THE CROW'S NEST – JASMINE DE LA PAZ
A deep shade of crimson gold bled from the sky as the last of the summer sun's rays set behind the mountain. Charlotte, who was sitting in the passenger seat of her boyfriend's new Chevy Bel Air, watched a blackbird flap and soar, flap and soar, just below the mountain's peak, silhouetted by the sky. This happened to be the first time she had ever left the city, and Charlotte found herself fascinated with the passing landscape. She wondered where all those little dirt roads lead to. How could there be so much open land, so much space? She felt almost as free as the bird she saw through the clear glass window now, gliding with such ease.
A mellow jazz tune played through the speakers. A drum brushed. A saxophone moaned. She had grown to love this music, just as she had grown to love Dexter. She looked over at him, driving so cool and casual with one hand on the wheel, the other placed on his lap. The reddening sky dazzled him and his shining black hair – cut so that the sides were short, the top a little long; a lone strand on his smooth forehead.
He glanced over at her, catching her stare. “What is it, Char?” he asked.
Charlotte blushed, a small smile on her face. “Oh . . . isn’t it just beautiful out here, Dex?” She looked out her window again, catching the last few moments of light. Long shadows formed from the passing shrubs and cacti, the looming mountain a darker shade of purple.
“Why, yes, it is, my dear. Yes, it is,” he said, looking her way and then quickly back to the road. “You seem awfully far though. The middle seat here is cozy enough.” He smiled, a mischievous glint in his deep blue eyes. Giggling, she scooted over to him, scooping her legs up and out to the side before smoothing out her skirt. Charlotte then settled into him and sighed, enjoying the feel of his arm around her shoulder, the scent of his cologne, the movement of his breath.
“Now, that’s much better.”
Charlotte turned and quickly planted a kiss on his clean-shaven cheek, leaving a red smudge of her cherries in the snow lipstick on his face. They both looked out into the open road, now growing gloomy and dark.
“My parents are going to just love you, Char,” he said, turning on the car’s headlights.
“I sure do hope so,” she replied.
It was the summer of the year 1954, and Charlotte and Dexter had been going steady for a little over six months, although it hadn't taken long before she was rather smitten with him. They had met in the college library of all places – her favorite place to be. Charlotte loved to read, surround herself with dusty books and their unique indescribable smell. She would spend hours there studying, reading, perusing. She had just grabbed a Daphne du Maurier novel from the shelf when a deep, pensive voice spoke from behind her, saying she had picked a great one. When she turned around, it was love at first sight, just like the romance novels she sometimes (secretly) read and never believed would happen. After several dates, where they got along swimmingly, he finally asked her to go steady, and now . . . now they were on their merry way to meet his family.
Settled in his arm now, she wondered if he was the one. She sure hoped so. Her heart fluttered with the thought. They would have such perfect babies, with his dark hair, and her green eyes. She was sure his family would love her, and with no family of her own, just her grandmother, Charlotte looked forward to being a part of a larger one. Oh, but I mustn’t get carried away, she told herself. Not yet at least.
“Dex, do you know it happens to be a full moon tonight?”
He was quiet, thoughtful. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
“It's supposed to be quite the thing. A supermoon they are calling it.” Charlotte paused, expecting Dexter to add to the conversation, but he was quiet, focused on the open road. “Will we have a good view of it in the mountains? At your parents' cabin?”
“Well, I suppose we will.”
“Oh goody, I do love seeing a full moon.”
They sat there in comfortable silence, listening to a piano plinking on the radio. Charlotte felt giddy yet content, safe and secure in Dexter's arms.
They had just passed a sign for the town of Olancha, CA – a small desert community not even large enough to support a school – when in the distance, the lights from a police officer's car brightened the road. Charlotte felt Dexter's body grow rigid, tense. He abruptly sat up, taking his arm off her shoulder. At the same time, the radio turned to nothing but static, jarringly loud, startling them both, and Dexter quickly turned it off.
