The Bird House

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window," Jonathan's voice hissed from the darkness while he told tales of horror passed on from his older brother. Three months ago he told that story, and it still sticks with me today.

Some say an old man lives secluded in the decrepit cabin, others say they sighted his grandchildren playing in the trees nearby while the rest, including myself, say the man died long ago. Either way, the cabin stands outcast from the bulk of the town, engulfed by the shadows of the dense forest, perched on the edge of Lake Calcada.

"Just dump it, Marcus. Your bike is too obvious propped up like that," says Jonathan.

"But I don’t -"

"Dude… Seriously? Just leave it there."

I huff in weak protest and place my bike near Jonathan’s, behind the overgrown bush. A car passes, but we remain hidden. Jonathan grins and eyes the cabin, bubbling in anticipation. There lives a curiosity in him that can’t be diminished no matter how hard I‘ve tried. I’m not surprised to find myself squatting behind the broken wooden fence encircling the house, gritting my teeth as Jonathan tries to slide the side windows open with no luck.

The tops of the blue gums sway in the cool breeze, with nothing but the occasional bird squawk breaking the silence. It’s eerie. Not even a boat sits on the lake, like the fishermen have abandoned it.

The cabin is dilapidated and degraded, its rotting wooden façade is a testament to its age and neglect, and it seems to tower over me at the slight angle it leans on. Discoloured and moth-eaten lace curtains obscure the view through the windows smothered in a thin coating of grime.

Jonathan wades through the tall grass, crawls through the broken slats of the fence and treks onward.

"Hey, wait up." I hop through the grass, following Jonathan’s footsteps.

Most of the fence’s wooden beams have deteriorated and crumbled or fallen over, warped boards hanging by one side, leaving an array of holes for us to squeeze through.

Long shadows of the house shroud the backyard in the setting sun, setting a chill into the atmosphere. The air feels thick and damp but I can’t see any ponds or puddles; the ground is dry and firm underfoot. My nose crinkles at the soggy smell coming from the house, like the boards are swollen with stagnant lake water and mould. 

Cracked cement slabs lead to the back door. From the green sea of weeds protrudes the remnants of a clothesline and long-dead orange tree. Jonathan is making a beeline for a small corrugated tin shed.

"Don’t go in there, it’s barely standing."

He ignores me and trudges on. A pale flash of movement catches the corner of my eye. I watch the window for several long seconds. The only sounds I can hear come from Jonathan grunting and the tin shed door grinding on its hinges. My eyes strain to discern any shapes inside the house, and the curtains are utterly still. The entire house is dead. Jonathan is busy battling with the shed door, but I keep a wary eye on the windows.

Jonathan wrenches the door of the shed open and the piercing screech rattles the last of my confidence. I duck into the long grass and pull Jonathan down by his shirt.

"What are you-"

"Shh!"

The looming home soaks in the rays of sunset and leaves us in the approaching darkness. There is not a hint of movement. I study each window carefully, stopping on the top right window, unsettled by the dark blotches that seem to swim behind the glass.

"Can you let go of me now?" Jonathan asks.

"What? Oh. Yeah. Wait, can you see something in that window?"

Jonathan raises his eyebrow doubtfully but obliges my paranoia. "No. I can’t see anything."

"Maybe we should go back," I suggest quietly, trying not to sound like a scared kid.

'Don’t be a little bitch," he snaps, despite my pathetic efforts. "I told you I saw that old man doing something weird in that place and we aren’t leaving until we see what’s up."

Jonathan yanks the shed door open and pokes his head in. It was pitch black until I edge closer and see a small stainless steel workbench and a bunch of rags stained in a dark substance thrown in the corner. I inhale shakily and swallow down my worry. It smells bitter in here, like metal, but with a hint of sweetness. I feel sick. Jonathan creeps in further, clearing my view and revealing a bunch of shapes hanging on the shed walls. Knives. My back stiffens.

"Huh, old man must do some hunting," Jonathan says as he gazes at the walls.

"You’d hope," I respond.   

But I don’t see any guns. Maybe they are in the cabin. Despite being a lakeside property, there is no fishing rod, either. 

"Can you help me?" a little voice sounds behind us.

I spin on my heels, terrified for a moment before I see a small girl standing in the doorway of the shed wearing a pristine white dress with tousled blonde hair. She can’t be over thirteen years old, maybe; three years younger than us.

"What are you doing here?" asks Jonathan.

"My grandpa lives here. He needs help. There is something wrong with him! Please, we don’t have a phone so I couldn’t call anybody."

"Is he having a heart attack or something?"

