Uncawwing Ravens

Just an attempt at horror. Story has been in my head for a couple of weeks, yet never knew where to start. It didn't feel right previously, but once finals were over, like a bleeding wound on a hemoph

The scenes that frightened me the most in movies weren't the ones with the intense, atmospheric songs playing in the background as the woman is being chased, or when something is obviously in the room. Nor is it the ones in which they are in some place that is run down and dark, the reek of rotting oak and dust seeping through the screens, where the protagonist is rummaging or exploring something, in which the viewer is supposed to feel tense before finally releasing that jump when the monster, spirit, killer, et cetera finally rears it's head. 

The scenes that are truly disturbing involve everyday scenes, the happy smiles plastered on the cute girls faces, the boys having looks of mischief that indicated that they are going to prank them later that evening, having them dance around on the grass that shewed proof that, obviously, the day they are having will forever be recorded in their memories to be relived and viewed like a favorite childhood film. These scenes are recorded on cameras that obviously came from the nineties-the sound muffled, the laughter resembling a shriek, their eyes reflecting the light that so obviously shouldn't be there-you know the type. 

What makes those scenes disturbing, is the same reason why the villagers viewed ravens to be horrifying. The day to day life is being lived, the crops are growing smoothly, then that f*****g bird appears, doesn't eat anything. Doesn't caw, scratch it's head, or even look for its friends. The bird looks directly towards you, and remains frozen. Black beak slowly opening, you begin to feel nervous. The mouth has opened, and yet nary a sound emerges from that small creature. Curious, you move. Finally, that bird turns its head, the eyes unblinking and staring at you. 

The staring and lack of blinking, no matter the creature, will terrify even the boldest of sociopaths, yet it's magnified when the bird is doing it. The terrifying part isn't the staring. People do that to you when your shirt is unbuttoned or filthy, dogs do it when you do something strange. Checking yourself, you notice there's nothing wrong. No meat on you, no clothes unruffled, and you haven't attacked any ravens recently, so it couldn't have heard from its raven friends of what you have been doing. The fear settles in. Why is he staring at me? You think. The bird finally caws, causing you to drop your tool, and flys off. 

It's something that, though is odd, is still considered to be irrational to be afraid of. You attempt to shake it off, but it remains in your thoughts for the rest of the night. That's the feeling those scenes give me. I can understand happiness. I've experienced it. But those teens.....are too happy. The teens in that tape that I am watching. I bought the video roughly a month ago from some homeless man who said this was a bootleg documentary, and was only selling it for five dollars. Not wanting the man to starve, I bought the video. 

This could very well be a scene before I see photos of destroyed faces caused by drug use, and credits of PBS or some other program appearing, and a woman with a PhD in Psychology deciding to speak of drug abuse and what leads to people doing it will appear. 

The problem though, is that this tape has lasted for twenty. Minutes. That odd feeling is seeping in, similar to that of the farmers. A curious feeling. What happens if I fast forward? Why is this documentary showing teenagers playing? Even worse-why isn't anybody looking at the camera? As a matter of fact, nobody seems to notice it at all, which even the least fame-seeking teen will care to at least show an acknowledgement of the camera. Even when instructed to not look at the camera, they'll still act like they know it's there. Two actions are typical of teens: acting silly, because it's fun, or being well behaved, so that their parents aren't disappointed. But this is them....in their natural habitat. Which can only happen when a) they are just recording this for memories, typically a friend will be there, and during this time, the cameraman will even speak, or b) they don't know they're being watched.

The curiosity is overwhelming. I fast-forward. I see the teens and the camera moving towards a riverbank, the water as clear as crystal, and the teens deciding that this is a perfect time to smoke marijuana. I sigh in relief. Okay, this is a drug documentary. One minute passes. Two minutes. Six minutes, and it still shews them inhaling the smoke, but the color outside seems to have changed. I grit my teeth as a cold realisation dawns on me.

He lied. Suddenly, the tape turns black, and my skin begins to reflect the light dark light from the TV in this bleak, dark room. Do I dare press play? Perhaps it's just over? I press the Resume, which cancels the fast-forward sequence. 

It reveals a completely different scene. It seems to still be in a forest, but rather than the riverbank or the fields, it's in a place with enough trees to know it's an actual forest, but not so wooded to where one couldn't comfortably walk around without a machete at hand. It's night-time with an open fire in the center, a tent placed right beside it. The camera moves, turning right. The man behind the camera seems to be breathing harder than usual, and the walking seems to last for at least thirty seconds, passing by trees and hooting owls-this time in what seemed to be in high-definition. Even the leaves underneath the foot can be heard. Now I'm back to being curious. Had the man decided to use a high-definition camera this time?

