by Pete Kahle
Candace and I had big plans when we first moved in. The unfinished basement, made of three rooms connected by a hallway, gave us all these ideas. We'd put in a second living room to act as a guest bedroom for her friends, but that was before she got sick. Now it's just a storage space, mostly for Candace's things that I can't throw away. Now it sits, it molds, it gathers cobwebs and insects. Picking my way around the piles of boxes to reach the cluttered tool shelf on the far wall of the hall, I can't help but smile. I'm glad we never made a guest room down here because I'd never use it. Candace was the one with all the friends and family. Candace had all the visitors. The only visitors now are the ones I bring in a sack.
The sack flops in vain behind me. Their tiny claws squeak across the concrete floor, but they're quieter than they were. That happens often with the birds. I like to think it's because they can smell the death here. I'm breathing hard again as I reach the shelf and have to lean against it to wipe my brow. Some days I feel too old to be bagging crows every week. Even as I think that though, I pull a set of black trash bags out and slip the plastic into the pocket of my jeans with two fingers. To be honest, this is one of the few things I enjoy in life, and I think Candace would approve. She would want me to be happy.
I swap out the leather gloves for longer ones that go up to my elbows. These are made for more than just yard work; these are my killing gloves. Pulling them on turns me into something more, something greater. Sure, my back still aches and my knees still protest and my breath hisses out of my throat like a leaky faucet, but I can scarcely feel any of it. I feel ten years younger as I flex my fingers in the thick, black leather. I hope the work is messy today; I hope the little bastards fight back. I turn a spigot to add water to a bucket, then toss in a few washcloths. Some days the birds struggle so much, I have to clean up afterwards. That's when I know it's been a good day.
I make my way back to the birds with more confidence, picking around the towers of boxes and mildew stains. I can almost taste their panic. They're fumbling over each other inside, scrambling over their friends. They know I'm death coming for them.
Dragging a folding chair over makes the shovel fall to the ground beside it, bouncing a metallic clang against the skeletal walls and pale concrete. The birds can't take that. They're cawing all over again at the sudden noise and I grin at them like a skull. I wrap leather fingers around the opening of the sack and push the concrete weight off with my foot.
Grabbing the first thing my fingers reach, I yank out a long black wing. I have to pull it quick to keep the others from escaping, and with a smooth yank I feel something tear and the crow gives a high pitched squeal of pain. I don't hold back the chuckle. The bird comes out easily then, but still very alive. I pin the sack to the floor with the heel of my boot, then turn to the broken bird in my grip. With one hand around the bird's breast and another around its neck, all it takes is a quick turn to bring its struggles to an end. The body is warm in my hands as I drop it into a black trash bag.
Taking a moment to wipe my face again, I watch as the sack twitches and convulses on the ground. There's no question now, the tiny black birds know what's to become of them, and their fear gives me pleasure. It's beautiful to watch the understanding come to them, the panicked realization that their death will be soon. I give them a few moments to calm before I pick the sack up again. I shove another hand in, but this time the birds are too slippery and their little winged bodies evade my grasp. It must be from the brief rain shower earlier.
Then something sharp pierces through my killing gloves, pierces through that thick black material, and digs deep into the thin tissue between my thumb and forefinger. I gasp and for a moment the lip of the sack opens wide enough to let out the other birds. I'm only taken off guard for a moment though, and I close it quick and slam my boot down on the opening.
"Damn it!" I pull off the black glove to examine the damage. The wound that pierces the thin skin is throbbing as blood inks down my palm. I grab one of the washcloths out of the bucket to wrap around it and it quickly turns crimson. "Little bastards," I growl again, applying pressure on the wound. The birds seem to sense my anger. They're struggling like bottled up hornets, and even beneath the weight of my foot, the sack is starting to slip away from me.