"I don’t know, I just don’t know what to do!" she cries.

"Okay, just show us where he is and then we will figure out what to do," Jonathan says. I can hear his eagerness to get into that house.

Hope washes away the despair in the girl’s eyes and she beams with her white teeth gleaming. She beckons us to follow as she skips to the house, and I jog to catch up while Jonathan struggles to close the shed door. She dashes through the door, which I catch before it slams. An empty kitchen greets me.

"Hello… where did you go?"

No response. 

I hear a whisper of sound from the front of the cabin. My heart thuds in my chest and I feel pinpricks on my skin as the blood drains from my hands. I freeze and hold my breath, straining to hear signs of movement. The place is unnervingly still. Is it the water I hear lapping at the front?

The last golden drops of daylight filter through the dusty lace curtains. The kitchen looks like it hasn’t changed since the 70s, with most of the cupboard doors broken or with missing handles and peeling paint. A layer of dust has settled upon the kitchen surfaces, as if not one soul has set foot in here in years. 

Ignoring the musty tinge to the air, I trail my finger across the surface, leaving a thin clean line exposing the salmon-pink laminate bench-top. I stop and frown at the fridge. An old yet silent fridge. I open it to inspect the dark objects briefly before quickly slamming it shut. Spluttering, I brace my hands on my knees, preparing to heave, sickened by the foul taste stuck to my tongue. 

Still plagued by the reek of the rotted food, I press my hands to the sink window and try to heave it up. It doesn’t budge.

"What’s that smell?" Jonathan coughs and pulls the neck of his shirt over his nose as he enters. 

"The fridge. Don’t open it," I warn. "There’s no power. Generator is off or busted."

"Where did she go?" asks Jonathan, flicking his black hair out of his eyes as he strides past me towards the laundry room, peaking in.

"I - I don’t know. She took off too quickly. I don’t know where she went."

Jonathan whistles. "This kitchen looks like crap. How could anyone live here?"

"I don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t have enough money to fix the place up. Come on, we need to find her and her grandpa."

The light drains from the house, plunging us into darkness. A short hallway runs past a staircase towards the front door and lounge room. A smell wafts from the room. Jonathan gags. I fight off the urge to vomit and press my shirt over my nose to filter to smell. If the fridge is bad, then this is worse.

I step on soft lumps on the floor and almost lose my balance. As I gather my bearings and my vision adjusts to the darkness, I realise in horror that I am ankle-deep in a mass of decaying birds. My hands become clammy and I try not to breathe in the stinking air. Swallowing hard on my gag reflex, I trudge ahead, following the silhouette my bad-influence-of-a-friend has become. 

Two chairs sit upon a musty rug in the middle of the room, with a small circular stand adorned by a dirty glass oil burner and an old newspaper. I feel the pit of my stomach churning with sickness. My shirt sticks to my skin and my hair clings to my damp forehead. The room is humid and hot, but I have seen no heaters yet. My impatient companion irritably waves at me to hurry.

"It’s hot in here," I whisper. "Do you think that killed the birds?"

Jonathan looks disgusted. "Uh, no, I think they are dead because they have no heads. I don’t know why someone would keep hundreds of headless birds in their lounge room. Maybe you should ask that instead."

"Wait, what -" I notice the odd shape of the carcasses, the lack of heads, and spy a small pile between the two chairs. A pile of heads. 

Jonathan finally looks concerned. "This is too weird. We need to go, come back tomorrow during the day or something, if ever."

"We can’t. That girl needs us to help her with her grandpa. He could be dying for all we know."

Jonathan groans at my defiant expression and doesn’t argue. The glow of the full moon shines through the front door’s window, throwing the base of the staircase into light whilst the upper stairs disappear into utter gloom. Peering through the window, the lake is completely still, like something out of a dream. The water doesn’t move.

I hesitate, desperately hoping that she will appear from around the corner or call me from the kitchen, but I hear and see nothing and I am left staring up at the blackness of the second floor. Fear paralyses my body. Maybe my subconscious is right. I should run, I should go home and never come back, but I can’t leave without helping that girl. If that old man dies or something because we leave, it will be our fault. 

The worn staircase creaks under my weight and each sound grates on my nerves and sends shivers down my spine. My breathing is sharp and shallow, yet I force myself to continue. At the top of the staircase, I find a faint crimson glow illuminating the walls at the far end of the hallway. Of course Jonathan can’t resist that; he quickly pushes me aside to get ahead. I walk blindly ahead and run my fingers along the wall that feels frosty. I recoil and shiver again, this time from the cold rather than fear.

"It’s f-freezing," I murmur.