“You better go back to your seat now,” he said, placing both of his hands tight on the wheel. “There may be an accident up ahead.”
“Oh dear, I hope no one is hurt.”
They must have been on the outskirts of the little town, as they were still surrounded by nothing but blackness and a flashing red light. A police car with the word "sheriff" painted on its side was parked in the middle of the road, blocking northward traffic, and forcing them to stop. A tall, lanky man leaned on the car; the badge on his hat and chest glimmered from the Chevy's headlights. He walked towards them as they neared, his eyes staying low under dark bushy brows.
“Well, this is strange, isn’t it, Dexter?”
“Stay cool, Char. Let’s just see what he has to say.” Dexter parked the car and rolled down his window. He then cleared his throat before wiping sweat from his brow. Charlotte had never seen him act this way. For whatever reason, she was certain he was nervous.
She turned her attention to the sheriff, who was so tall he had to lean down a way to peer into their window. A toothpick twirled in his mouth as he observed the two of them. Charlotte thought he seemed young to be a sheriff – perhaps in his late forties by the way his skin wrinkled around his eyes.
“Hiya . . . where you two headed tonight?” he asked, in a boisterous tone, not taking his eyes off Dexter.
“Hello there. We are…uh,” Dexter paused, clearing his throat again, "on our way to Mammoth. To see my folks."
“No can do, I’m afraid. We are dealin' with a brush fire some miles ahead." The sheriff’s toothpick went from one side of his mouth to the other. "Road is closed."
“Oh no, how terrible!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I do hope no one is hurt?”
The officer looked at Charlotte as if seeing her for the first time. "Everything is quite alright, sweetheart. Nothing we can't handle, anyway," he said, a corner of his mouth lifting. "Sorry to say the road will be closed till mornin'."
Charlotte’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. She was so looking forward to meeting Dexter’s family and spending the weekend with them in their cabin.
“However,” the officer added, “we got a room at The Crow's Nest Motel up ahead. You two interested in stayin’ there for the night?”
Inside, Charlotte was screaming "YES!" but she patiently waited for Dexter to speak first as a good (future) wife should. Yet, Dexter was silent. He simply sat there, trancelike, with both hands on the wheel, looking down at his lap.
“Dex?” whispered Charlotte.
His head snapped up, and in slow motion, turned towards her. At that moment, chills ran up and down Charlotte’s spine. Dexter was looking at her as if waking from a night terror. His jaw clenched, face as pale as a dove. Beads of sweat were now dripping from his brow and down the sides of his face.
“Dex, are you okay,” she asked, heart thumping hard in her chest.
His eyes rapidly blinked, then his face softened. A forced smile spread on his lips, and remembering the sheriff was at his window, turned to him and said: “That sounds lovely, just lovely officer.”
Charlotte felt a sense of relief. She thought Dexter was about to flip his lid and wondered what had come over him. But not wanting to see any fault in her potential husband – dismissed it out of nerves.
“Alrighty then,” the sheriff confirmed, his tone a bit friendlier than before. “Drive not even a mile up the road. You’ll see the sign, I’m sure. Tell Betty, Sheriff Conway sent ya.” He stood up, tapped the top of their car, and stepped away.
“Thank you,” shouted Charlotte, just before Dexter rolled his window back up.
The sheriff tipped his hat, and with his head still lowered, lifted his eyes.
As they drove past him and around his car, Charlotte had a sinking feeling she had seen him before. There was something about his face. His eyes.
But that’s impossible, she told herself. Impossible.
#
They turned down a bumpy dirt road with a tall stark Motel sign showering them in its neon red light. The motel was just off the freeway, with what seemed to be nothing but desolate desert land about them. They passed a few farmhouses, dilapidated buildings, and a questionable old gas station – not a soul in sight – before coming upon the sign.
