The Bird Eater Read online

  He scrambled to his feet.

  The shadow that lurked just beyond the door turned and moved, as if ready to run.

  Aaron didn’t have a weapon, but he found himself rushing to the door regardless.

  No you don’t.

  If the kid was inside the house, this was Aaron’s chance to catch him, to end this bullshit once and for all.

  Aaron yanked open the door, a gasp of surprise tumbling from his throat. He had expected to see what he always saw—an empty hallway, nothing but his imagination playing tricks. But this time the kid was there.

  Standing at the top of the stairs, the boy turned his head to face Aaron in a snap. The kid gave Aaron a sickening smile, a baseball bat hanging heavy from his right hand, gently tapping the toe of his shoe.

  Aaron struggled for words, but the kid didn’t give him time to think. He leaped down the steps, taking the risers three by three. He paused long enough to give Aaron time to scramble to the top step, grinning up at him from the middle of the staircase, that baseball bat thump thump thumping against the edge of the stair.

  Aaron’s breath hitched in his throat.

  He hesitated, though he didn’t know exactly why.

  There was something about the kid’s smile that made his blood reverse its current, something about the way he was waiting to be caught, that turned Aaron’s guts inside out. But he couldn’t just stand there open-mouthed and soundless. This was his house now, his property, his kingdom of misery.

  Aaron took a slow downward step, his eyes fixed on the kid who was patiently waiting for him to give chase. The boy mimicked Aaron’s step by taking a step down as well, that baseball bat continuing to thump thump thump like a metronome. A second step resulted in the same response, the distance between them remaining constant, steadfast. The kid slowly drew the rounded tip of the baseball bat up the wall in a delicate arc, choked up on the handle without taking his eyes off of Aaron’s face, and with a grimace that was balanced between amusement and disgust, he reeled back and swung at the air.

  The bat smashed against the wall in a seemingly aimless act of aggression. It tore into Edie’s wallpaper and knocked a framed picture to the floor. The glass shattered in its frame, Aunt Edie and Uncle Fletcher smiling up at Aaron from next to his feet.

  Suddenly, all Aaron’s rage came flooding back. His muscles tensed and his hands curled into fists.

  The kid cocked his head toward his right ear, as if sensing Aaron’s ire. But his grin only grew wider, his eyes flashing with spite. And just as Aaron considered dashing back to his bedroom and calling the cops, the kid hissed an insult into the silence.

  I fucked your mother, and now she’s burning in hell.

  Something snapped within Aaron’s chest.

  Had that been real? Had the kid actually said that, or had he dreamed it?

  Somehow, it didn’t matter. The last thread of Aaron’s self-restraint unraveled. He let out a yell and rushed down the stairs.

  The kid whooped and leapt to the ground floor, swung the bat and smacked the top of the newel post, sending the wooden ball sailing into the front room like an impromptu home run.

  Aaron caught the bat, gave it a vicious twist, and wrenched it out of the boy’s hands. Not expecting the move, the kid twisted with it and stumbled backward, holding his hands up to protect himself from Aaron’s swing. But Aaron kept swinging—even when he caught the kid’s hand with the tip of the bat, he swung again; swung when the boy toppled over, scrambling away from him on hands and knees; reeled back after connecting with the little shit’s ribs and swung for a fourth time, bringing the bat down hard against his collarbone, tasting blood when he heard bones snap.

  The boy screamed as Aaron bludgeoned him from above, his desperate cries for help dissipating into nothing more than wet gurgles, blood bubbling up from between his lips. Drunk on his own rage, Aaron continued to bring the bat down against the kid’s head, the quiet of the house resonating with sloppy meatpacking thuds—steady, like the tick of a metronome.

  Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

  When the bat slid from Aaron’s hands and hit the floor, all that was left of the boy was a gory bloom of red—a meat flower with arms and legs for leaves. Aaron backed away from the body, his eyes wide with horror.

