Black Feathers: Dark Avian Tales: An Anthology(13)
WW: I like when stories drop important clues in a nonchalant or non-dramatic way. That he is the father of one, possibly more of the children, and that he is simply staging this funeral, or celebration, for a bird, a beloved family pet, and all the potential strangeness and darkness is the result of the imagination of the children is one possible read. Or maybe that is all pretend too, part of the game, and Mr. H______ is someone else entirely. I’m sorry, I’m not going to give you definitive answers, and I will purposefully lead you astray if you let me.
BP: Duly noted. Mr. H______ leads the children into the woods behind an old, abandoned schoolhouse—
WW: Or perhaps school is only out for the summer, Benjamin.
BP: Okay, wow. I’m going to include my “wow” in the interview, by the way. I’d like to discuss the children’s names. Or the names they are given once they reach the clearing: the Admiral, the Crow, Copper, the Surveyor, and of course, poor Kittypants.
WW: Perhaps Kittypants isn’t so poor after all, is he?
There is a loud knocking on Ben’s apartment door at 12:35 A.M.
Ben lives alone in a small, one-bedroom apartment in the basement of a run-down brownstone, in a neighborhood that was supposed to be the next it neighborhood. The sparsely furnished apartment meets his needs, but he does wish there is more natural light. There are days, particularly in the winter, when he stands with his face pressed against the glass of his front window, a secret behind a set of black, wrought iron bars.
Whoever is knocking continues knocking. Ben awkwardly pulls on a pair of jeans, grabs a forearm-length metal pipe that leans against his nightstand (not that he would ever use it, not that he has been in a physical altercation since fifth grade) and stalks into the combined living area/kitchen. He’s hesitant to turn on the light and debates whether he should ignore the knocking or call the police.
A voice calls out from behind the thick, wooden front door, “Benjamin Piotrowsky? Please, Mr. Piotrowsky. I know it’s late but we need to talk.”
Ben shuffles across the room and turns on the outside light above the entrance. He peeks out his front window. There’s a woman standing on his front stoop, dressed in jeans and a black, hooded sweatshirt. He does not recognize her and he is unsure of what to do. He turns on the overhead light in the living area and shouts through the door, “Do I know you? Who are you?”
“My name is Marnie, I am a friend of Mr. Wheatley, and I’m here on his behalf. Please open the door.”
Somehow her identification makes perfect sense, that she is who she says she is and yes, of course, she is here because of Mr. Wheatley, yet Ben has never been more fearful for his safety. He unlocks and opens the door against his better judgment.
Marnie walks inside, shuts the door, and says, “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.” Her movements are easy and athletic and she rests her hands on her hips. She is taller than Ben, perhaps only an inch or two under six feet. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, and eyes that aren’t quite symmetrical, with her left smaller and slightly lower than her right. Her age is indeterminate, anywhere from late twenties to early forties. As someone who is self-conscious about his own youthful, childlike appearance (ruddy complexion, inability to grow even a shadow of facial hair), Ben suspects that she’s older than she looks.
Ben asks, “Would you like a glass of water, or something, uh, Marnie, right?”
“No, thank you. Doing some late-night plumbing?”
“What? Oh.” Ben hides the pipe behind his back. “No. It’s, um, my little piece of security, I guess. I, um, I thought someone might be breaking in.”
“Knocking on your door equates to a breakin, does it?” Marnie smiles, but it’s a bully’s smile, a politician’s smile. “I’m sorry to have woken you and I will get right to the point. Mr. Wheatley doesn’t appreciate you posting a picture of your admission ticket on Facebook.”
Ben blinks madly, as though he was a captured spy put under a bright lamp. “I’m sorry?”
“You posted a picture of the admission ticket at 9:46 this evening. It currently has three hundred and ten likes, eighty-two comments, and thirteen shares.”
The bird head. Between bouts of transcribing the interview and ignoring calls from the restaurant (that asshole Shea was calling to swap shifts, again), Ben obsessed over the bird head. He marveled at how simultaneously light and heavy it was in his palm. He spent more than an hour staging photographs of the head, intending to use one with the publication of the interview. Ben placed the bird head in the spine of an open notebook, the notebook in which he’d written notes from the interview. The head was slightly turned so that the length of the beak could be admired. The picture was too obvious and not strange enough. The rest of his photographs were studies in incongruity; the bird head in the middle of a white plate, resting in the bowl of a large spoon, entangled in the blue laces of his Chuck Taylors, perched on top of his refrigerator, and on the windowsill framed by the black bars. He settled for a close-up of the bird head on the cracked hardwood floor so its black eye, red feathers, and the horn-colored beak filled the shot. For the viewer, the bird head’s size would be difficult to determine due to the lack of foreground or scale within the photograph. That was the shot. He posted it along with the text “Coming soon to The New Dark Review: Something About William Wheatley” (which he thought was endlessly clever). Of course many of his friends (were they friends, really? did the pixilated collection of pictures, avatars, and opinions never met in person even qualify as acquaintances?) within the online horror writing and fan community enthusiastically commented upon the photo. Ben sat in front of his laptop, watching the likes, comments, and shares piling up. He engaged with each comment and post share and couldn’t help but imagine the traffic this picture would bring to his The New Dark Review. He was aware enough to feel silly for thinking it, but he couldn’t remember feeling more successful or happy.