A long narrow building came into view. One light glowed from within with a NO VACANCY displayed in the window. If it wasn’t for that one little light, it would have looked like the building was empty, lost to a time long ago. Adjacent to the building, separated and slightly hidden by a picket fence, was a diner. Parked in its lot were two or three cars, so Charlotte assumed it was open.
Dexter parked next to an old pick-up truck on the motel side and turned off the vehicle. Charlotte waited for him to get out and open her door. Instead, he sat there, his dark brows furrowed in contemplation.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes, Dex?”
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? We can always turn around and I’ll take you home. It's not too late.”
She was surprised by his question. His voice sounded serious, almost pleading.
“Dex, that seems rather silly now. We’ve already come this far, and your parents are expecting us,” she told him, in a sweet, reassuring tone. “Besides, the sheriff said the fire will be out by morning, and we can leave early enough to still make breakfast with your parents. Now, what do you say?”
He smiled, but it was a weary one. “Oh alright, if you say so.”
Charlotte thought he looked almost sad, distant. She had seen that look on his face before. A damaged past that sometimes resurfaced in his eyes. She would peel back those layers eventually, make him truly happy again.
"Cheer up, Charlie," she said, and grabbed her purse.
#
The night was warm from the days' lasting summer heat, and Charlotte welcomed the soft breeze that blew through the air, rippling the American flag hanging high on a pole. Her heels sank into dirt and pebbles on the unpaved lot, making her feel out of place and overdressed. The first thing she noticed was the quietness. An ominous stillness. Her senses were so used to city sounds, that almost no noise at all was frightening. Then there was the smell: a waft of rancid cow manure filled her nostrils, and she covered her nose with a smile.
“Welcome to the country,” Dexter said, with a laugh.
“It’s horrendous!" she giggled, “although, better than some of the smells in the city,” she added, taking her hand from her nose. “Well, shall we go in?”
“Char, I wonder if you might want to stay here and smoke a cigarette while I go into the reception office? Get some fresh air?”
The thought of being alone made her nervous, but she told herself she was being ridiculous. Besides, she did feel the need to stretch after being in the car for so long. “That sounds nice, but don’t take too long now.”
“I’ll be quick as a wink.”
She watched him make his way to the office, thinking how much she loved his cool guy swagger, when he stopped at the door. “Oh and, Char, don’t forget to look up at the stars.” A bell jingled as he opened the door, showcasing an orange counter and a couple of cushiony chairs before he closed it again, leaving Charlotte alone in the dark.
But it wasn't completely dark. The motel's sign gave off a slightly hellish hue to the building and surrounding view, and even then, everything seemed to be brightened by another source. Charlotte did look up. The moon was full and bright and looked ever so close. The cloudless sky revealed millions of stars. They freckled the entire sky in a scatter of jewels. "Well, isn't this wonderful," she whispered to herself in amusement. All at once, she felt incredibly small. Incredibly insignificant. A small star in the vast, vast universe.
The gentle wind shifted southward; the farm scent still lingered, tainted with sage and some other unrecognizable desert brush. It was the wind and the wind alone that turned Charlotte's mind into a suspicious one. No scent of smoke tainted the air. No ashes lingered in the wind. Not even a distant fiery glow could be seen. It crossed her thoughts that perhaps the wind was not strong enough and the fire was not visible from here, but it still made her wonder.
Her stomach twisted. A feeling she got when alarmed and confused. “Always trust your gut feelings,” her grandmother would always say, and at this moment, her gut was telling her something was not quite right. To add to her alarm, the nape of her neck tingled, and she whipped around, sure there would be someone behind her. Before she could even look properly, a strong swooshing sound came from above her head, momentarily blocking the light of the moon. Charlotte’s head jerked up, but nothing was there. Nothing at all aside from the moon and the stars. Yet she felt something was there, watching. Her heart was now racing in a strong, rapid beat. Charlotte, suppressing a scream, quickly got back into the car and locked herself in.