  I killed him.

  His breaths came in loud, disbelieving gasps.

  I KILLED HIM.

  He twisted away from the body, stared down the hall and into the kitchen, his mind reeling.

  Temporary insanity.

  He began to move through the hallway.

  I’m fucking crazy.

  Stopped to catch himself against the wall.

  Doubling over, he waited for bile to bubble up his throat, waited for the sick to come spewing forth onto the floor, the wall, his bare feet.

  A sob tore its way out of his chest, amplified in the silence, echoing through empty rooms, joined by soft laughter from the front room. Aaron spun around to see where the laughter had come from, his eyes impossibly wide, his pulse thudding in his ears.

  The boy was crouched at the foot of the stairs.

  That sinister grin plastered across his face.

  He held out his hands, hooked his thumbs together, and flapped his palms like a shadow puppet, then pivoted on the soles of his shoes and darted toward the locked front door.

  When Aaron finally gathered up the courage to stagger to the window, he saw the kid running through the weeds of the yard, heading toward the trees that surrounded the house.

  He turned away, felt like he was floating as his gaze settled upon the camcorder that sat innocuously upon the coffee table. A vague sense of clarity crystallized within his veins.

  He launched himself forward, nearly knocking the device to the floor as he fumbled for it, the relentless hammering of his pulse making him sick. His chest heaved as he pressed PLAY, reviewing it in triple-time from the moment he had arrived in Ironwood, watching the images for something, anything that would make sense.

  Footage of the house.

  Of Ironwood proper.

  Of Bennie’s Burgers and the hum of cicadas.

  Stopping on the most recent scene, he watched himself on the small screen, the Aaron of a few days ago dropping onto the couch, looking tired, staring into the camera before shoving his hands through his hair.

  There’s no silence here.

  He slowly lowered himself onto the couch, the camcorder balanced in one hand while the other dug into the upholstery. It was strange how different he looked even to himself, forever plagued by the unseen. The man on the screen released a sigh.

  It has to be in my head.

  Aaron’s eyes darted from the camcorder to the hall, waiting for that shadow to resurface.

  He swallowed against the possibility; still convinced that the appearance of Ryder’s name couldn’t possibly be arbitrary. Ryder was part of this. But maybe if Ryder could reach out to him from beyond the grave, so could someone else. Someone wicked. Someone evil. Someone like the kid who’d been tormenting him from day one.

  The man on the screen suddenly looked up at a distant noise. He stood, the camera focusing in on the knees of his jeans. It continued to record as the star of the show moved out of frame.

  The camcorder picked up the subtle creaking of floorboards beneath Aaron’s weight.

  It picked up the whine of the bottom step of the stairs, focused, then refocused on the crocheted blanket on the back of the sofa. Edie’s circus blanket; her pride and joy.

  Aaron’s stomach twisted in on itself, leaving him to choke on air.

  The picture went fuzzy, then fixed onto the back wall of the living room.

  There was a shadow in one of the corners, one that had been there the entire time.

  At first it had looked like nothing but a trick of the light—darkness thrown against the wall by lamp
light hitting furniture at weird angles, reflecting off the floor—but the shadow was moving now, growing darker, more pronounced, finding shape in the formless shade.

  The thing drifted forward—short, small, a kid.

  Aaron mewed deep in his throat, a muffled cry of longing.

  Let it be him.

  He swore he could see Ryder’s familiar Big Bird shirt.

  Please God, let it be him.

  Aaron leaned in, his eyes wide, his breath exhaled and forgotten, his fingers clasped around the camera in front of him, teeth clenched in expectation.

  The picture on the screen flickered like bad reception on an old TV, threatening to cut out completely.

  A sinister grin cut through the darkness and the kid stepped forward, his hands held out before him, dappled with something dark, something that at first looked like ink but became clearer the closer it came.

  Feathers.

  Black feathers glinting in the dim light as the boy leaned forward.

