Disclaimer: The Crow belongs to James O'Barr

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.


Sobbing, Daphne twisted her ankle painfully as she stumbled out the front door, blinded by tears. In her need to escape, she broke the latch of the front gate and fell hard on the street's tarmac, heedless of any vehicles that may choose this moment to drive past.

The scream of sirens grew louder, drowning out what rational thought remained. Her knees and palms burnt where she'd skinned them. It was all happening too quickly, the rising nausea, the scream of tires, the slamming of doors, then the single rapport of a gunshot, freezing the moment, echoing from inside the house.


It has been said that there are those who are so burdened by sorrow and guilt, that their souls can never rest, that they are doomed to wander the earth forever.

Call him Cain, kinslayer or name him The Wandering Jew, it does not matter, for he is accursed among men.


It took Daphne a long time to pluck up the courage to drive out to Maitland Cemetery again. In the end, she hadn't taken that job, she'd taken Detective Botha up on his offer of a place to stay with one of the ladies from his church and she had spent weeks resting and coming to terms with what had taken place during her short stay in Observatory.

Today she'd felt restless for the first time in an eternity of quiet contemplation. She still didn't have any answers.

She bought a single red rose from one of the flower-sellers at the gate and made her way down the gravel-strewn pathways to the distorted acacia that shaded Simon de Villiers' final resting place.

She did not know what to expect, yet somehow it did not surprise her to see that the hole had not been filled, that sand had soften its edges and seeped into ragged wound. No one had bothered to remove the splintered remains of the coffin wood, which stuck out like broken teeth with tarnished bronze handles – that vandals had not stolen, to her surprise.

Too superstitious.

Daphne grimaced and placed the rose on the headstone, feeling the need to get away from this unholy place with its disturbed earth. She shivered, noting the crow that watched her from a low bough. It was time to leave.


Author's note:

Many thanks to Epi and to Wend who gave me such super concrit. You've definitely helped me improve aspects of my writing.