Small Oneshot, based around Scarecrow Year One. If you have not heard of it or read it, you may be a bit confused, but it does clear up around the end. Enjoy!
The hazy Georgia sun beat down on him as he trudged down the narrow dirt road, exhaustion pulling down his limbs like heavy weights. He had ditched his plaid shirt a while back, choosing to just wear the simple cotton t-shirt, and embraced the small breeze whole-heartedly, relieved to be free of the extra heat that had encased him before.
In the distance as he walked along, he began to make out the shape of the tall, imposing peaks of Keeny Manor concealed behind the corn stalks and weeds that decorated the property around the manor. As he approached, he began to feel both relief and dread, something that was not unfamiliar in him whenever he walked this road towards that place. The manor was in extremely poor condition, which was to be expected after being abandoned for more than seventeen years. The wood siding was rotting and worn; the black paint already weathered down and chipping away to expose the oaken colour concealed underneath. A thin layer of dust coated the arched gothic windows which were cracked and scratched from both mischievous children and the elements, and the steps leading up to the large double doored entrance were in equally poor condition, with the second step having already caved in. The manor had become a sort of horror folk tale to the people of the town, so it didn't surprise him that so much damage was caused by naïve teenagers and preteens.
The man walked up the winding dirt drive way, trampling over the weeds that had begun to suffocate any flowers that may have attempted to grow near the manor, before stopping and staring up at the hulking monster he had been forced to reside in for eighteen years. He seemed to ponder entering for the briefest of moments, before electing to turn and walk into the tall corn stalks of the fields surrounding the property instead. He had not arrived there today to wander inside the house like usual and reminisce upon the many "fond" memories he had experienced and endured within there. This time he had a different purpose in mind.
He walked for what felt like five or ten minutes, though it had likely been longer, before stopping in front of a building that seemed to resemble a chapel. It would have been glorious, and it had been in its heyday (he remembered his Granny musing about it as she dragged him by the hand across the fields towards it), but now it sat alone and unwanted with a caved in roof and an open door that looked more like the gaping entrance to hell. It seemed to be inviting him to enter in a cruel and mocking way, calling out to him in a soft whisper with promises of pain and fear. It terrified him for many years of his life, but now that he was older it just seemed welcoming.
When he was younger he had believed the building to be a chapel because of the resemblance, until his Granny had told them while they stood outside the doors (he, dreading for the inevitable and she, enjoying herself by drawing out the punishment), that it was in fact an aviary. Her father had built it, and even though her mother had wanted a chapel, her father had used it as an Aviary where it had hosted the most exotic of birds. It was the toast of their small Georgian town, that is, until the economy crashed and her father had shot himself in the head in the basement. Then her mother had gone on to hang herself, and she was left dealing with the remainder of their pathetic family alone as the Aviary fell into shambles.
He pursed his lips at the memory, the lines on his face deepening with the sour expression. He shoved his hands into his pockets and entered through the dark doorway, shivering at the sudden and drastic change of temperature. It was damp and miserable within the building, save for the small bit of sun pooling in from the hole in the ceiling. He did not step into the rays of sun however, nor did he have any urge to. For now, he embraced the comfort of the shadows that so effectively smothered the light. The structure of the aviary itself was highly impressive, with spacious indoors and towering pillars that were performing a futile attempt to hold what was left of the roof together. Weeds had infested this place as well, filling the building with dark green plumage from the ground to the old rickety rafters that lined across the ceiling. The smell of wood and dirt filled his senses and he breathed in deeply, reveling in the scent. It was a pleasant reminder of his childhood. He had closed his eyes to take in the whole experience more effectively when a shrill caw pierced through the air, destroying the silence that had originally been present.
His eyes snapped open and he looked towards the rafters where, long behold, a lone fat Crow was perched. It watched him with dark beady eyes as it dug its claws into the rotting wood, its black feathers gleaming menacingly in the sunlight. It seemed to be acting familiar with him, like how one would greet an old friend if they had not seen them in a long period of time. This, in this case, was true. He had taken precautions to avoid any more confrontations with birds in his absence.
But now here he was, standing in the dark aviary alone, the only company with him his oldest friend, the Crow. And for once, after so many years of tears and screams within this homemade hell, ex-esteemed professor and renowned criminal Jonathan Crane gave a small, dark, smile.
Thank you for reading CC and Feedback is appreciated.