  Tipped his chin down to his chest.

  And sneered.

  Sixteen

  Stepping into Banner Goods, Aaron searched the front of the store for anyone who could help him.

  “I need to see Eric Banner,” he told the kid at the closest checkout counter—a bagger more than likely working a summer shift.

  The blotchy-faced teen didn’t bother looking up from his task of refilling a plastic bag stand—probably for the better, because if Aaron looked the way he felt, there was no doubt the kid would have backed away with his hands held aloft.

  Aaron felt like hell—exhausted, toeing the line of insanity. Terrified to spend another night in that house, he had driven the ten miles it took to get into town and pulled into a Laundromat parking lot facing the town square. It was where he sat for the rest of the night, slowly rocking himself into the closest thing he could come to calm, waiting for morning, staring over the curve of the steering wheel at the giant lumberjack with the wooden smile—the only constant in a nowhere, phantom town.

  “Do you have an appointment?” the bagger asked.

  The question only pushed Aaron closer to the outer edges of self-control.

  He stared at the bagger with a bewildered expression, then shook his head, waiting for the punch line.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  The kid finally looked up from what he was doing, looking like he was ready to shoot off some snappy comeback, but his expression quickly shifted from brassy to hesitant. Aaron could see it on his face; the bag boy had developed the ability to sniff out a patron-on-the-edge before a scene could occur. From the way the bagger was looking at him, Aaron could tell he knew better than to push.

  “I know he’s here,” Aaron said, the volume of his voice going up a notch. “So go get him.”

  “I…” The bagger hesitated, shot a look over his shoulder to the remaining registers before looking back to the lunatic customer before him. “I can’t do that, sir. He’s in a meeting.”

  Aaron clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists. He’d never been the type to anger quickly, and the flash of indignation left him feeling unlike himself—a stranger in a body that was no longer his.

  “He’s the manager of a goddamn grocery store,” Aaron snapped. “Not the President of the United fucking States.”

  Heads turned their way.

  A gasp from someone in line.

  Narrowed eyes from a few cashiers.

  He recognized one of the patrons—the waitress from the Blue Ox, her expression pulled into a taut look of concerned dismay.

  Someone’s grandma—rifling through a pocketbook full of coupons—shot Aaron a hellfire glare.

  I fucked your mother, Aaron thought. And now she’s burning in hell.

  The bagger’s face bloomed bright red, his fading acne scars making him look like a pink Dalmatian, and for a second—even in his heightened state of ragged agitation—Aaron felt like a dick. He couldn’t remember the last time he blew up on someone, let alone someone he didn’t know. Had he ever? Was this a milestone? Yet another freak occurrence to tack on to a growing list? Paranormal activity: check. Turning into King’s Jack Torrance: I’m gonna bash your brains in…

  “Look,” Aaron said, trying like hell to steady his tone. “I’m sorry.”

  Bullshit.

  “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  I should tear you limb from limb.

  “But I need to see Eric Banner. Like, now.”

  Before I lock you in here, set this entire place on fire, stand outside the double glass doors, and watch you burn to death.

  “So why don’t you do me a favor and go get him before I lose my goddamn mind?”

  It hadn’t been meant as a threat, but it certainly came out sounding like one.

  The bag boy backed away, recognizing that he was in over his head. He nodded cautiously and speed-walked to a cashier wearing a sparkly badge—a brick of a woman with salt-and-pepper hair who looked as joyless as Aaron felt. The woman snapped a command at the boy and he jogged down an aisle toward the back of the store.

  The young cashier who had helped Aaron on his first visit to Banner’s glanced over her shoulder at him, her high ponytail bobbing, her mouth pulled into a frown. The entire store was staring at him—the guy with the Einstein hair and the bloodshot eyes, the wrinkled clothes and misfit tattoos. All he needed was a handgun to wag over his head. Or maybe a bomb to strap to his chest.

