They just stand there, staring at me. Oh, my god, I think. This is not happening. This is not happening!

I walk over, as close as I dare to get, trying to tell myself this was all a dream. No, a nightmare. But there he is. And he is dead. It looks like I shot him right through the heart. Did he feel anything, I wonder?

I look at them, staring at me. One of them flies over and lands on my shoulder. It looks at me, it’s eye so close to mine that it’s all I can see.

We tried to warn you. What the…

“Did you…” I can’t ask the question, because I don’t want to know. I really, truly don’t want to know.

Did we… talk to you? A low, croaking sound escapes its partially open beak. I think it’s laughing at me.

Do ravens laugh?

No. No, no, this isn’t happening. If I keep telling myself that, maybe it’ll be true.

Am I losing my mind? I must be. Ravens don’t follow sane people. They don’t talk to sane people, and they certainly don’t laugh at them.

And sane people don’t kill other people. Do they?