"Not today," I say through clenched teeth and drag the concrete block onto the opening of the sack with my uninjured hand. I take the punctured glove over to the hanging bulb to examine it. When I bought my killing gloves, they were supposed to be able to handle barbed wire without a problem, but these are cut right through, almost as though a knife was taken to it. I'm breathing hard now, but this time out of rage. I hoped it would get messy, but I'm not supposed to be the one to bleed. Causing pain is my specialty, not theirs.
The wound throbs, and the warmth spreads across my hand. No, I won't lose control, even if I'm tempted to. I won't give in to that rage. It's a small wound compared to the ones I'll be giving. All the same, I'm trembling as I sit down. My killing gloves, my supposedly impenetrable armor, have been compromised.
# # #
The birds have gone disturbingly silent. The agitation they had just a moment ago, their fear and panic, all of it's gone. Instead the sack sits motionless beside that heavy concrete slab. I stare at the cloth, refusing to blink, looking for signs of their breathing, but the sack is still. That's not right. They have to be breathing still. I still have twelve more birds.
I feel hot suddenly. The perspiration pours down into my eyebrows and I wipe it across my arm. I've half a mind to leave that basement alone and let the birds go, but that's nonsense talking. Those birds are nothing to me. I can snap their tiny necks with a twist of my wrist. So why does this feel so strange?
I've been controlling birds for decades, ever since Candace started gardening. Each week I emptied that crow trap and killed at least a couple of crows. I know how birds behave when they're frightened. They panic, they struggle, they might claw or peck at some skin if you let them catch any, but they have trouble gaining leverage inside the sack. They're all crowded inside, one on top of the other, and they don't know what the black gloved hand is doing when it comes in for their scrawny necks. When they do attack, it's a desperate, blind act. This one, though, dug its beak into me like a knife. Picking up the injured glove again I feel the puncture with my bare fingers. There was no hesitation with this attack, no uncertainty at having the rubbery material in its beak; it was a bite of anger more than desperation. It was as if it knew I was inside.
I turn to the sack again, and my breath catches. The sack has fallen flat; it's as empty as an unused grocery bag and I place my bare hand flat on top, only to feel the cool concrete on the other side. I pull the sack flat, pressing my hand all along it. Twelve birds ought to be waiting for their necks to be broken, but there's only empty air. The concrete block wasn't the problem. It hasn't moved. They couldn't have crawled out that way. I pull the sack free and feel inside it, but there are no holes.
With a heavy arm I wipe at my forehead. My arm feels like it's been dipped in a warm river. I drop the sack back to the ground and look around the dark basement. Did they get free when that bastard bit me? Did they climb loose when I went to examine the glove? I haven't heard a damn thing though, and that's what makes me nervous. If they escaped, then they should be in a full panic, screaming and searching for an escape. No bagged crow is this quiet.
I climb to my feet and a caw as loud as a firecracker erupts behind me. My heart thunders in my chest and I turn in a fury to see the sack on the ground where I dropped it. Only this time something is inside. I hear the flutter of wings and the scraping of claws.
This must be what it feels like to lose your mind. The world stops making sense and things happen around you that you can't possibly understand. I don't like it. Without thinking, I pick up the fallen shovel. I haven't used it since Candace left me. Her face emerges in my mind, emotionless but approving; her gaze fuels my determination.
I heft the shovel overhead an
d smash it down on the thing in the bag. The metal rings against the concrete. Something inside breaks. Another slam, just to make sure. She might find my methods messy, but she would still approve. She would want me to be happy after all.
# # #
The noise would have been a nuisance for Candace, but she wouldn't have fussed. She'd have sat upstairs and staunchly ignored it like an obtrusive advertisement on television. She must have approved of my methods, she had to have. I'd never get a word of praise though, a word of thanks, but she never had to. I could read through the lines clearly when she said how pleased she was with the garden. She was complimenting me really, in her roundabout way, because it was by my efforts that her garden provided so much bounty. Such words didn't come often, and her smiles were practically an endangered species.
I think of her smile as I flatten the bird into the concrete.
By the time I finish, I'm wheezing with every breath and the shovel has to hold my weight for a moment. The sack has gone dark in the middle from the blood inside and I wipe my upper lip, surprised to see my trembling hand.
