Uninvited
I shake the dirt from my cold, stiff hands. “Almost done,” I mutter.
The worn leather cuff shifts down, resting heavily on my wrist. It was the last gift from her before the accident ten years ago. “I miss you, Mom. I wish you were here,” I whisper.
I swallow hard and bend down, picking the shovel up. Once again, I find myself mechanically throwing dirt onto the grave.
Finally exiting the garden, I release the shovel, the weight of it gone. Low rumbles of thunder echo, not too far off, electric blue streaks paint the sky. My pace quickens, the safety of my back door near. One last look before I head in; the previously bright purple and white coneflowers now seem dull next to the freshly unmarked grave. The flowers will eventually conceal my guilt – I hope. The rain has arrived, beating down hard and fast. I reach for the door and drag myself in.
Earlier That Day
The sun was unusually bright for 7 am, but I didn’t mind. With my backpack securely on and coffee in hand, I locked my front door and hurried down the concrete steps.
“Good morning William,” my neighbor Silvia said from across the way, wearing a bright pink tracksuit that matched her colorful pink walking cane.
I gave a short friendly wave.
“Thank you for helping me bring those groceries in the other day,” Silva said as she continued her approach.
“I don’t know why they pack those darn bags so tight. Look at me! I can barely hold this fellow.” Silvia pointed to Ralph; the Chihuahua paused mid-itch at the mention of his name.
“Sure, no problem. Sorry, I would love to chat, but I’ve got to get to work. Dinner next week?” I said, swinging the driver’s side door open.
“You bet, kiddo!” Silvia replied.
I backed my trusty blue hatchback out and was on my way.
The Drive home
My body sank back into the soft padding of the driver’s seat. The dull white noise coming from the tires further encouraged my relaxed state. I stretched my neck from side to side; my bones cracked and popped as I recounted the stresses of my workday. I was glad to be headed to Jared’s house to meet Dean and the rest of the crew. It was our weekly gaming tournament, and I was currently in last place.
Before I’d even realized it, the dark object slammed the hood of the car and flew off.
“What the hell?” My foot hit the brakes. The car skidded to a stop.
Just then, the engine let out a clunk, and the car stalled.
“Great, just great,” I muttered.
I reached for the ignition and turned the key. The engine groaned.
I tried it again.
“Come on,” I pleaded, stroking the dashboard.
This time the engine fired, and the car idled smoothly.
“Good girl.” I steered towards a dirt patch up ahead.
I cut the engine and got out. Now, where the hell was it?
I looked up the road, all clear. Next, I crossed the front of the car to check the passenger’s side but stopped—smack in the middle of the hood, a dent the size of a soccer ball.
“Crap!” I threw my hands up and kicked the dirt.
My jaw tightened; it was worse than I thought.
Wait! Hal’s was less than a mile back. I bet they could fix it before tonight.
I rushed back to the driver’s side but then remembered the object. Now what? I made my way around to the backside of the car, and that’s when I spotted it, a reasonable distance down the road. In the dirt, partially covered by the trees, the dark mass lay motionless. From here, it looked to be about the size of an overstuffed suitcase. Anxious, I scanned the dirt for a stick. Wielding my new weapon, I warily approached. To my surprise, it was a bird on its side with its wings neatly folded. At first, due to its coloring, I thought it was a raven, but then I realized it couldn’t have been because of its massive size.
The questions poured in: Was I going too fast? Maybe I was distracted? How could I not see it? I shook my head, dismissing my thoughts.
The crimson-colored blood pooling near its beak confirmed that it was no longer alive, so I knelt. Now closer, I saw something showing from under the wing. I maneuvered my stick carefully, lifting it. A thick magenta strip with flecks of silver on the underside glowed and pulsed.
“Jesus, what the hell?” I dropped the stick and backed away.
My mind started up again: What the hell did you hit? Anybody watching? Leave it; it’s just a bird. Heavy deep croaks followed by sharp caws and kraa reverberated from the trees above. Startled, I scrambled to my feet and looked up.
“Just crows,” I whispered. Wait, are they watching me?