  He stepped outside, hovering just beyond the sliding glass doors.

  Eric appeared beside him a few minutes later, blinking at the fact that the psychopath described to him was one of his oldest friends, not the ax murderer or venomous coupon clipper he had probably expected.

  “What the hell?” he asked, his expression terse. “The kid said there was a crazy person at the front of the store.”

  “There was,” Aaron said. “I’m it.”

  A nervous laugh punched its way out of his throat, startling Eric into a worried stare.

  “…are you okay?” he asked. “I mean, you look…” Eric hesitated. “You look like you just dropped a shitload of acid or something.”

  “I’m not okay,” he said. “Not in the slightest. I need to talk.”

  Eric squinted against the sun, his red polo making Aaron more edgy than he already was. “I was in an interview. I have another one in ten minutes. One of our cashiers decided to screw us and quit without notice.”

  Aaron shoved his fingers through his hair, looked up at the sky, and let his hand fall back to his hip. “Look, I know this is cutting into your schedule, but do me a goddamn favor, okay?”

  “Can we do it later? After noon?” Eric asked.

  “Eric.” The name left Aaron’s throat in a rush of air, punctuated by a sense of urgency that made Eric’s mouth snap shut.

  A moment later Eric was nodding, suddenly convinced. “I need half an hour, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Meet me at the Ox. I haven’t eaten breakfast.”

  “This isn’t appropriate diner conversation,” Aaron protested, but Eric’s expression assured him that he’d already bent to Aaron’s will enough. “Okay,” he murmured. “The Ox. Thirty minutes.”

  Eric narrowed his eyes and stepped backward, the double doors yawning open behind him, a blast of refrigerated air wafting out into the summer heat. He gave Aaron a dubious look, then pivoted on the soles of his shoes and stepped back inside the store.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  The waitress was the same one he’d seen at Banner’s fifteen minutes earlier, the same one who had served him chocolate chip pancakes on his first morning in town. Her name tag read HAZEL. She gave him a wary smile and slid two menus onto the window-side table, Aaron trying to look normal rather than tweaked out of his skull.

  He attempted to s
mile in return but it felt wrong on his face.

  He didn’t dare look her in the eye.

  “Coffee,” he said, his attention riveted to the kid standing across the street—wild black hair, coveralls, and a red-trimmed name patch catching the morning sun.

  “You want to order now or wait for your friend?”

  Aaron tore his gaze away from the kid who was ruining his life—the thing that was screwing with him; delusion, hallucination, whatever the fuck it was—shoved his hands beneath the table, and squeezed them between his knees. “I’ll wait.”

  “All right,” she said, hesitated as if about to say something, then turned away to fetch his drink.

  As soon as the waitress left him, he closed his eyes and took a breath, trying like hell to not jump out of that booth and start clawing his way out of his own skin. A few patrons were watching him, proof enough that he looked insane, and why not? He was crazy. Was this what it felt like to lose your mind?

  Hazel returned a minute later, slid a fresh cup of coffee in front of him, and gave him a wary look. “You okay, sugar?”

  He nodded without a word.

  I’M FINE.

  “I’ll check on you in a few minutes.” She scrutinized her other tables, but not before allowing her smile to nervously bend down at the corners.

  Aaron cupped his hands around the warm mug, bent down to the table to take a sip off the brimming top, and reached for a little white bucket of nondairy creamer from next to the sugar caddy. He tried to keep from looking across the street, knowing without having to see him, that that goddamn kid

  ghost, phantom, poltergeist, demon

  was still there, still watching him,

  waiting for his body count.

  He fumbled the creamer, dropped the entire contents and packaging into his coffee as it slipped from his trembling fingers. Fishing it out, he tore the corner off a packet of Splenda, then another, three, four, five, only realizing how many he’d stirred in after the empty packets came into focus the way shadows came into focus, revealing themselves in the darkness, watching, waiting, knowing, leering.