When The Raven Screams My Baby Dies

My name is Clara Beaumont. Three years ago, I married into the prominent Sterling family of the East Coast. I have been pregnant twice, but neither of my children survived. It was all thanks to their family’s albino raven—a creature they worshipped as an oracle.

The first time I was pregnant, I visited their estate, and the raven shrieked mournfully toward my belly.

The second time, the same thing happened. It stared intently at my abdomen with its blood-red eyes and let out that same chilling wail.

I thought it was just a bizarre coincidence, but to my horror, my father-in-law, Alistair, and mother-in-law, Beatrice, took the raven's cries as a dark omen. Through psychological torment and grotesque rituals, they forced me into one miscarriage after another.

I even showed them the doctor's reports proving the baby was perfectly healthy, pleading with them to stop.

But they locked me in a room and tore my children from my womb all the same.

When I became pregnant for the third time, I was exceptionally careful.

I went straight for non-invasive prenatal testing. The report confirmed the baby was healthy and even showed a 99.9% DNA match to my husband, Julian.

I thought everything would be all right this time. But the moment that raven saw me, it let out the same shriek.

Just like before, the Sterlings immediately moved to carry out the so-called "oracle's" will.

I couldn't understand. The baby was clearly healthy, and the DNA report proved it was Julian's. Why would they trust the squawks of a bird over science, over their own flesh and blood, and force me to sacrifice yet another child?

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1

"You're not keeping this child. It's time for the purification ritual, and everything is ready. You're coming with us—now." Alistair and Beatrice Sterling each grabbed one of my arms, dragging me toward the room.

Meanwhile, the enormous albino raven outside the door screeched relentlessly.

Terrified, I clung to the doorframe with all my might. "No! I won't. The baby is healthy. Why are you making me do this?"

I pleaded for an explanation, but their faces were stone.

Seeing that I wouldn't let go, Alistair pried my fingers from the wood, his voice dangerously low. "You are a Sterling. Stop this nonsense. The oracle has spoken. This child cannot be kept."

As he tore my last finger loose, terror morphed into a pain so sharp it felt physical, and a raw scream tore through my sobs.

"The baby is healthy! The report proves he's a Sterling! Why do you keep choosing to believe the shriek of a bird over your own family, forcing me to sacrifice child after child?"

This was my third pregnancy.

My first pregnancy ended at just five weeks. The moment they heard the raven’s cry, they locked me away without a word, forcing a miscarriage through their grotesque rituals. The second time, at one month along, they subjected me to the same "purification" ritual immediately, offering no explanation. I fought back both times. During the second, I even shoved the medical reports in their faces, proving the baby was developing normally. They didn’t even glance at them.

This time, I’d waited until I was three months along. I had non-invasive prenatal testing and a battery of comprehensive exams done. The results were undeniable: the baby was perfectly healthy and a confirmed DNA match to my husband, Julian Sterling. Only then did I tell Alistair and Beatrice.

Their reaction, however, was identical. They insisted I terminate the pregnancy, no matter what.

The thought of losing this child ignited a fire of rage and despair within me. Was I really doomed to lose my third child, too?

They didn't answer my pleas, only continuing to drag me toward the room. I was no match for their combined strength. They finally forced me inside and locked the door from the outside.

I pounded on the door, my voice cracking as I pleaded with them. "Please. This child is innocent. You can't take its life! That raven is just an animal. Stop listening to it! Please, just let me keep this baby!"

But even as I cried until I sank to my knees, they remained unmoved.

Beatrice’s voice, cold as steel, sliced through the door. "You've sacrificed two already. Don't you understand? This one must go, too."

Just as I was about to resign myself to the inevitable, the crunch of tires on gravel sounded from the main gate—it was my parents, Robert and Eleanor Beaumont. In that moment, a desperate sliver of hope flared to life inside me.