Estimated reading time — 6 minutes

No one ever talks about the sounds.

They talk about the body.
They talk about the wire.
They talk about the eyes.
But no one talks about the sounds.
Because if they did… they’d understand it wasn’t just a killing.
It was a sermon.

Before the cornfield…
Before the crows learned his name…
There was a man everyone knew.
And no one respected.
Alec Burrows.

You could hear him before you saw him.

Bottle in hand. Voice too loud. Laugh that didn’t belong anywhere decent.

He was the kind of man who made a scene just to prove he existed.

The kind who leaned too close when he talked.

The kind who said things he shouldn’t—
About women.
About God.
About anything that might get a reaction.

He showed up to church sometimes.

Not to pray.
Not to listen.
Just to be seen.
Boots up on the pew.
Interrupting sermons.

“Malachi’s talkin’ again,” he’d slur.

“Wonder if God’s listenin’ this time.”

People laughed nervously.
Then looked away.

Because Alec wasn’t just an embarrassment.

He was something worse.
A man who rotted out loud.

Malachi noticed.

He noticed everything.
And then—
He started watching.

At first, it was nothing.

A shadow across the street.

A figure standing just a little too still outside Murphy’s Tavern.

Gone the second Alec turned his head.
Alec chalked it up to the drink.
He always did.
But then it happened again.
Late one night—
Alec stumbled out of the bar, laughing to himself, bottle still in hand.

Cold air hit his face like a slap.
He welcomed it.
Needed it.
Then—
He stopped.
Someone was behind him.
Not footsteps.
Not movement.
Just… presence.
A shape beneath the flickering streetlight.
Tall.
Still.
Wrong.
Alec squinted.

“Hey—!” he called.

Nothing.

He took a step forward.
The light buzzed overhead.
Flickered.
And the shape—
Was gone.

Alec let out a shaky laugh.

“Yeah… okay…”

But he didn’t slow down this time.

The next night—
He saw him again.
Across the street.
Standing in front of the church.
Hands folded.
Head slightly tilted.
Watching.
Alec frowned.

“Get a life, preacher,” he called out, flipping him off.

No reaction.
The man didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t shift.
Just watched.
Too long.
Long enough that Alec felt something crawl up the back of his neck.

He turned away first.
After that—
The feeling didn’t leave.
It followed him home.
In the quiet of his house—
The silence felt… crowded.
Alec would wake in the middle of the night.
Certain—
Absolutely certain—
That someone was standing in the corner of his room.
Watching.

He’d reach for the lamp.
Fumble.
Turn it on—
Nothing there.

But sometimes—
The window would be open.

Sometimes—
The chair would be slightly out of place.

Sometimes—
There were footprints on the floor.

Not muddy.
Not wet.
Just… impressions.
Where someone had been standing.
Watching.

Alec started drinking earlier.
Heavier.

Desperate to quiet the noise building in his head.
Because now—
He could hear something.
Not words.
Not yet.
Just a whisper.
Low.
Constant.
Almost beneath hearing.
Waiting.

Days passed.
The sightings got closer.
Closer.
Closer.

Until one night—
Alec opened his front door—
And froze.

Across the street—
Under the dim glow of a dying streetlamp—
Malachi stood.
Clear now.
Not a shadow.
Not a trick of the light.
A man.
Hands folded.
Head tilted.
Watching him.
Alec felt his stomach drop.

“…what the hell do you want?” he muttered.

Malachi didn’t answer.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched.
And for the first time—
Alec didn’t feel angry.
Didn’t feel annoyed.
Didn’t laugh it off.
He felt…
Seen.

Not the way people see you in passing.
Not the way a bartender sees a regular.
Something deeper.

Like being looked through.
Measured.
Judged.

Alec slammed the door.
Locked it.
Checked the windows.
Pulled the curtains shut.
But even then—
Even in the dark—
He knew.
Knew with a certainty that settled into his bones—
That he wasn’t alone.
That he hadn’t been alone…
For a long time.
And sometime in the night—
Without realizing when—
The whisper changed.

It wasn’t distant anymore.
It wasn’t faint.
It was right behind him.
Soft.
Patient.
“…soon.”