"That was short-lived." I chuckle to the walls. "I did say I wanted a mess today, didn't I?" The dark stain spreads along the distressed sack. "I don't know what kind of Houdini bird you are, but you didn't escape me that time, did you?" I chuckle and return the shovel to the wall, then address my wounded hand.
Reaching up to steady the swaying light bulb, I hear a scratch tear across concrete that might as well tear through my chest. Slowly I turn around to face the treacherous sack, sitting exactly where I left it on the concrete. The dark stain is still there, spreading along the frayed burlap, but the two tiny black claws extending from the bottom are unmistakable. They drag a long, impossible screech against the concrete again and I back away.
# # #
"What the hell..." I whisper, "There's no way..."
As if to prove me wrong, the bird caws with insistence. I hear another caw behind me, coming from the shadows of the full-sized, unfinished bathroom. I hear another set of flapping wings, this time from the larger living room ahead of me. I grab the shovel. I'm not a proud man and I'll admit when I'm wrong. I can see somehow missing one bird, but two? That was nearly impossible.
The crows are playing with me. I see that now. A few birds are still standing, though I still have no idea what happened to the others. There were supposed to be twelve more birds. Just thinking of that makes my stomach tighten. Maybe I miscounted them when I pulled them out of the trap? Perhaps all of this is just a hallucination. I reach down to the trash bag at my feet, and nod at the broken bird within. That one, at least, isn't going anywhere.
"You're just jumpy," I tell myself, even though my hands tremble. I'm terrified, and I'm beginning to distrust my own senses. "Don't let them get to you. Crows are clever, but they're not that damn smart."
Shouldering the shovel I head to the hallway which connects all three rooms together. It too is unfinished, but houses both the staircase to the first floor and the cluttered tool shelf I visited earlier. I look into the dark bathroom. That's where I heard the first bird. The bathroom has no windows and one wall is solid concrete. It's also where I stacked most of Candace's boxes in maze-like piles. To get there, I have to navigate around the teetering piles, careful not to trip. Outside a cloud passes overhead, seeping a little bit of sunlight out of the already dark basement. I stand still for a moment for my eyes to adjust, my breath hissing in my throat.
"Typical," I whisper and the bird ahead of me caws in mockery. Crows are masters of mockery. This will be more difficult. I glance to the tool shelf, knowing there's a flashlight somewhere there, but it would make too much noise to search for it in the dark, and even if I turned it on, it might frighten the bird elsewhere. Bulbless light switches hang in the hallway. I removed the bulbs ages ago with the intent to replace them, but that never happened. I could try the hanging light switch in the bathroom once I got inside, but that would definitely frighten it. No, I needed to take my time with my approach, and I'll have remember where I've stepped before. I peer into the dark room and a pit of fear swells up in my belly. Where did that come from? When had I ever feared these fragile, breakable birds?
Step by cautious step, I pick my way around the piles of boxes, searching the darkness for any sign of movement, for a fluttering wing, for a moving beak, even for a glint of its black, empty eye. I step through the door frame, and on the second step my foot hits a box I hadn't seen. I shuffle my balance, but end up groping out to catch the beams of wood to keep from hitting the concrete. The shovel slips from my fingers and clangs to the concrete floor with such a noise that my heart skips a beat.
"Shit!"
The birds chorus in their caws, and I look up just in time to spot the bird from the bathroom fly over to join its sister in the far living room. The bird in the sack that I had left near the basement door, emerges to join them.
"God damn it." I wipe my mouth on my arm, panting against the hair of my arm. My legs wobble beneath me and I lean heavy against the two wooden beams I grabbed. You would think I just finished a race instead of sneaking up on a few measly birds. I forgot about the one in the bag. I can't believe I forgot about it. I pick up the shovel and rest it against my shoulder, it feels cold and strong on my sweaty skin. "So that's how you want to play it. When I find you three, I'm going to bash your brains in."
