Scarecrow Jonathan Crane Novels & Stories

Aunt Kelly knows Latin? And if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't have believed it. The knife actually jerks from his hand as if someone yanked it away and goes flying through the air, landing sideways on the ground. Uncle John's expression changes from fury to confusion. His gaze darts from me to Aunt Kelly, like we've both performed some kind of magic trick. Now he's the docile housedog surrounded by two wild predators. He crouches, ready to fight. A loud thump cracks to the ground and I recognize the spikey, bloody wings. The creature, Malum or whatever he is, doesn't move. He's obviously dead.

His heavy Kevlar vest was completely caved in, driving splintered ribs directly into his lungs and heart. "Set up the standard perimeter," I ordered Gideon, forcing my voice to remain cold and authoritative. "Nobody touches the bodies yet. Where is Crane?" "Right here, Alpha Halil," a smooth, calm voice answered from the shadows. Dr. Crane stepped into the harsh glow of the tactical lights. Wearing a clear plastic poncho over his white forensic suit, he looked entirely out of place in the rugged forest. Crane was our lead forensic analyst. He was brilliant, but he always spoke about brutal murders with a weird, detached fascination that unsettled most of the pack.

There was no Santa Claus, no Tooth Fairy—only wrongs and rights intersecting in ways nobody had stopped to warn her about. She looked down at her imperfect crane and realized how silly it was. It wasn’t going to change anything. It wasn’t going to save anyone. Robby’s thrashing ceased the moment she let the crane drop. His breathing drew into a long rattle. She crushed the origami beneath her sneaker as she neared the bed, watching her friend die in front of her.

Turning, I began to move towards it, unable to quite comprehend what could possibly be making that type of noise this deep in the forest. Moving forward, I came across a field with glowing blue flowers and what looked to be scarecrows. They twisted about lazily in the wind as a few birds began to land on them. Snarling, the scarecrows mouths snapped open as their claw-like hands grabbed the birds eating them in one bite. As they chewed, pieces of the birds could be seen traveling down the scarecrows skeletal throats and past their ribecages before the now-ground-up creatures hit the earth below them.

Felan told them. Johnathan had decided to make camp inside the cave. He sent a message to his people asking why they weren’t here yet. The only response he got was “being followed, can’t shake them leading them away from you.” Johnathan screamed after he read the message. He stepped out of the cave and started to pace behind the waterfall. He was so distracted that he almost didn’t notice the movement in the woods nearby. He stopped and focused his senses towards the movement. He then knew, they knew he was here.

"Hehe. If I die under such circumstances, I'll keep my carnal ways as a ghost." The man with the tattoo of a crane's tail feathers was the second oldest of the ten men, Double-tailed Crane. He was infamous for being lustful. He patted his thigh, about to get up and make his way to Ziyun'er with a perverted smirk. Suddenly, a burst of wind whizzed past his ears as a steel nail flew at him. Double-feathered Crane turned his head sideways and used his mouth to catch the steel nail. He spat it out and smiled wickedly. "Pretty lady, both of your hands are tied. Where are you hiding your weapon? Don't tell me it's that place?"

Their remaining shares in the company was acknowledged by Edward Crane who promised not to deprive them of it. The weeks that followed were traumatizing. There were no longer attacks from Edward Crane but he had left everyone in shambles. Dickson even attempted to commit sucide but was discovered on time by his wife and rushed to the hospital. Edward Crane, who was enjoying the moment, ensured that the internet got wind of the founder’s sucide attempt.

She just looked up at Anaïs and blinked those too-old eyes. Anaïs carried her the last two kilometers. By the time they reached Monteluna, the sun was low again. The farm was exactly what Crane said it would be—burned, empty, erased from any living record. The barns were collapsed. The main house was half-consumed by fire. But the root cellar still stood. And inside it, waiting, was Crane. He looked thinner. Older. Scar on his cheek that wasn’t there the last time. But when he saw them—really saw them—he didn’t speak. Just opened his arms and stepped aside.

She did feel like a degenerate, but a very happy, very satisfied and very confused, degenerate. Creighton’s Steward was a middle-aged British man named Garman Ward. He was stern and very proper, and kept the yacht and staff in line, making certain everyone did his, or her, job without hesitation. Creighton and Sandra had spent the afternoon scuba diving and returned to the ship shortly after twilight to find wine and cheese waiting for them in the parlor. After their large lunch, having a simple snack was perfect, allowing them time to enjoy the evening together.

the old woman asks. "Go, Crane," I say. Crane backs out of the driveway, and we begin our drive to the wolf territory. "We do not have time for this," the older lady fusses. She begins to speak in a language I do not know, but Crane does. At one point, his mouth is moving, saying the words. I knew Crane's mother was a witch. It is kind of the pattern. Witch plus hunter equals reapers and life partners. Sometimes wolves, but mostly witches and hunters.