Her chest heaved with uncertainty as she peered through every window. Is my mind playing tricks on me? No . . . no, there was certainly something out there. In the sky. Yet all she could see was the somewhat shambled motel building, the curtains drawn in every room. No movement, no light aside from the office, and no other guests around. Her heart was now beating so fast she felt faint. Oh, don’t be such a fool, Charlotte. Get hold of herself. There must be a rational explanation for it all. She deepened her breath, hoping to ease this alien fear before Dexter returned.
She fumbled in her purse to find her cigarette case; her fingers still shook as she lit one at her lips. Smoking was a habit she picked up from Dexter, one she rather didn’t like. But with one pull and a puff, her body relaxed, the smoke curling around her face.
The door jingled again, and a shaft of light poured outside before Dexter appeared in the doorway. He looked around a bit confused and finally spotted Charlotte sitting inside the car. He closed the door behind him, and made his way to her, lifting his hand to confirm he had the room key.
She flashed a smile, trying to appear composed but still feeling slightly frightened and bewildered. From behind Dexter, the curtains from the office stirred. A woman peeked out from the corner, eyes wide, her wrinkled face sullen, ghostly. So ghostly in fact, that for a moment Charlotte thought she was an actual ghost, and gasped. The woman’s eyes fidgeted until they spotted Charlotte sitting in the car. Then, knowing she was seen, quickly closed the curtain, and the one light within the building went out.
#
Their room was shabby, the air stagnant, smelling of chemical cleaning products and air freshener. The only two lamps on each nightstand barely glowed, making the room appear even more dim and dismal. Two twin beds, draped in thinning red blankets took up most of the space. A thick brown carpet lined the floor with a small wooden desk in one corner, and the tiniest television set Charlotte had ever seen in the other. Dexter had reassured her that the lady at the office was old and awkward – as small-town folks sometimes are – and had mentioned they were lucky to have the only room available, as the others were under renovation. Although it was not what Charlotte had in mind for her first night away with Dexter, she was thankful it was clean and contained two beds. If her grandmother found out they had shared a bed, she would never have heard the end of it.
Dexter set down their bags, still sweating, and turned on the air underneath the window. The faded floral curtain billowed as he sighed, taking in the cool air.
“I suppose I’ll freshen up for dinner,” Charlotte said, and reached for her bag. “Should you telephone them?”
“Telephone who?” asked Dexter, confused.
“Why, your parents of course,” Charlotte laughed. “Won’t they worry if we don’t appear tonight?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course," he replied, turning around to face her. “I already gave them a ring in the office. The phones in the rooms are not in order.”
Before she could respond, Dexter went to her, standing so close she swore she could hear his heart beating. He placed his hand under her chin, and lifting her face towards his, kissed her, soft and gently. Completely enamored by his touch, all her doubts, her fears, and suspicions, momentarily flew away. After what felt like an eternity – a time warp – he reluctantly pulled back.
Charlotte blushed, still feeling the lingering sensation of his lips on hers, a longing for more. She looked up into his eyes, feeling lost in their ocean-blue depths and . . . and she suddenly remembered where she knew the sheriff from. Or rather, whose eyes they reminded her of: they were looking back at her now.
Charlotte stepped back and turned towards the bed, pretending to look for something in her purse to hide her alarm. Trembling, she said, “now where is my lipstick,” and in her dismay, dropped her purse, its contents clattering softly onto the brown carpet. “Oh, I am such a klutz!” She got down on all fours, disgusted by the feel of the carpet on her hands, and clumsily grabbed for her things.
“Here, let me help you with that,” said Dexter, joining her on the floor. He must have noticed her sudden change, as she felt his gaze on her, even as he collected her items.
Not wanting to make eye contact, she reached under the bed, where her mirror had rolled. Her hand felt something else, and instinctively grabbed for it instead. “Oh, what’s this,” she said, under her breath. She stood up in awe, holding the stem of a large black feather between her fingers. The feather was ever so large – almost as large as her forearm – and when hit by the lamp’s soft light, glinted in a wonderful shade of deep blue.
