Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr. This is my tribute to his dark art that sustained me during my teenage years and my own spin on his original idea, had it happened in Cape Town, South Africa. The Event Horizon and all the support characters belong to me.
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It had been easy discounting Tanya's words that first night that Daphne spent at number twenty-three Robins Street. She'd simply been too tired from her long drive the previous day, sleeping unfettered by dreams and the cares of the past few weeks.
Saturday morning saw her rushing about, tracking down the estate agent regarding the missing electricity card and spending far too much money buying in supplies. This could not be helped; she'd have to do the cleaning herself, as well. She did not have the resources to hire a cleaning lady.
At noon, when her back ached from the strain of sweeping, dusting and mopping, her cellphone rang. Alex. Her stomach lurched. Should she answer? She'd had to flee more than a thousand kilometres to escape him. Perhaps she was a fool to think that it would be this easy. She did not answer the call. The device rattled on the kitchen counter, its shrill, insistent rendition of Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor splintering the quiet. Alex could go to hell.
Of all the days to pick for her work, this day was not the best. Ominous clouds blocked out the sun, yet the stifling heat was almost unbearable. Sweat trickled down the small of her back. On days such as these, runaway veld fires were wont to rage. The quality to the light outside seemed milky, leaving dull-edged shadows.
She paused in her work another four times to glare at her phone. Five missed calls. He wasn't taking "no" for an answer.
In spite of the muggy weather, Daphne shivered. Things were not going as planned. She'd had an unsettling experience earlier and Alex's repeated attempts at making contact with her did not help alleviate the agitation that stirred in her belly.
On a whim, she'd visited a small fortune-teller's shop before running her errands. She'd never had her cards read and today had seemed as good a day as any. Besides, the young woman only charged fifty rand for a ten-minute reading. What harm could this do? Daphne needed a bit of direction in her life.
The Tarot reader couldn't have been older than sixteen and Daphne admired the fact that the girl had gone to much trouble to make her space as cosy as possible. They sat on large, brocade-covered scatter cushions. Indian floral-printed drapes hung from the walls and the low table between them had been covered in midnight blue velvet. It was as if the small room held them both in its embrace and even the clear, resinous scent of frankincense did not overpower the moment; Daphne's sinuses would complain most bitterly if that was the case.
Tucking a stray strand of dark brown hair behind an ear, the girl spent some time shuffling her cards, the silver rings she wore on her fingers winking back the light from the rows of candles on the table. As Daphne wondered about what magical pictures existed on the reverse of the cards, the girl before her cried out in alarm, shrinking away as if she beheld an apparition.
Reacting to the young woman's fear, Daphne spun around only to confront… nothing. An empty room.
"What is it?" she demanded, turning to face the fortune-teller, whose skin had paled to alabaster.
"I see death! Death and a rose that weeps blood! A pale man stands behind you. Death is a pale man and blood weeps from his heart! So many tears! So much sorrow!"
The young woman sobbed and covered her face with her hands, curling into herself.
Daphne frowned in disgust. This would be the last time that she'd seek the services of a so-called psychic if this was the melodrama she bought. She'd had her fill of it in Alex's company. Grabbing her handbag, she rose to her feet and turned her back on the girl. When her hand brushed the door's handle, the fortune-teller cried out again.
"Watch out for the black bird and the man that follows in its wake. He seeks death. Death and vengeance!"
"Right…" Daphne breathed and made her way home.
She'd pushed this experience aside until it grew dark but now it looked like a goddamn thunderstorm brewed. No matter how many of these she'd experienced up in Gauteng, she still jumped out of her skin whenever a lightning bolt slammed down, leaving a crackle in the air and the blue smell of ozone in her nostrils.
She knew there'd be a storm tonight. Daphne needed no weather forecasts to feel that itchiness in her gut and the overwhelming need to pace. Alex had once dragged her out into the front garden during a big storm and she'd been near catatonic with fear when her hair had begun to stand on end. All the while, Alex had laughed maniacally at her obvious state. Damn him! And damn these fickle Cape Western conditions that manifested Highveld weather in the Mother City. Fuck global warming.
At least she had electricity now, having bought enough units to last her two weeks without worry. She would keep all the lights that had working bulbs on – those in her bedroom and the one in the kitchen.
FLASH!!
Daphne yelped, the shadows retreating and colours bleaching when the first bolt illuminated her world.
Wait for it. Wait…
The bass rumble shook her to her core, shivering in her bones. She knew this would be a big storm.
