The Constant Companion

October 23, 2014

by Griffin

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (547 words)

"Ever since I can recall, a lone raven has traced my path through the pre-dawn gloom. Whether I was a child trudging to the village school or now, a man heading to the docks, it was always there, a silhouette against the fading stars. The old folk in my village spoke of ravens as carriers […]"

Ever since I can recall, a lone raven has traced my path through the pre-dawn gloom. Whether I was a child trudging to the village school or now, a man heading to the docks, it was always there, a silhouette against the fading stars. The old folk in my village spoke of ravens as carriers of omens, often of death, and that knowledge coiled in my gut like a cold serpent.

The sensation of being watched accompanied me on every one of those early journeys. It was not the simple awareness of the raven’s gaze; it was a deeper, more intrusive feeling—as if the darkness itself had turned its attention to me, scrutinizing my every step. I would quicken my pace, my breath fogging in the chill, but the feeling never abated.

The most harrowing instance occurred when I was fifteen. I attended a secondary school on the other side of town, a choice made to stay with my friends, which forced me to rise an hour earlier than most to reach the bus stop. My usual route took me along a disused railway line, a shortcut that cut through a stretch of overgrown woodland. That morning, exhaustion clung to me like a wet shroud, but I dismissed it as the cost of a restless night.

As I entered the shadowed tunnel of trees alongside the tracks, the raven descended from its lofty perch and landed on a rusted signal post ahead. It fixed me with its glittering eye, and for the first time, it cawed—a harsh, broken sound that shattered the silence. I froze. The air grew heavy, and I felt a pressure building behind my ears, as if the world was holding its breath.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw it: a figure standing among the trees, cloaked in what seemed to be woven shadow. It had no discernible face, only a void that somehow exuded a patient malevolence. Its posture was tilted, head cocked as if studying me with an intellect far older than humanity. My heart hammered against my ribs, and a primal fear locked my limbs. The raven cawed again, and the figure took a single step forward, its movement silent and unnatural.

I wanted to run, but my feet were rooted. The figure raised a hand, and the shadows around it seemed to stretch, reaching for me. I could feel the cold of its touch even at a distance, seeping into the marrow of my bones. Then, as abruptly as it appeared, the pressure vanished, and the figure dissolved into the morning mist. The raven lifted off, circling above my head before flying off, leaving me trembling in its wake.

I never told anyone, for who would believe a tale of shadowed entities and spectral birds? But the raven has remained, a constant companion on my early walks. Now, as an adult, I still see it, perched on the lampposts or gliding overhead, a silent observer. And I cannot shake the feeling that the figure is never far behind, biding its time, waiting for the moment when the raven leads it to me for good. Each morning, as I step into the darkness, I wonder: will today be the day when the shadow finally catches up?

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