“Dex, look what I’ve found!”
He stood up, putting his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. "A feather, I see."
“Yes, a feather! It’s a sign,” she said, in a matter-of-fact way. “Finding a feather in a rather unusual location means that you are being watched over or . . . or being led down the right path.”
Dexter sighed, watching her twirl the feather around and around. "You are too smart for your own good, my Char.” His tone was but a whisper, as if talking to himself.
“I think I will keep it,” she confirmed, “for good luck,” and tucked it into her luggage. Doing her best to put on a calm face, she smiled and asked: “Are you ready for supper then?”
#
The diner was unlike any establishment she had ever seen. Dozens of dead animals' heads with vacant, beady eyes, hung all about the wooden walls. An elderly man sat in a tattered booth facing them, wearing a thin white shirt with a yellow stain around its collar. His eyes looked just as dead and glossy as the animals hanging above him. He sloppily slurped his soup, letting the liquid spill down his double chin, never taking his gaze off Charlotte and Dexter sitting on the barstools. The woman serving them was nice enough, offering "anything your heart desires, hon, even if it's not on the menu."
Charlotte settled for grilled cheese and tomato soup, only eating half. After being pushed to try their fresh blackberry pie repeatedly, she politely acquiesced and ended up finding it quite tasty, eating the entire slice, a la mode. Dexter devoured a burger, eating so fast that he hardly spoke more than a word or two the entire time. When she asked if he wanted a piece of pie or a bit of her own, he only said, “I don’t care for blackberries,” which she thought was fair enough.
Throughout their odd, quiet dinner, Charlotte pondered the similarities between Dexter and the sheriff, and finally dismissed it as just a coincidence. She didn’t want to come across as a scared, paranoid, inexperienced girl. Although she wasn’t well-traveled, she still considered herself strong, witty, intelligent – a good catch.
By the time they finished their coffee, which tasted bitter and left a dark sludge at the bottom of the cup, Charlotte felt very full and tired.
She marveled almost deliriously at the moon as Dexter led her back to the motel, passing the other bare rooms till they got to theirs at the end of the row. In the distance, she heard the call of a night bird echo in the desolate land and wondered if it was an owl.
Noticing she was a bit dazed, Dexter suggested she lay in bed for a while and enjoy a program. He helped her settle on top of the rose-madder bedspread, gently propping her head on a pillow, asking if the bedside lamp was too bright. She said it was just fine and apologized for acting like an old bird.
Dexter sat next to her, smoothed her curls from her face, and leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. "Char, I do love you; you know." His voice was raspy, moody, and serious.
“I know you do, Dex, and I love you too.”
Dexter sat up, turned the small television on, flicked through a few channels. “The Science Fiction Theatre is on – your favorite," he added. He turned to face her. "I'll just go out and have a smoke now if that's alright with you?"
“Yes, of course,” she smiled, “thanks for taking care of me.”
He stood there for a moment, silent and uncertain. He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself and looked away, lowering his head. “Get some rest,” he said, and quietly went out the door.
The drone of a deep voice came from the television, stating something about the unknown and spectacular universe. Charlotte tried to watch the black-and-white images on the screen, as the show was a favorite of hers, but she found it hard to concentrate, focus. Her head leaned back on the pillow, her eyelids droopy, feeling ever so tired. She felt herself drifting . . . drifting. Right before dozing off, in the moment before sleep takes over the consciousness, she noticed lines on the ceiling, as if there was an opening to an attic right above her, yet there was no handle. Before she could think of it any longer, her eyes closed, her breathing deepened, and she entered a fretful sleep.
#
Charlotte awoke to a sound, her eyelids so heavy they struggled to open. Her vision was cloudy, everything blurred. After a few slow blinks, the images sharpened, and she thought she must be dreaming, for it looked and felt as if she was floating in space. Above, the black sky beheld a kaleidoscopic pattern of stars, spinning round and round and round.