I turned my attention back to the bird I had just hit and sat down. As soon as I left, the vultures would come. A large group of them, feeding, ripping, and tearing at its flesh. The bird was dead because of me! Unfortunately, I knew what had to be done. Abandoning my evening plans, I dragged the carcass to my car and closed the hatch. I’d bring it home and bury it.
The Morning After
Sweating through my sheets, I throw my covers off and sit up. Bits of dirt still clinging to the same soiled clothes I had on the evening before beginning to fall. I rub my head and groan; a killer headache is brewing. My mind wanders back to the accident. Maybe burying it wasn’t the right call.
The buzzing of my phone interrupts.
A text from Dean:
What happened to you last night?? You missed an epic party! Anyway, we’ll see you at the cabin tonight, okay? Bring some bug spray. The mosquitoes are killer!
Right, the trip. I almost forgot.
I text back:
Sorry about last night. Had to head back to work. Deadlines. See you guys at the cabin tonight.
I reach for the Advil on the nightstand and lug myself to the shower.
The Visitors
A balmy 80 degrees according to the sunroom thermostat. I remove my long sleeve, placing it on my favorite chair near the wicker table. My mom loved this room; I still do. Over there, the long wooden bench situated under the vast bank of windows, her favorite spot. On her good days, she would sit strumming her guitar and humming. On her bad days, my smile fades; those became my bad days too.
I stand in front of the windows, running my camping list through my head. Bug spray, sleeping bag, water bottle, backpack… The hammering of the woodpeckers and the “fee-bee” calls of the Chickadees launching onto the birdfeeders fills the yard.
Then, without warning, silence.
I put my mug on the end table and move closer to the windows.
The birdfeeders, once busy with action, now hang vacant.
My eyes search the yard, scanning for the Chickadees. I stop my search in the garden. There, next to the coneflowers, a dark figure stands. My body stiffens, and I step back, tripping over my feet. The stone floor strikes my backside. I wince, forcing myself to sit up.
“I thought I buried you?” I whisper, staring out.
I search for the grave containing the bird I buried yesterday. To my relief, I locate it, awkwardly situated among the coneflowers. My eyes move back to the new bird. This bird is much larger than the bird I had buried. Its height is almost equal to the six-foot-high fence surrounding my backyard.
“There are two of you?” I gasp.
Without haste, I retrieve the Valium from my pocket, pop open the bottle, and swallow the little yellow pill. I close my eyes, wishing I was someplace else. When I open my eyes, I see that the giant bird has advanced into the middle of the yard.
At once, I push myself back, away from the windows, towards the back wall. A powerful blast sweeps the length of the yard as the bird extends its dark wings outward, covering the entirety of the garden. Its chest bared, titanium hatch marks prominent, glowing bright red.
I make for the door leading out of the sunroom, but trip over the steps, landing on my back. The blow knocks my backside hard; a sharp pain runs up my spine. Loud caws erupt everywhere as the dark mass of birds descends. I look out towards the yard. They converge into a tightly woven circle, rotating around in unison above the giant bird. I get to my feet, run out of the sunroom, slam the door, and lock it. I slide down into a seated position and cover my ears, my back firmly pressed against the door. With the calls of the birds filling my head, I rock back and forth, breathing in, trying to slow myself down.
“Stop!” I yell.
Suddenly, silence.
I drop my hands from my ears and edge the curtain back.
The yard is empty; the grave is gone.
Hills Crest Pass
Only thirty minutes left of my three-hour drive.
“Almost there,” I say, my voice breaks off, my mind back with the birds.
I chug my soda and turn the radio up. Just ahead, my exit, Hills Crest Pass, painted in small white letters on the crooked green sign. Feeling the homestretch near, I grin and feel the warmth of the campfire. Once I get closer, my smile falters. At the mouth of the exit, awaiting me is a long dark road with gnarly arm-like branches overgrown along the edges. I slow the car down and reluctantly enter.
The silence ahead is shocking, unnatural. I turn the radio up but hear nothing. Perplexed, I tap the knob and turn it the other way. Again no sound. I continue to hit it harder and harder until I am pounding so hard the knob falls off. “Old piece of junk!” I shout, my attention back to the road.
High or low beams? I can’t see shit in here. I move the handle back, forth, then back again, unable to get clear visibility. My grip on the steering wheel increases to vise-like, trying to keep up with the sharp turns in the road.
