The Devil in the Village & Crow Magic A Tale from Uncle Vasile
As told by the fireside on a winter's evening in rural Transylvania
It was the eve of Saint Andrew's Night, when the veil between worlds grows thin. The November wind scattered dead leaves across the narrow village street, and darkness had swallowed the countryside whole. I walked slowly through the familiar paths of my childhood, my breath forming ghostly clouds in the frigid air.
Then I heard it -a terrible groaning sound from behind the fence where poor Aunt Gheorghita once lived. She'd passed during the communist years, and the house had stood empty ever since, slowly surrendering to decay and shadow.
Curiosity drew me closer to investigate. What I saw rising before me in that cursed yard still haunts my dreams. A calf-like creature, but wrong in every conceivable way. Its eyes burned crimson in the darkness, and where its head should have been was nothing but yellowed skull, eye sockets sunken deep like bottomless wells.
The thing made sounds that belonged in no earthly throat-horrible, wet groaning that seemed to come from the depths of hell itself. Those burning eyes fixed on me with an intelligence both ancient and malevolent.
After what felt like an eternity frozen in terror, the Unclean One spoke in a voice like grinding bones: "Tomorrow evening, I will come for you. I will drag you to the eternal fires where you'll feel burning pitch on your skin and hear the gnashing of teeth in every waking moment of forever."
I ran. God forgive me, I ran like a man possessed, my feet barely touching the ground. But when the Devil himself makes you such a promise, you know it's no idle threat.
Desperate, I sought out an old witch woman in the neighboring village—ancient, wise, and feared by all who knew her name. The moment she saw me, tears filled her clouded eyes.
"The Devil has chosen his prey," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Tonight he hunts. You must hurry-catch me a crow and bring it here."
A strange request, but I was beyond questioning. I spent hours in the cemetery, climbing through thorny brambles and crumbling headstones until finally I caught one-a large, black bird with eyes like polished obsidian and a voice that could wake the dead.
When I brought the crow to the old woman, she instructed me to cut its throat—but only halfway-and collect the blood in a golden cup she pressed into my shaking hands. I did as commanded, though my stomach churned at the task.
The witch disappeared into a back room where I heard her chanting in a language that predated Christ. She emerged carrying the cup and the bleeding crow, mixing the blood with strange herbs and what she claimed were cat bones-"the Devil's earthly correspondence," she called them.
With practiced hands, she stuffed this grisly mixture into the crow's belly and sewed it shut with crimson thread. I watched in horrified fascination as she performed this dark ritual.
"When the Unclean One appears," she commanded, "throw this at him or in the direction of his voice. Then say: 'Cursed be the day you first set foot on the earth of men.'"
That evening, I lay in my bed, clutching the sewn crow against my chest while my wife slept peacefully beside me. The house was tomb-quiet, but I couldn't close my eyes. I knew he would come.
Near midnight, a putrid stench filled the room. In the corner by the door, a tattered shroud began to rise, taking the shape of a man but moving with unnatural, jerky motions. The same terrible groaning filled the air, and I felt my blood turn to ice.
This was my moment. I hurled the crow at the approaching horror and shouted the words the witch had taught me: "Cursed be the day you first set foot on the earth of men!"
The most terrifying wail I've ever heard shook the very foundations of the house, and the Devil vanished like smoke in the wind.
But here's what still troubles me-when I looked down, the crow was alive and unharmed. No herbs, no cat bones, no evidence of the ritual remained. Only the red thread that had sewn it shut lay on the floorboards.
Frightened, I quickly opened the door to release the bird, marveling that my wife hadn't woken through any of this supernatural drama. The old witch had saved me, of that I was certain.
Yet even now, years later, that same crow perches around my house each day, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes-the very same way the Devil looked at me on that frozen Saint Andrew's Night.
Some say the crow carries a piece of that ancient evil within it. Others claim it's my guardian, bound to protect me from the Devil's return. All I know is that on the coldest nights, when the wind howls through the village streets, I still feel those burning red eyes watching from the shadows.
And the crow... the crow is always watching.
This tale was collected from Uncle Vasile in the village of [Unknown], Transylvania, during the winter of 2023. It represents one of many supernatural encounters reported in the region, where ancient beliefs and Christian tradition intertwine in the collective memory of rural communities.