Beyond a Murder

The valley smelled of iron and sagebrush. The first raven arrived at dawn, its black wings silent against the empty sky. By noon, they blotted out the sun.

Eve was the first to notice, though she didn’t say anything. A geologist by trade, she’d come to the reservation to study unusual magnetic fluctuations in the rocks. “Anomalies,” she’d told the tribal elders who allowed her access to the land. But they knew better.

As the sky darkened, she realized the rocks weren’t the only thing pulling.

On the other side of the valley, Thomas lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. He’d returned to the reservation after years of self-imposed exile.

A drifter, some said. A deserter, others whispered. But Thomas knew what had driven him away—it was something older.

The ravens hadn’t gathered like this since he was a boy, and his grandmother had warned him what it meant. “When the sky fills, the veil thins. And when the veil thins, they come.”

He flicked his cigarette into the dirt. He wasn’t ready for what was coming.

Abigail arrived at the edge of the valley on foot. She was a stranger here, a social worker sent to investigate reports of neglect at the rundown house of a single father and his daughter.

But when she knocked on the door, no one answered. Only the ravens did, their caws harsh and guttural, as though mocking her.

The house smelled of old wood and meat gone rancid. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, and she saw the walls. Strange symbols in the beams, painted in what she could only hope was rust.

“Hello?” she called, her voice thin and echoing.

That’s when she noticed the feathers. Hundreds of them, scattered across the floor, stuck to the ceiling, plastered in patterns she couldn’t understand.

And the silence.

Night fell quickly, unnaturally. The valley seemed to breathe, an exhale that carried whispers through the sagebrush. The ravens perched silently now, watching, waiting.

Eve stood at the rise in a hill, her equipment at her feet, forgotten. The magnetic readings had gone haywire, the instruments spinning wildly, unresponsive to her attempts to calibrate them.

But it wasn’t the readings that held her attention. It was the figures below.

In the valley, shadows moved against the light of a pale, flickering fire. Not people—not quite.

They were too tall, too thin, their limbs bending in ways human joints couldn’t. Eve stumbled backward, gasping, just as Thomas’s truck screeched to a stop behind her.

“Get in,” he barked.

Abigail emerged from the trees, her face pale, her hands shaking. “They’re here,” she whispered. “Whatever they are. I saw them.”

“We all have,” Thomas said grimly.

The fire in the valley wasn’t wood but something older, something ancient. The figures surrounded it, chanting in low, guttural tones that made Eve’s teeth ache.

Thomas clutched an old rifle, though he knew it would do no good. Abigail held a small, crumpled photograph of the little girl she was too late to save.

“They come through the veil tonight,” Thomas said. “It’s open now.”

“What are they?” Eve asked.

“Not spirits,” he said. “Not ghosts. Something worse. Something hungry.”

Abigail’s voice broke the silence. “They’re looking for us.”

The shadows in the valley stopped moving, and the chanting ceased. Slowly, impossibly, they began to look upward toward the three figures against the night sky.

“They see us,” Abigail whispered, her voice trembling.

Eve felt it before she heard it: the low hum that grew into a roar. The valley seemed to split open, the ground trembling beneath their feet. The fire leaped higher, and the shadows began to climb—not walking, not running, but slithering, twisting their way up the rock faces.

Thomas raised his rifle and fired, the sound shattering the unnatural quiet. The first shadow shrieked, a sound that pierced bone, but it didn’t stop. It only grew angrier.

“They don’t die,” Thomas muttered. “We have to close it. Close the veil.”

They ran, the shadows in pursuit. The air grew colder with every step, the sky darker.

Abigail screamed as one of the creatures grabbed at her, its fingers like steel rods, its breath foul and wet. Eve swung a heavy rock at its head, and it fell back, howling, but the others came faster now.

“They’re pulling the dead through!” Thomas yelled, pointing to the valley.

Below, more figures emerged, shambling and twisted, their forms half-rotted, their eyes empty sockets. Eve remembered the petroglyphs she’d seen carved into the rocks at the base of the cliff.

“The markings—they’re a barrier!” she yelled.

“We need to finish the pattern!” Abigail cried, fumbling with a piece of chalk in her pocket.

But the shadows were too close.

Thomas turned, rifle raised. “Go,” he said. “Finish it. I’ll hold them off.”

Eve hesitated, but Abigail grabbed her arm. “We don’t have time.”

They scrambled down the hill as Thomas fired again and again behind them. The ravens screamed overhead, circling, diving at the creatures, buying them precious seconds.

The markings were incomplete, the ancient symbols half-erased by time and weather. Eve knelt, her hands shaking, and began to draw.

Abigail whispered a prayer, though she didn’t know who or what she prayed to. Above them, Thomas’ screams echoed across the valley.

The ground opened again at the petroglyph’s completion, a blinding light pouring from the cracks. The shadows froze, shrieking, as the fire consumed them.

The veil snapped shut with a sound like thunder, and the valley fell silent. By dawn, the ravens were gone.

Eve and Abigail stood atop the hill, staring at the empty valley. There was no sign of Thomas, no sign of the fire, none of the things that had come through.

Only silence.

“He knew,” Abigail said quietly. “He always knew.”

Eve nodded.