The shed stood amongst darkness and dense shadow and steady rain. He squinted into the damp gloom and advanced. The padlock hung open and the stiff bolt squealed as he shook and pulled it loose. He eased the door open and peered into the place, sent an arm snaking into the darkness. His hand glided around the door's frame and along the rough surface of the inner wall, fingers splayed and searching.
He found the hard edge of the plastic socket, moved beyond it and flipped the switch. The overhead fluorescent stuttered into life, bringing the shed's interior into focus. A trapezoid wedge of jaundiced light spilled into the teeming wet darkness of the clearing. The black body of his shadow was framed within the lighted patch of sodden ground. All about him was the shrill chatter of falling rain and before him the deeper timbre of its voice transmitted through the tarred slants of the roof.
He moved inside, deposited the cigar on the bench edge and stooped to the low shelf. Tremoring hands retrieved the oily, bundled package, stripped and uncorked the bottle and tossed the old rag aside. He drank and moved deeper into the shed. Atop the middle shelf, nestled behind the old gas canister and amongst a veil of spiderweb and dust lay the handful of books that had been some unwanted gas station promotional offering. He gripped the books and pulled them with him, free hand steadying the gas container before it could tumble to the bare wooden floor.
There were three volumes in all, each cover similarly styled. He rested the bottle upon the bench, and scanned the books in turn. Flora and Fauna of the Lakeland. He tossed the first aside, moved to the second. Mammals of the Lakeland. The second followed the first. His eyes widened as he scanned the title of the third. Birds of the Lakeland. He turned to the index, scanned it and began to flip between the pages.
He paused at a page bearing a colored pencil sketch of the region's Red Cardinal, a bright artist's rendition of an animal identical to the birds he had encountered in the wood. He blinked away rainwater that ran from his hood and hair as he scanned the page, drew a wet finger along the text as he read. He moved beyond the name, the description, the feeding and breeding habits. It was as he traced his finger along the text beneath a section of notes that his finger stopped sharply and his breath caught in his throat and he nodded slowly as if in acceptance of some truth he had tried in vain to deny.
Messenger of the departed
Outside, the rain continued to fall, drumming upon the shed and the wet land about him. He took the bottle to his lips again, considered the words he had read. The thought of his mother-in-law and her outlandish habits had stirred a memory. Just another of her inanities, this one recurrent. It had been another reason for him to roll his eyes and make for the other room. How many times had he heard it? How she would look to the garden and see the brightly colored birds that sometimes visited and ask the child, What spirit is trying to speak to us today?
He thought of the child, still among them, toiling for their survival when she should be at peace, and fresh tears stung his eyes. One incongruity remained within his theory. The toy, the book, the flock, the bird by the lake. Each of them a single breed. The bird who invaded the house had been entirely black. The only piece of him that was not black was the single slash of color where the trap's crossbar had clamped upon him. Why would the message be confused by such an inconsistency, if his interpretation was accurate?
A gust carried rain into the shed, showering the floor and bringing with it a fluttering edge of black plastic. The bag sat open atop the sodden ground outside the shed, dimly illuminated by the spilled fluorescent light from within. He grabbed for it, hoped that some animal had not scavenged the bird. The package had a greater heft to it now, it's turgid base bulging with fallen rain. He carried it with him into the shelter of the shed, deposited it atop the old bench and pulled the stool beneath him. He sat with the bulging bag before him and regarded it with uncertainty. Smoke snaked from the resting cigar's edge and danced on the air before him.
He reached toward the bag as he thought the words of his mother-in-law and the words in the book. If he retained any appetite for doubt, the content of the bag would decide things finally. He drew the handles apart and flattened the bag's upper half until it stood just above the level of the rainwater that had collected inside. He reached a hand within, felt his fingertips break the surface and enter the cool chill beyond. His fingers moved further, found the tiny bulk of wet feathers upon the floor of the bag and closed gently around it. Little fear of any disease as he drew his hand upwards now, saw the words in his mind again.
And now as his hand emerged back into view, an uncertain laughter stirred in him, caught in his throat and became a deep and uncontrolled sob. His chest hitched. Tears coursed along the stubbled skin of his face like the steady rainwater that brought to life the outer surface of the shed around him.
Before him, what he believed could only be the final fragment of the conundrum sliding into place.
Water slid from between his fingers, and dripped upon the bench before him. It was a murky fluid. Grey, black stuff tainted with soot and dust, running from the soiled plumage he held before him.
The soiled plumage of a lifeless, red bird.
YOU ARE READING
Song, Unheard
Horror***Featured in Fright Profile*** Life has been different lately. She feels a growing sense of dread and wishes for things to be normal. His drinking is out of control. The child seems frightened and withdrawn. And then come the birds. Strange b...