Something flapped and fluttered on her face, and she sat up with a gasp to see the motel room in a spiral. Everything tilted and swayed, and it took her a moment to recall where she was and what was all around her. Again, something flapped near her face, making her instinctively put her arms up in defense. She screamed, but her throat was so dry that hardly any sound came out. All about her, perched on the desk, the beds, the tables, and flying from one side of the room to the other, were birds. Birds of all sizes and colors. Crows and ravens, robins and warblers; she thought she even saw a heron sitting atop the television, unmoving as if patiently preying on its meal. A stellar jay drifted in, its blue body landing near her on the bed. They cooed and cawed, tweeted and twittered, wings whipping and feathers falling like snow.
“Dexter?” Charlotte squealed, pushing herself up onto her feet. She moved too fast, and immediately had to place her hands back down on the bed: the entire room, birds and all, spun in circles before her eyes. What is happening to me? She looked up again in complete bewilderment to see a large square opening, showcasing the stirring evening sky, where surely the birds had flown in from.
Gathering her strength, Charlotte made her way to the door, holding onto the wall for support. She fumbled with the handle and pulled.
The door was stuck.
She tugged again . . . and again. The door was locked.
“Dexter!” she screamed, her voice croaking. “Dexter, this is a wicked little game. Open the door!”
She went clumsily to the window, almost falling, wings flapping and flailing, and threw the curtains open. Dexter was not outside, nor was the car, or any car for that matter. It seemed that nothing was outside except for shadows of fleeting birds in the tinted red light. Flying in a mad swarm around the motel, some into the gaping hole in her ceiling. She tried to open the window in a dizzying frenzy, but it too was sealed shut.
Charlotte spun around, feeling nauseous and frightened to the bone; her dinner rising from her stomach. As fast as she could in her indisposed state, she tried to make her way to the bathroom, swatting birds from her face, and squealing when one almost got caught in her hair. The room was small but even then, the bathroom seemed ever so far, and she threw up the contents of her dinner onto the shaggy brown carpet.
Her chest heaving, make-up streaked down her face, she could only sit on the bed, shooing birds away. Gradually, her vertigo dissipated, and the spinning eased – instead of a never-ending carousel ride, it was now just a small shift.
A small bird with its head and chest the color of raspberries landed next to her, cocking its head from side to side. A house finch, she told herself, dumbfounded. She looked all around the room – she had never seen so many birds in one space before, and they all seemed to be harmlessly looking right at her.
That’s when she knew: she had been a fool. Tricked and betrayed. Blinded by love.
But for what she was unsure. Nothing made any sense at all. Nonetheless, one thing was certain, and that was she needed to get out of his room. As she stood up, still feeling slightly discombobulated, a shrill shriek sounded in the air, followed by a loud crash onto the roof. The birds in the room quieted and settled, growing puffy and still.
Charlotte too froze. She recalled the shadow from outside, and the feeling it brought on: complete and utter terror. The hairs on her arm stood on end.
Something moved again on the roof, making such a profound booming that Charlotte was sure the ceiling was about to cave in. She looked to the opening, knowing whatever was above was making its way towards it, and she backed away, not ready to face what she knew would be the death of her.
First, two large round eyes, glowing in blood red, looked down from the hole. Then Charlotte noticed the beaky, gaunt face they belonged to. In not even a breath, it shot down in one fluid swoop, landing on its taloned feet.
Charlotte stood stiff with fright, gawking at what stood before her. It looked to be something between a human and . . . a bird. Its wings spanned out, at least ten feet wide, full of feathers as black as obsidian. The creature's monstrous legs, calves bent backward, rustled around, taking in its surroundings. But what differentiated it most from a bird was its facial features: feminine and soft, yet the color of death. Eyelids, bill, lips, and cheeks, all a corpse-like gray.
