They say death wears feathers here. In Marrow Creek, we don’t wait for spring to come. We wait for the crows.

“Hurry up, Elsie,” Ma calls from the front door, already tugging on her shawl. “We need to be out there before they start to gather.”

I quickly shove my feet into my boots, not bothering to lace them up, and follow her out. The brisk morning air bites at my skin as I step outside and catch up with Ma who is already waiting on the grass. We don’t talk once we’re on the front lawn. No one does, not once the sky starts shifting. Not on the morning of the choosing.

All down the main road, neighbors stand in complete stillness at the end of their yards, families huddled tightly, and all eyes fixed to the ground. Even the wind seems to be caged in utter silence, making the sound of wings approaching feel increasingly ominous.

Suddenly shadows begin to sweep over rooftops and gravel, black feathers cutting across the dawn like cracks in glass.

“Don’t look ‘em in the eye,” Ma whispers, barely louder than the wind. “That’s how they choose you.”

I keep my gaze low, just like Ma taught me, as the crows start circling, silent and slow. But the urge to look up is unbearable. Being careful not to move my head and draw attention, I shift my eyes and glance upwards. I see a sky thick with the onyx reapers, the morning sun just barely clawing through gaps in wings that seem to almost glow in ethereal hues of purple and blue. It steals the breath from my lungs, a hollow ache between awe and dread.

I’ve always found it ironic—how something so beautiful cloaks the creatures that carry death itself every first day of spring. Year after year the crows circle, they choose, and by sundown, someone from the marked house is gone. Sometimes it’s a sudden illness, sometimes an unexplainable accident. The death never comes from the crows themselves but from whatever follows them, and the result is always the same: a life taken, no questions asked.

I snap back to attention when the crows abruptly break from their lazy circling. Without hesitation they dive, wings folding in tight, giving the illusion of arrows being shot from the sky. I quickly lower my gaze back to the ground. Around me I can sense closed eyes squeezing tighter and shoulders tensing. No one wants to see where they land.

The sound of talons hitting a rooftop is followed by silence once again. But even with my eyes still down, I can feel it. Something is off. There is no startled cry, no grieving wail, none of the usual signs that a house has been marked. Just silence.

Ma gives my hand a panicked squeeze, which I hadn’t even realized she was holding, and my heart jumps. I risk another glance but towards her this time. Ma’s head is fully lifted, eyes locked straight ahead.

Oh no. Not our house. Please no.

I follow her gaze with a slow turn, dread icing over my thoughts. I know it’s our house. I can feel it in my spine, cold and certain.

But then I see where they’ve landed. The crows, dozens of them, are all perched in eerie stillness on the collapsed roof of the house next door. On Hollow House.

No one speaks. Not at first. I glance around and notice the shock that seems to be settling on the faces of everyone on our street.

“That can’t be right,” I murmur as I turn back to Ma. “It’s been empty since…”

Her jaw tightens as I trail off, not bothering to finish my sentence. I don’t need to. Everyone in Marrow Creek remembers, especially Ma. Hollow House hasn’t been touched in over a decade—not since the fire.

The two-story brick house crouches in the middle of the small lot. Most of the framework is still intact, although charred to black, and the windows have been boarded up from the inside. The spots of white paint on the caved-in porch that once looked cheerful now peels off in long, curling strips like dead skin. Ivy coils up the cracked chimney, climbing towards a second floor bedroom where there sits a gaping hole that reminds me of a mouth frozen mid-scream. The roof sags like a broken spine and I’m surprised the weight of the crows hasn’t caused it to collapse yet.

Most folks cross the street to avoid the place. Some say it’s cursed. But that’s not why the house has always unsettled me.

It’s what I remember from that night. The night the fire took the entire family.

Something I saw the night the sky turned orange outside my bedroom window. Something I’ve kept to myself. Something I’m beginning to think might be the reason why the murder of crows are perched on the roof for the second time in 10 years.