Fine Dining

I cut into another piece of steak before glancing briefly around the dining room again. The raven imagery feels impossible to ignore once you notice it. Carved ravens perch atop the backs of chairs. Ravens have been worked into the silverware handles. There are ravens hidden throughout the wallpaper patterns and dark wooden trim, as though the entire manor is quietly infested with them.

Then I think about the inscription beneath Bertram Crawford’s portrait downstairs. “The **** of ravens shalt thou abhor,” I say thoughtfully. “What exactly is the story behind that?” Something subtle changes around the table immediately.

Ingram sets his wine glass down carefully before answering. “Bertram Crawford was a very superstitious man, obsessed with the ravens,” he says calmly. “To an unhealthy degree by most accounts. He considered them sacred creatures.”

Griswell snorts softly. “Batshit insane is the clinical term.”

“Griswell,” Roseanne warns.

“I’m just saying the man built bird apartments into a mansion.”

“He built rookeries into the manor itself,” Ingram continues, ignoring his brother completely. “Hidden nesting spaces inside the walls, towers, and upper structures. Portions of the estate grounds were specifically designed to attract and shelter ravens year-round.”

“That explains the Hitchcock starter kit outside,” I mutter.

To my surprise, Ingram smiles faintly at that. “Bertram believed the ravens protected the Crawford family. According to his journals, they watched over the manor and carried warnings between the living world and whatever lies beyond it.”

“That sounds healthy,” I say.

“It was the eighteenth century,” Alisha replies lightly. “People used to cure headaches with cocaine and ghosts.”

Ingram folds his hands calmly atop the table. “As the legend evolved, Bertram became convinced the survival of his bloodline was tied directly to the ravens themselves. He forbade anyone on the estate from harming them under any circumstance.”

“And if somebody did?” I ask.

For the first time since dinner began, Ingram hesitates slightly before answering. “He believed that if the ravens ever abandoned Crawford Manor,” he says quietly, “his house would fall and his family line would end.” Thunder rolls outside almost immediately after the words leave his mouth, perfect timing.

Brandon shifts uneasily in his chair while Roseanne takes another sip of wine a little too quickly. Even Griswell looks less amused now.

“You say that like you don’t entirely think it’s nonsense,” I observe carefully.

Ingram meets my eyes across the candlelit table. “I say it,” he replies calmly, “because every Crawford raised in this manor grows up hearing the story whether they believe it or not.” Outside the towering dining room windows, somewhere out in the darkness beyond the rain, a raven suddenly screams.

I take another slow sip of wine while thunder rattles softly through the manor walls. For a moment I debate whether mentioning the scarecrow is a good idea. Then again, I am already trapped overnight in a gothic **** mansion full of raven cult architecture and family curses. I might as well commit.

“So,” I say casually, “speaking of creepy local traditions… what’s the deal with the scarecrow out in the cornfield?” Their reactions are immediate. Alisha looks confused. Roseanne maintains her annoyance. Brandon suddenly looks interested for the first time all evening.

Griswell begins to laugh. “What scarecrow?” he asks. I glance toward Ingram, but he only watches me calmly over the rim of his glass.

“The one out in the field near the road.” I shrug lightly. “Tall. Black clothes. It was standing near the center of the field when I crossed through the corn,” I continue. “Then I looked back and it was gone.”

“There are no scarecrows in the Crawford fields,” Ingram says evenly.

I blink once. “What?”

“There really are no scarecrows on the estate,” Alisha says. She sounds genuinely confused by the conversation now. “Bertram Crawford hated them. He believed scarecrows frightened away the ravens, and after a while the family simply stopped using them entirely.”

“Nothing on the property is allowed to harm or disturb the ravens,” Ingram adds calmly. “That tradition has remained in place for generations.” A small cold feeling crawls slowly down my spine. I set my wine glass down carefully against the tablecloth.

Griswell chuckles softly and waves one dismissive hand. “You probably saw an old hunting blind or some drunk local farmer wandering around in the storm.” For several long seconds, nobody at the table says anything.

Then Roseanne laughs softly, though the sound feels **** and brittle beneath the storm outside. “Well,” she says lightly, “that certainly settles it. We are officially telling ghost stories during dinner now.” Lightning flashes brilliantly across the towering windows. Roseanne’s **** laughter has barely finished echoing through the dining room when the scream tears through Crawford Manor.