blinked fully awake—and froze. The mirror behind the bar reflected only the dim hearthlight and rows of dusty bottles. No barkeep. No patrons. No sound but the slow tick of the sign outside. They’d just left him here? Alone?
The barkeep must have slipped into the back rooms without a word, without a sound. The other patrons—those strange, glass-eyed townsfolk who’d greeted him like a brother returned from war—were gone too. Yet Crow hadn’t heard a single door open, nor boots crossing the floorboards. They were simply… gone.
He exhaled slowly, the breath trembling. “This is a bad dream. Just the road catching up with you.”
Outside, something answered him: the deep, sonorous toll of a bell.
Crow stiffened. There was no church in Nightstone—not since the giants’ attack. Yet the sound came again, hollow and deliberate, echoing through the fog like the heartbeat of the dead.
He turned toward the window. The glass was black with condensation, but beyond it shimmered a faint lantern glow, bobbing like a will-o’-wisp in the square. The bell tolled a third time—closer now. Each chime seemed to pull at his bones, a beckoning call that whispered of inevitability.
Crow rose from the stool, legs heavy as lead, and drifted toward the door. The doorknob was freezing cold, biting his palm like winter steel. He winced and tried to turn it—but a voice cut through the silence, sharp as a blade drawn in the dark.
“Don’t follow it.”
Crow spun. At the far table, half-lit by the dying hearth, someone sat hunched forward, cloak drawn close. The man’s profile was unmistakable—the same scar under the left eye, the same weathered gloves, the same knife at his hip.
Crow’s throat tightened. “Who—”
The figure looked up. His own eyes met his. This man wore his same face…but how?!
“You shouldn’t have come here,” the man said.