Its bald head tilted awkwardly around until its red eyes spotted Charlotte. It opened its large gray lips, and released another deafening, high-pitched cry, lurching towards her.
All the birds in the room dispersed, making way for their master.
Charlotte faltered, pressing herself back against the wall in between the two beds, but the bird only drew nearer. It brought in its wings, and Charlotte was appalled to see human-like hands below its torso – bony and elongated, joints bent at odd angles – reaching toward her.
Charlotte closed her eyes, willing it to go away, just go away. A witches-nail softly scratched her cheek. She opened her eyes to see the creature looming before her; an evil grin on its lips, crimson eyes bulging. The sharp end of its beak drew near to her green eyes.
She tried to be still, but her body shook uncontrollably.
“Please,” she cried, “please let me go.”
From afar, a car horn blared repeatedly. Growing louder, closer.
Lights flashed from the open curtain.
The monster let out a rattling sound, rising at least twelve feet high. Its feathered chest, patched in blue, puffed out, showing its strength.
The lights grew brighter. A door slammed, and shortly after a key went into the lock, and Dexter swung the door open. His eyes looked just as bloodshot as the bird towering in front of her; his dark hair wiry and disheveled.
He looked at the creature, and then at Charlotte. “My God, you’re awake,” he shouted, seeing her shrinking with fear. He turned back to the bird. “Get away from her, leave her be!”
The creature – birdwoman – whatever it was, spun around, its wings once again spread wide and a terrible discordant squawking sound coming from its lips. All the birds in the room flew about, knocking lamps over, tearing the curtains, some even flying into Charlotte, nearly toppling her over.
“That’s right,” Charlotte heard Dexter scream. “Come get me. It’s me you want, not her.” He stepped into the room, his arms out in surrender.
Dexter eyed Charlotte, nodding his head towards the door, urging her to run.
Charlotte crawled over the bed as Dexter maneuvered himself so that the bird turned its back to Charlotte. She stopped at the door, taking one last look at the man she thought would be her husband – a man who she still loved, but also the man who betrayed her.
He saw her standing there. “Go, Charlotte,” he screamed, the last words he would ever say. “Go find my uncle – the sheriff.” Before he could say anymore, the creature bounded forward, piercing one of Dexter’s eyes with its pointed beak. Dexter released a guttural, low moan as blood gushed down his face. With its beak still in his eye, the creature wrapped its wings about him, covering Dexter’s body in a vampire-like embrace.
Charlotte screamed, backing away, her knees growing weak. Her heart felt like it had been pierced by the creature's beak – a deep puncture that would never heal. Knowing she would not live if she stayed any longer, she turned around and fled, right towards the Chevy Bel Air that was still on and running. She slammed the door, struggling to put the car in reverse. The sounds of the birds grew louder, and she stopped, leaning forward to see out the windshield.
A flock of birds poured forth from the motel roof, forming a murmuration that ebbed and flowed into the night sky. She trembled, knowing what was coming next.
The creature appeared, hovering above the motel, its wings whipping and flapping as it gained momentum. Latched onto its long talons was Dexter. The shadow of his body was limp and unmoving, a dead fish plucked from a stream. Charlotte put her hand over her mouth, suppressing another scream, another cry. With tears streaming down her face, she got out of the car and watched the large bird fly away, swooping higher and higher. Its large wings spread out wide as it flew further away, until it was but a small silhouette against the moon.
Jasmine De La Paz
is a speculative fiction author based in Bishop, CA. She weaves elements of gothic, psychologic, and cosmic horror to her stories, and is often inspired by the surrounding nature and landscapes of the Eastern Sierra, where she resides. Her short story, "The Secret is in the Mountains" will appear in the forthcoming 'Anterior Skies' anthology, released by Strange Elf Press. When not writing or reading through her endless pile of books, she enjoys bird watching, climbing mountains, or swimming in icy lakes. You can find her on social media @jazz_delapaz