Jonathan taps lightly on the door with his knuckle. We listen. Nothing. He pushes it with the tip of his finger and it squeals on its hinges, making my hair stand on end. The faint red glow seems brighter as the door swings open, revealing two little boys standing in the middle of the room awash in the crimson light. 

Shards of ice pierce my muscles. I freeze. My heart thuds erratically in my ears. I stop breathing. I hear Jonathan’s sharp intake of breath. We are fixed in place, revolted by the two kids. Sunken yellow eyes are dead of expression, cracked grey lips, hanging jaws, fingernails are missing exposing blackened nail beds, dirty ripped clothes hang loosely around their emaciated frames, and deep holes are torn into their chests, empty black hollows where organs should be. 

I barely hear Jonathan’s shouts through my stunned panic. The children’s glassy eyes gaze at us, their mouths still gaping like fish. They launch at us, arms outstretched. We stumble back, hitting the wall. One grapples with Jonathan and the other darts from me and grips Jonathan’s right arm. He struggles against their inhuman strength, face twisted in agony and terror, but is forced onto his knees as they bend his arm backwards until it snaps..

I leap towards them, pooling all my strength to remove them from Jonathan who screams as they rip at his shirt and dig at his chest. I grab a fistful of one boy’s hair and try to tear him away, but am left with only a handful of hair and skin.

I shriek and toss it to the floor. The girl stands in the room's doorway with the stump of a dead bird’s neck raised to her lips, her fingers tucked under its wings, squeezing. A dark red liquid oozes through her lips and she hungrily sucks on the blood whilst staring at the two boys with excitement. In her other hand is a small hunting knife. 

"Marcus!" Jonathan’s pale face is twisted with pain. 

Her gaze flicks towards me, and the glimmer of satisfaction and contentment disappears. My heart thuds painfully in my chest and I shake. I look back to Jonathan writhing underneath the two boys. The girl takes a step towards me. 

I run.

I spin around to dash down the stairs, but I slam into a body. A tall body. A skinny body. I hear a groan that rattles my bones. A hand shoots out and, with an iron grip on my arm, drags me towards the door down the end of the hallway. A scream tears through my lips and I frantically scratch at the old man’s fingers to free myself. My feet drag along the wooden floorboards and my whole body is shaking so violently I can’t focus on my energy.

I kick at his knees, which buckle at an unnatural angle. The man’s grip loosens slightly, just enough for me to escape. The last glimpse I have of Jonathan is as the girl sinks the knife into his chest and carves. 

I don’t know how I make it down the stairs; I don’t know how I get out of the house; I don’t know how I stay on my feet. As I launch out of the back door, I land ankle-deep in lake water which seems to grip me tightly in place. The thudding footsteps of my pursuer coming down the staircase forces me to trudge through the water that feels like concrete until I finally free myself. The crisp night air hits my skin and I take a big gulping breath with tears piercing my eyes as I sprint into the forest. 

Jonathan’s shrieks are silent now, but I keep running with the world a dark blur, my lungs howling at me in pain and my shirt stuck to my sweaty skin. I train my eyes on the ground as I focus on moving, knowing that if I fall, I might not get back up. It is when my lungs refuse to take in any more air that I am forced to stop, heaving and coughing as I try to collect myself.

I stand, my knees shaking under my weight, and stare vacantly through the treetops to the moon hanging in the cloudless sky, the branches swaying in the wind. I try to listen for movement, but my heartbeat is deafening, so loud I fear someone else might hear it.

I left Jonathan there. I left him. My chest heaves as I sob. I can’t go back to him. If I go back, then I will die.

A branch snaps behind me. A bald figure is lurching towards me and I almost take off again before the old man’s fingers wrap around the collar of my shirt and pull me roughly to him. His stiff hand wraps around my throat and squeezes. His lips part, showcasing a crooked yellow row of teeth stumps. The torn shirt exposes a large hole gaping in his chest. My fingers desperately search for something substantial to grip. My throat feels raw as the screams rip their way out of me before my airway is crushed. 

The girl appears with a pale, staggering figure next to her. Through Jonathan’s torn shirt, I see a deep, bloody hole in his chest. His jaw is slack, his expression is vacant. 

Nobody is aware of the horrors of this cabin. Nobody knows we are here. Nobody will notice we are missing until morning. The realisation that we are doomed never to be found here is terrifying, but not as terrifying as the thought that the rotting undead face in front of me is what mine and Jonathan’s might become.

My whole body throbs with pain, my vision blurs, my ears are ringing and my head is spinning. I cannot move.

Then he flicks his wrist and my neck cracks.