Creepy - Day 12 - The Crow Kids Will Teach You To Fly

Episode Date: October 12, 2019

Stay away from the swamps...***Written by Scott Savino ***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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the most famous, chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 12. The Crow Children will teach you to fly. Written by Scott Savino. The first time I saw one, I was seven.

That was the night the neighbor girl Cindy died. We were friends. It was summertime, and the marsh was foggy, and the fogs were all going at once, making an awful racket with her obnoxious noises. I saw her go. She was holding his hand-dizzy letter. While past midnight from my window, I'd watch the little boy, the crow boy, later away and down the sloping path through the cypress knees,

back into the sunken trees at the edge of the property. There were three crows circling them overhead. I knew she was gone before anyone told me she was. They told me my friend was dead the next day. I didn't tell anyone about the crow children. I don't even know if that's what they're called, if they're called anything at all. The next time I saw one of them, I was 17. She was leading Jeremy from up the road.

That was summertime too. I knew it was Jeremy because he was in some of my classes. I knew it was him because of his size. He was tall and big for 17. He wore a pair of swimming trunks. He wasn't old enough yet. but he liked to have a few drinks and swim on the warm August nights. His daddy didn't pay him no trouble about it on the cone of the football and him having good grades.

They must have met him in the pool, the girl and her crows. His hair was slick and wet, but not just from pool water. While they walked, Jeremy swiped blood away from his eyes several times. He and she and the crows made their procession through our backyard into the marsh. A crow perched on his left shoulder would occasionally peck at him below the eye, pecking at the blood. Jeremy didn't seem to mind. It skitter between them, hopping down his arm to peck at the inky black, the girl's wet hair, then back up to his shoulder.

Two others were with them. The one that lad would take flight for five, seven feet, land in the grass and look back at them to be sure they were keeping time. The third flew in slow figure apes behind. They liked the path because it was well worn and when the moon was full that part of the marsh would be bright while the rest of the world was dark. This was easier when leading new ones down. Already confused and wary, this helped ease them. Down into the black waters and below to the mucky algae and sand at the bottom. The next summer they took Bobby Joe.

She was 23. The next one they took Elena. She was only five. Later, I realized in summertime it was happening all the time, and it weren't just children they were taking out there to meet the gators and moccasins and the frogs. It was all kinds. My mama told me it takes all kinds to make a world. Same seems true for that sludgy world out there in the wetland.

From what I can tell, it's man and woman, old and young, black and white. The kids and their escort of crows is just the ones that come to show you the way down. Sometimes I stand at the edge of the marsh in the summer. I don't listen to them. I never listen to them and you shouldn't either if you see them. At the edge of the marsh, I can see some of them lying on their stomachs, faces in the mud, some of their backs with their eyes full of black, staring at the stars. Some have been out there so long.

Out there so deep, it's just the tops of their dirty hair flitting heavily in the breeze or their toes if they were flying the other way. If you ever find yourself out here after dark, don't look them in their black eyes. Not the crows, nor the children. Either can be witchy if you do. Sometimes they say things, these souls, these wretched, drowned creatures, whispers on black wings Elena fell off her daddy's airboat

they never did find her Bobby Joe got sad stole some of her mama Zambian and laid down in the tub Jeremy died in that pool he loved so much hit his head on the bottom diving drunk

and I was seven and probably shouldn't have but I saw the story on the news Cindy's mama held her underwater in their kitchen sink, probably kicking and screaming until the water filled her lungs, until she stopped breathing air. Sometimes they say things when no one's around, these souls in the bog, a quiet, croaking, awful sound mixed in with the frogs, the voices of the crows. If you get too close to the water at night, you'll hear them softly as they grow. If you're extra unlucky they'll come and whisper hello in person from their own beaks

Don't listen to what they say Such awful things Come and fly come and fly We'll teach you how to fly You can live forever soren in the black muddy sky Whatever you do Don't look in their eyes Whatever you do don't hear their lies

And whatever you do don't drown and die especially not in the summertime the crow children are why because I've seen the spirits down there and I assure you that they don't fly for more information

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