When Ghost woke that morning Old Crow was gone, his nest empty.

Ghost follow the ragged trail of feather and blood Old Crow had left down to the riverbank.

There was Old Crow, gnawing on a fish three times his size. The fish was fresh, pulled from the river moments before.

The burning in Ghost’s chest was gone once more.

Old Crow paused. He was grinning at Ghost wide now.

“Ask me about my true face” Old Crow teased.

Ghost had been taught better. Whatever Old Crow was, and Ghost had seen bits and pieces of it over the years, it was nothing to be trifled with. No matter what face Old Crow was wearing, and he’d worn plenty, his true face was that of horror. Of that Ghost was sure.

But what had that burning in his chest been if not strength and courage? Even if it had subsided for now, what could this weak, sickly thing do to him now?

Labels: Fresh Gravel For Your Craw, ghost, Inktober, Inktober Day 30, Old Crow, Pentel