The birds go silent. They must hear the anger in my voice. I smile, but then realize that the living room is darker than it should be. Something is covering the window. I step into the hallway to get a better look, this time using the beams to keep from toppling. The black thing is silhouetted against the bright window, and I can see long dark feathers coming off of it. I grit my teeth. They're huddled together there. They really think there's safety in numbers, when really it just gives me something to aim at. The tension leaves me a bit at that thought. If they were panicking still, that should make them easier to hit. Panicking birds make more mistakes.
I move quickly from one end of the hallway to the other, my eyes never leaving the silhouetted birds. The feathers I can see are long enough that it must be tail feathers. I'll do a sweep with the shovel, and that way I'll be sure to get all of them. If they do try to take off, I'm at least bound to hit one.
Stepping into the room, there's an obvious temperature drop. A shiver rushes through my arms. There's nothing unusual about it though. Basements routinely get drafts. From this angle, the bird looks bigger than I recalled. Somehow they're taking up almost half of the square window pane, and they're so still they could almost be stuffed. I grip the handle of the shovel, my heart pounding in my chest and my breath coming in wheezy pants. This room was cleared of boxes, which gives me room to take a cautious approach. I lift the shovel inch by inch, careful not to startle them this time. I brace myself for the impact, for the squawk as I break their fragile bones with the cold steel of my shovel. One of the birds flutters its wings, and I can't wait any longer. In one smooth motion I sweep the shovel around. I expected to maybe hit concrete; I hadn't expected something to grab hold.
# # #
In an instant, the shovel is torn from my stinging hands and I stumble forward from the momentum. One of the birds gives a deep, unnatural caw. It's a low sound that reverberates against the concrete, that makes my teeth clench. My eyes go wide as the blood drains from my face. That was not the sound of a crow.
I back away, my heart pounding so hard that I'm shaking. With every breath, my throat makes a pathetic sound like the mewling of a kitten. I stare at what I had thought was a set of crows against the window, but this time I let my eyes drift away from the window to look deep into the shadow itself. It takes a moment for my brain to pick out the parts of it, to make sense of what I'm seeing. Then I see a pair of black, glinting eyes staring back at me, and they're larger than any crow's.
"What-?" Something brushes against my ear and I flail at it, only to realize it's the string for the light switch hanging from the ceilin
g. The shadow figure continues to stare at me, unfazed by my jumpiness. My fingers are so shaky it takes a moment to grip the thin string, but finally I pull down on it. The room is flooded with light. As soon as I see it, as soon as I take in the figure towering before me, I know I've made a mistake. I know I've made many mistakes. There's nothing to shield me from it now, and I almost wish for the darkness to envelop it again, to wrap over it like the snow covers over a rotting corpse. I can't say it's human, and I can't say it's a bird either; yet it somehow resembles both. It stands at least seven feet high, but its human-like chest and arms are covered with black plumage.
It wears a strange cape with a collar covered in long, black feathers. That was what I had seen in the window, but that's also where the other crows now stand, all three of them. They watch from either side of the creature's head, judging me with their empty eyes. Then there's the cape itself. Staring into it, I felt like I'm looking up into a starry night sky, only its fabric clinging to the wall behind it. Something about the cape makes me feel lightheaded and dizzy, as though I've spun around too many times. It makes the space behind my eyeballs ache.
Its face is what makes my heart thunder in my chest. At first I hope that the head is some kind of mask. I want to say it's a bird's head, but it doesn't belong to any bird I've ever seen. The lightbulb shining from the ceiling glints bright in its enormous black eyes. The large angular beak curves downward like a buzzard. Then the creature flings its head back and lifts its crooked beak to the heavens, emitting deep caws throughout the basement. My eardrums throb and my teeth chatter at the sound.
I fall to the floor, clasping my hands over my ears and my breath wheezing in my throat. My chest hurts and I don't feel like I can breathe, as though the creature's horrible sounds thinned the air itself. The black-feathered creature just watches me, unmoved by my pain, almost intent upon it.