The next night—
Alec didn’t see him at all.
And that was worse.
Because for the first time—
The watching stopped.
And deep down—
Somewhere beneath the fear…
Beneath the alcohol…
Beneath everything he’d been avoiding—
Alec understood.
That meant—
It was time.

That night—
The doors were locked.
They swear they were locked.
And Alec Burrows woke up on the church floor.
Cold.
His head throbbed.
His body felt wrong.
Heavy.
Dead weight.
Where am I…?
The smell hit him.
Blood.
Too much blood.
Candles flickered into existence around him.
Shadows crawling along the walls.

And there—
At the altar—
Malachi.
Still.
Watching.

No… no, no, no…
Alec tried to move.

Nothing.
He looked down.
His wrists.
No.

Metal.
Nails.
Driven through him.
His breath hitched.
A wet, choking gasp.

This isn’t real.
This is a dream.
Wake up—
Pain answered.

A deep, pulsing agony radiating up his arms.
Alive.
Real.
Growing.
Malachi stepped closer.
Slow.
Measured.

“You see it now,” he said softly.

You’ve been watching me.
You’ve been there the whole time.

Oh God—
Alec tried to scream.

The wire tore.

A burst of white-hot pain exploded across his mouth.
OH GOD—

The sound never came out.
Just a strangled, wet gurgle.
Malachi watched him carefully.

Not with anger.
Not with hatred.
With interest.

Like a man observing something finally behaving as expected.

“You had your voice,” Malachi said gently.

PLEASE—
I didn’t mean—
I was just—
Another twitch.
The nail shifted.
Pain detonated through his wrist.
STOP—STOP—STOP—
Alec’s vision blurred.

Tears streamed down his face.
His chest heaved in short, broken gasps.

Malachi smiled.
Just slightly.
And for the first time—
Alec saw it.
Not rage.
Not madness.
Peace.

“You wasted it,” Malachi finished.

The hammer rose.
NO—
The strike came down.
The nail drove deeper.
The sound—
Alec felt it more than heard it.
Bone splitting.
Flesh giving way.
His body jerked violently.
His throat convulsed.

I’M GOING TO DIE.
The thought hit clean.
Clear.
Terrifying.
I’M GOING TO DIE RIGHT HERE—

Another strike.
Pain swallowed everything.
No thoughts.
No words.
Just sensation.
Malachi exhaled slowly.
Almost… relieved.

“Be still,” he murmured.

MAKE IT STOP—
MAKE IT STOP—
MAKE IT STOP—

But it didn’t.
It got worse.

Malachi moved to his legs.
Alec’s eyes widened.

NO—PLEASE—NOT THAT—
The first break came with a wet snap.
His body convulsed.
Hard.
Violent.
I CAN’T—
I CAN’T—
The second break followed.
And something inside Alec shattered with it.
Thoughts fragmented.
Slipped.
Faded.
Pain became everything.
Malachi tilted his head.
Watching.
Listening.
As if waiting for something.
Alec’s breathing turned ragged.
Wet.
Shallow.

His vision dimmed at the edges.
…please…
Not words anymore.
Just a feeling.
A need.
Malachi reached for the wire.
Alec’s eyes locked onto him.
Desperate.

HELP ME.

Malachi smiled.
Wider this time.
Not cruel.
Not angry.
Grateful.

“You understand now,” he whispered.

The wire tightened.
It tore deeper through flesh.
Alec’s body spasmed.
His throat convulsed.
But no sound came.
Nothing could come.
His world narrowed.
Collapsed.
To pain.
To breath.
To the man in front of him—
Smiling.
And then—
Nothing.
By morning—

The cornfield would speak for him.

And the man who walked away…
Was no longer Malachi.

He stood at the edge of the road.
Clothes stiff with drying blood.

Hands still.
Eyes distant.
In his pocket—
A folded map.
Marked.
Chosen.
He opened it slowly.
Studied the name.

Ashford, New Hampshire.

The wind shifted.
The crows gathered.
For the first time—
He smiled.

“Malachi’s time has come” he whispered.

A pause.
A breath.
Something settling inside him.
Something final.

“But the judgment…”

His eyes lifted.
Cold.
Certain.
Unforgiving.