Without warning, the car thrusts ahead, and I’m thrown back. The red arm of the speedometer rapidly climbs. The small hatchback rattles, the speed increasing too much for it to handle. I jerk the steering wheel in short tight turns, trying to keep up.
Wildly, I feel around for the emergency brake. Got it! I pull it back.
The tires screech as the emergency brake, combined with my kicking the brake pedal, forces the car to skid, landing on the side of the road.
I fumble around for the interior lights and lock the doors, trying to steady my ragged breathing. I look out but can’t see past my fogged up windows.
I need to get out of here!
I turn the key over in the ignition. No response.
I continue. Turn click, turn click, turn click.
Still no luck.
I grab my phone from the passenger’s side seat, my hands trembling. I need to call someone.
Click. All the lights cut out.
I clutch my phone and glance down at the dimly lit display: no cell service, and the battery is at twelve percent.
“Shit!” I curse, squeezing the phone, wishing I had checked it before leaving the house.
My head begins to throb, stabbing pains; another headache is starting.
Bang! The car whips around, and I watch as my phone flies out of my hands, moving as if in slow motion. I grasp at it in desperation as my seatbelt snaps across my chest, pinning me down. The car continues to spin. I brace myself, one hand on the door and the other on the armrest – eyes closed, waiting, hoping the car will stop.
Before I can get my bearings, another hard slam and the car rotates even more violently than before. My body tenses, and I scream.
Abruptly, the car stops. I wait. Light is now filtering onto the passenger’s side. Gingerly, I unbuckle my seatbelt and slide over towards it. The darkness was maddening; I’m grateful for leaving it. I gaze out the window, the warmth of the sun on my face. The car, no longer under the canopy of trees, is balanced at the edge of the hillside. I peek over the edge, dizzy, I pull back; I’ve always been afraid of heights. I rest my head against my seat and stare up through the sunroof. The dark-colored trees sway back and forth, calling me, asking me to join them. Wait, what! I shake my head and sit up. I inch closer to the sunroof, careful not to rock the car.
“Bird feathers?” I whisper.
My body falls away from the sunroof, and I dry heave into the passenger’s seat. The reality of my situation is apparent; breaking down here is no accident.
Caw, caw. Caw, caw.
At once, I lift my head.
“My phone!” I feel around for it, eventually locating it at my feet.
I snatch the phone up and hold it close to my chest, clasping it like a life jacket. I move the phone out and see the text message, the one I had never sent to Dean, still there, black font against grey.
Three red blinks from the battery icon, and the phone dies.
“No!” I protest. The phone slips out of my hands and drops into the crack between the seat and the armrest. I stare down at it, just beyond my reach.
“It was an accident,” I whisper. The burning of my tears near.
“It was an accident!” This time, my voice no longer a whisper.
I ball my fists up and start to beat down on my thighs. Each blow harder and faster with every shout.
“I’m sorry!” I scream. My fists are raging, pounding down hard and fast; my thighs numb.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!” I gasp.
I lurch forward and vomit all over the dashboard.
I lift my head, wipe the remaining bits of vomit from my mouth, and rest my body back against my seat. I stare out blankly. I’m trapped, just like she was. I couldn’t see it then, but in the end, I understand.
“Mom, I’m sorry,” I whisper, with the last of my energy. The tears streaming down my face carry my guilt and anger with them.
Caw, caw. The calls from across the ravine, now closer.
My eyes lock onto the dark wall of birds approaching, a mass of at least one hundred.
At the front, the giant bird from my yard, the monster. Its massive wings are cutting effortlessly through the air, titanium chest ablaze.
A low disturbing hum starts, growing louder as the birds close in.
I stare, my face numb, my body sick.
In one swift motion, the monster’s giant razor-like beak opens, and a blood-curdling scream shakes the hillside.
I scream, but no one hears me.
Jodie McMahon-Joseph was born and raised in Rhode Island (the smallest state in the USA). She has always been considered a dreamer. Jodie pulls inspiration for her writings from nature, the ordinary in our lives, and the light and dark forces often unseen by most. When she is not writing, Jodie spends her free time bird-watching along the Rhode Island coastline with her husband and kids.