For years, the neighbors of River Street would shake their heads at old Mr. Horváth. Every morning at sunrise and every evening at dusk, he stepped out onto his tiny balcony with a plastic bag in hand. From it, he scattered handfuls of raw scraps to the birds circling above.
But they weren’t pigeons. They were ravens. Dozens of them.
At first, people found it funny. “The Raven Man,” they called him. Children laughed as the black wings blotted out the evening sun. Their caws became a familiar soundtrack to the neighborhood.
But over time, the laughter stopped.
The flock grew larger. Thirty birds. Forty. Sometimes more. Their sharp beaks clicked against the balcony railing, their yellow eyes glared at passersby. The neighbors complained about droppings, about noise, about shredded garbage bags ripped open in the street. But the old man ignored them all.
“They’re my friends,” he would say. “They take care of me.”
And in a way, they did. They followed him to the market, waited on lampposts until he came out, then escorted him home in a swirling black cloud. The sight was enough to make children run and adults cross the street.
One winter evening, the neighbors realized they hadn’t seen Mr. Horváth for days. His curtains were drawn, his balcony silent. At first, they assumed he had gone to visit relatives. But by the fifth day, a foul smell began to seep into the stairwell.
The police were called.
When the door was forced open, the apartment was nearly dark. The floor was littered with bones of chickens, rabbits, even stray cats. And in the middle of the living room, under the bare lightbulb, sat dozens of ravens. Their wings flapped violently, scattering black feathers across the walls.
And on the couch lay Mr. Horváth. Lifeless. His face half-covered, his eyes pecked shut.
The neighbors screamed. Officers tried to drive the birds out, but they fought back, as if protecting their master even in death.
It took hours to clear the apartment.
The next morning, the flock returned. They perched on the balcony railing, waiting, cawing, searching for the man who would never come out again.
And to this day, River Street remembers: no matter how much you feed wild things, you can never call them tame.