“…now belongs to Elijah.”

The crows took flight.
And somewhere—
Far away—
A church bell rang.

Wrong.

By morning—
The field was quiet.
Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t belong to nature.

The wind moved first.

A slow, whispering breath across miles of dry corn, bending stalks in soft, rhythmic waves. The sky burned low on the horizon, the sun bleeding into the earth in shades of red and gold. Long shadows stretched between the rows—thin, reaching fingers clawing toward something unseen.

At the edge of the field stood a crooked wooden sign.

Its paint was chipped.

Weather-worn. Forgotten.

Still readable.

“He who sows in sin shall reap in ruin.”

The crows had already gathered.
Dozens at first.
Then more.
Perched along fence posts. Power lines. The skeletal branches of distant trees.

Watching.
Waiting.

Something deeper in the field had drawn them.

Something still.
Something wrong.

If you followed the path—
If you pushed past the dry stalks that scratched against your arms and whispered against your ears—
You would find it.

A clearing.
Small.
Perfectly still.
And at its center—
A figure.

At a distance, it looked almost peaceful.

Like a scarecrow set up too early in the season.

Arms stretched wide.
Clothes hanging loose.
Head tilted slightly forward, as if in silent prayer.
But the closer you got—
The more the illusion broke.
It wasn’t straw.

It was Alec Burrows.
What was left of him.

His wrists were nailed through rough wood, arms spread across a horizontal beam. Not tied. Not bound.

Pinned.

His legs hung beneath him, bent at angles legs were never meant to bend. Whatever had been done to them… it hadn’t been quick. The bones had given way slowly, reluctantly, until they no longer held him up.

He dangled there like something unfinished.

Like something that had been broken on purpose.

His mouth—
God.

Barbed wire had been threaded through it.

Not wrapped.
Not gagged.
Stitched.

It tore through his lips in jagged lines, pulling them back into a grotesque, permanent smile. The flesh was split at the corners, dried blood crusted along his chin and neck.

Flies gathered there first.
Then the ants.
His eyes were still open.
Wide.
Fixed.

As if whatever he had seen in his final moments had refused to let him close them.

Pinned to his chest—
A single piece of parchment.
Aged.
Carefully written.
Deliberate.

“Woe unto him who speaks falsely in the house of the Lord.”

Beneath it—
A hand-drawn cross.

The wind passed through the clearing again.

Soft.

Unbothered.

Alec’s body shifted slightly with it.
A faint, almost imperceptible movement.

And for just a moment—
It almost looked like he might still be alive.

A lone raven descended from above.

Its wings cut through the silence with slow, deliberate flaps.
It landed on the beam beside his head.

Tilted its neck.
Studied him.
Then—
It pecked.
Soft at first.
Testing.
The tip of its beak pressed against Alec’s eyelid.
Pushed.
The skin gave way.
Just a little.
The raven didn’t hesitate.
Around them, the field remained unchanged.

Golden.
Calm.
Unaware.
Until morning came.

A rooster crowed somewhere in the distance.

The sun rose higher, spilling warm light across the dew-covered ground.

And from the edge of the field—
A man approached.
Old.
Worn.
Carrying a metal thermos in one hand.
Walking the same path he always walked.
Another morning.
Another day.
Until—
He stopped.
Something wasn’t right.
The crows.
Too many.
Too quiet.
The stalks ahead shifted slightly.
Parted.
And then—
He saw it.

The thermos slipped from his hand.

Struck the ground with a hollow clang.

He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t understand what he was looking at—
Until it became clear.
Until it became real.

“Oh… sweet Jesus…”

The words barely left him.
Then the scream came.

Raw.
Unfiltered.
Torn from somewhere deep inside him.

It cut through the field.
Through the wind.
Through the morning light.
Carried far—
Farther than it should have gone.
And somewhere beyond the corn—
Beyond the road—
Beyond the edge of that small, forgotten town—
Something heard it.
And smiled.

Because the sermon had been delivered.

And the next one…
Had already been chosen.
Ashford, New Hampshire.

He would arrive there soon.
Not as Malachi.

But as something greater.
Something final.

Elijah.

And when he spoke—
They would listen.

Or they would be silenced.

Credit: Richard Crow