Why would he choose now to use such a camera, rather than beforehand?

Rather than....before.

Rather than beFore.

Rather than.....be...fore.

I concluded the scenario, though the images and words refuse to manifest into a solid idea. I pause the tape. In the center of the screen is a tree, with a black figure on it. My teeth chatter and my jaw feels tight. This room, disregarding the lack of air conditioning in the middle of summer, feels unnaturally cold, as if this state had decided to drop sixty-seven degrees below zero in a short amount of time. 

I began panting. I hadn't realised I was holding my breath for such a long period of time, never-mind even doing it at all. 

Another two minutes pass by. I'm glad I don't have work tomorrow. It doesn't matter how long I wait; I'm still short on breath. Deciding to finish the video, I resume.

The steps seem unnatural at this point. For starters, it almost seems like he's skipping. Not in the way that a regular person does, with a hop, but almost like a bad video or faulty music track, where it seems to pause somewhere, then advances a few seconds. Just like that, he pauses in his tracks, then advances ten feet in a very short amount of time. The camera, being high-definition, records everything naturally.

The figure in the tree becomes illuminated by a flashlight that appeared in front of the camera. On that tree is a man, gagged, tied and naked, hair coming from his armpits, chest, and even his stomach. Strangely, not his legs. His hair is medium-length, and his eyes were closed. They slowly open, revealing a deep-ghostly blue. 

The gag is removed. The man coughs. "Wh-wha-who ar-why are you doing this?" The man says this in a panic.

The camera man answers by putting the knife to the mans throat, and a horrid scream is heard-forcing me to jump. The knife enters the jugular, up to the hilt, and the man makes gurgling choking noises, both the blood and the cold steel being foreign items in the esophagus that were never supposed to be experienced. The red color seeps from his mouth, and the wound caused by the knife gushes the blood out similarly to an over-sized  waterballoon leaking out water, covering the dirty hand holding the knife. 

The knife is pulled out, and the man dies. I'm tempted to stop, though I know I won't, so I fast forward instead. For three minutes, I watch in fast forward as the man does the exact same thing to all the other teens that were seen earlier. Though what got me was that, eventually, after the second to last kill, it began to slow to the original speed of this video. Did he slow? I resume play. It.....revealed the scene, being played regularly, like it was in fast-forward. The blood in my veins, once warm and flowing, have now solidified and froze me to place, forcing me to remain solid until this whole video is done. 

Of course, the last victim is a brunette girl, her perky tits turned purple from the tight knots of the rope tied around them. She opens her eyes, yet doesn't scream, though her mouth is un-gagged. She doesn't even say a word. She....appears to not be surprised.

If anything, the look she has is one that a person wears when the worst of the worst has occurred. The man says nothing. (Is the person behind the camera an actual man?) The knife comes into view, and stabs the b***s first. The woman winces, yet refuses to scream. The blood pours out, almost as if it were desperately awaiting this very moment. It's not until they are pale that the knife moves to her face. This....is going to result in a torture. The eyeball is getting sliced. A clear scream is finally heard. Puss and a clear, deep red color, resembling ink, runs down her face, making it to her lips, making a line that reminds me of mascara running. A circle is made around the eye, more red ink flowing down her face, and finally the eyeball is removed. Dropping the knife, he removes the cut-eyeball with his dirty fingers, and pops it in front of the girls remaining eye. A groan is heard, and that hand is now covered in a reddish-white mess, almost as if he had dipped his hand into dough, pulled it out, and doused it with cherry sauce. 

As he does the exact same thing to the other eye, a question arises; how is he holding the camera, the knife, and the flashlight at the same time? Almost at once, when the question appears, the camera turns away from the now-dead woman (her neck slit like everyone elses), and faces the mystery man. Dark hair combed with a freckled face, the man appears handsome and cold.

"No." I heard myself saying. That face is too familiar. I know that face. Oh, this is a documentary alright. During the weekends, of which my head is fuzzy, I will oft find myself in a forest in the middle of the night, or somewhere deep in the park, or sometimes in the riverbank. My memory is typically fuzzy anyway, and I have been known to have insomnia during the week, so sleep will come, and my day will be gone, and I will occasionally find myself waking even in the kitchen, so being that far wouldn't be too much of a coincidence. 

Oh, how horrid it was to hear about the disappearances that have been occurring! I would often shout at the television, wondering if the killer is envious of the youth for irresponsibility and drugs, feeling a pang of sympathy for those who may have died. How did I know they died?

The room erupts in a deafening screeching sound, coming from both me and the television.

Author's Note

It may not read as smooth as silk, considering it's my first draft.