The Last Delivery

At the edge of the lumber town of Pine Hollow, where the forest pressed close like a held breath, stood the workshop of my grandfather, Elias Vane. I, Calla, was the youngest of his twelve grandchildren, and though I never knew the others’ opinions, he made it clear I was his favorite. He’d let me sit on his workbench while he carved, the scent of cedar and sawdust a perfume I still chase. He built me a playhouse, a perfect miniature cottage, complete with a functioning sink and a brass bell that my father wired with real electricity. Every afternoon, I’d ring that bell and pretend I was summoning a butler, but really, I was summoning him.

Elias was a man of few words, but his hands spoke volumes. He could coax a wolf’s head from a knot in oak, a bird from a fallen branch. But his heart was failing, a faulty engine in a craftsman’s chest. He spent weeks in the county hospital, and each time he returned, he seemed a little more transparent, like a photograph fading in the sun. One crisp autumn day, after a particularly bad spell, my father, Thomas, drove him home. In the car, Elias turned to him, his eyes clear and unwavering. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘this is it. I’m not long for this world. And my funeral will be held on a day so hot the very air will shimmer.’

Thomas laughed, a nervous habit. ‘Dad, don’t talk like that. You’ve survived worse. You’ll be around to see Calla grow up.’ But Elias just shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. ‘No. I’ve seen it. And there’s something else. I built something for Calla, something she’ll need. It’s in my workshop, under the tarp. Make sure she gets it.’ Thomas promised, though he thought it was just the rambling of a tired old man.

Elias died three weeks later, his heart finally giving out in his sleep. We buried him on a day that defied the calendar. The sky was a pale, bleached white, and the sun beat down with a ferocity that felt personal. The funeral home’s air conditioning struggled, and the flowers wilted before the eulogy was half over. I remember my mother fanning herself with the program, my cousins sweating through their black clothes, and the iciness of my grandfather’s casket, which seemed to radiate cold in defiance of the heat. It was exactly as he had said: a day so hot that the air itself seemed to tremble.

After the service, my father took me aside. ‘Calla, Grandpa left something for you before he passed. He made me promise to give it to you today.’ He led me to his truck, parked in the shade of a dying oak. In the back, beneath a dusty tarp, was a wooden crate. My father helped me lift it out, and I opened it right there, the heat pressing down on us like a hand. Inside, nestled in straw, was a small, hand-carved wooden bird—a raven, its wings spread as if in mid-flight. Its eyes were two polished onyx stones, and they seemed to follow me as I lifted it out. There was a note, in my grandfather’s cramped but careful handwriting: ‘For Calla. When the raven calls, I will return.’

At first, I kept the raven on the mantelpiece, a beautiful reminder of a grandfather I adored. But I soon noticed strange things. The wood seemed warmer to the touch than it should be, and sometimes, I could swear I heard a faint scratching inside, like claws on bark. At night, I’d wake to the sound of wings fluttering against the window, but when I looked, there was nothing. My playhouse, which I’d outgrown, began to feel different—the air inside was thicker, and the brass bell would ring on its own in the dead of night, a single, mournful chime.

A week after the funeral, I was in my room when I heard a distinct call from outside—a raven’s caw, but deeper, more deliberate. I looked out the window, and there it was, perched on the curb outside: a raven with glossy black feathers and eyes that glinted like the ones on my carving. It stared at me, then flew off toward the edge of the forest. Without thinking, I grabbed the wooden raven and followed, my heart pounding in my chest.

The raven led me to a part of the woods I’d never explored, where the trees grew so thick that the sun couldn’t penetrate. In a small clearing, I found a cabin I’d never seen before—an ancient, moss-covered structure with a door that creaked open on its own as I approached. Inside, the air was cold, and the walls were lined with shelves of dusty jars, each containing a tiny, carved creature. And in the corner, at a workbench, sat a figure with his back to me. As I stepped closer, he turned, and my breath caught in my throat.

It was my grandfather, but not as I remembered him. His skin was the pale grey of ash, and his eyes were the same onyx as the raven’s. He smiled, and his lips were cracked like old leather. ‘Calla,’ he rasped. ‘I told you I’d return.’ I stumbled back, dropping the wooden raven, which shattered on the floor. The sound was like a bell, and the jars on the shelves began to shake. ‘What do you want?’ I managed to whisper. He leaned forward, his gaze intense. ‘I’m not done, Calla. I have so much left to teach you. And you, my favorite, are going to carry on my work.’

I woke up outside the cabin, gasping for air, the wooden raven intact in my hand. I ran back to my house, but when I got there, the door to my old playhouse was open, and inside, on the tiny table, was a note: ‘The work has begun. I will return soon.’ I haven’t told anyone, but I can feel him now, in the rustle of the leaves, in the creak of the house at night. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see those onyx eyes staring back at me, waiting for me to finish what he started. The heat that day was just the beginning. The real horror lives in the wood I’m slowly learning to shape, and in the thing that watches from the shadows of my own mind.