Remnants of a Dead Bird
The saturation felt as if drained from the world that night, as I looked onwards at the gloom-stricken trees and started my trek across the gravel path lit faintly by the hazy, dim moonlight. Even taking a short and little breath was painful on that harsh and chilly night.
"Where the moon but cries,
Where the grass but bleeds,
In the midst of the forest,
Where the mist calls a chorus,
A fallen ā¦"
The strange poem felt heavy sitting there in my pocket, mocking me and intriguing me, holding onto me with its ominous words as I marched forward into the dark woods where the path ahead seemed to stretch infinitely and indefinitely; a path into darkness, a path into hell. The poem seemed to have been written in a 5-5-7-7-5 syllable scheme with a scorched mark where the final word was supposed to be written, leaving me discontented and dreadfully intrigued. "A fallen..." a fallen what? I just had to know.
My monotonous life, my normally melancholic days had never been so tinged with excitement. What was it about this poem that attracted me? That pulled me forward? That excited me? I just had to know, I just had to unfold the vague covers of its forbidding secrets. It wasn't until a few nights before that fateful night in the woods, that those dreadful, recurring dreams started coming to me, painting a picture in haze but with so much clarity that it felt like I knew nothing and everything at the same time. Fallen feathers and a light so bright it blinded me every time. But no matter how many times I had that dream, it always ended the same way, with a harsh static and a blood-curling shriek in the distance and id wake up with my heart racing and my hands drenched with sweat. The dreams showed no signs of stopping and as such, my curiosity kept welling up. Then one night, I saw the woods, the same woods where I would find myself a few nights later. The trees, darker than ash, consumed by the black of the night, the wind, wailing in agony, as if it couldn't escape the confines of the ominous woods, and feathers, the red grass littered with feathers. It felt somewhat like an unholy but divine revelation, promising me the path to truth while simultaneously feeling like a foreboding sign of admonition, warning me not to pursue it.
It wasnāt long before I found myself walking in a daze, towards the same dreaded woods that visited me in my dreams every night. The deeper that I followed the barely lit gravel path, the more I felt I was being consumed by the woods themselves and the more I felt I was being taken to somewhere I would soon regret. It had been about an hour past midnight and I had been walking for that entire hour, and the occasional, loud chirping of the birds and the constant, noisy buzzing from the cicadas was starting to get on my nerves. Was I still in a dream or was I finally on the path towards the truth? A fallen branch got a hold of my jeans and I fell. A sharp tinge of pain on my palm where my hand got scraped, trying to break the fall. Yeah, definitely not a dream. I got up and started to dust myself off when I saw it. A feather. A pitch-black, withered feather lying on the grass in silence. Was it just me or did it get colder all of the sudden? I walked forward into the dark. Another feather lying there peacefully on the ground. The weather definitely had gotten colder. Hazy mist seemed to rise up from the freezing ground. I shuddered. Maybe I should have worn a warmer jacket. Feathers. This time three on the ground together. It seemed as if they were huddling together for warmth. No. It felt more like they were stealing the warmth from the ground itself. Was there something behind me? No, itās just my head getting to me. I hurried onwards. More feathers, sitting on the cold grass, more mist, making it harder to make out the scenery in front of me. The ground seemed weird. I got closer to the ground and stared at the grass. It was... red? Is it because its fall? Does grass turn red in fall? Is it... blood? I peeled my eyes off the strange red grass and stared into the distance. Was that a cry of a bird? Or was I just imagining things. I got up and continued walking. The truth is close, I can feel it. There's an opening ahead between the trees, leading to a small field. I stop dead in my tracks. Thatās it, thatās where I need to go. Thatās the place that called to me in my dreams. My heart is racing too fast. I take a deep breath and enter the opening.
All noise stopped abruptly. The birds, the cicadas, they all suddenly just stopped, as if holding their breath. The silence felt eerie but strangely peaceful. I look around. It seems to be a small circular field, the trees covering its entire circumference. Thereās barely any moonlight passing through the canopy of the tree leaves above. I squint through the mist and darkness, trying to adjust my vision and look at the ground. There are feathers littered everywhere. Thereās no way a bird shed all these feathers, not even an entire flock of birds could shed this much. The grass is blood-red. It looked less like someone bled over the grass and more like the grass itself bled. Something is here. I move forward and I see it. The moonlight, barely passing through the canopy, is focused on a spot on the ground. The spot seemed wet, like grass wet from fresh morning dew. Thereās something in the middle of the spot of light. I get closer to the spot and lean down. A bird. Itās... dead. Pitch-black in color, with a few feathers still intact. I lean forward and touch it. Itās cold. I can hear my own heartbeat. The moonlight falling on it is pale and looks almost heavenly. "A fallen..." the peaceful silence of the woods, the divine and heavenly moonlight, the dead bird so cold it felt warm, the whole scene felt almost... angelic. āA fallen angel", that must be it. I can hear my heart beating. I remove my hand from the bird and start to get up. An angel. Then why am I still so tense? A sharp and intense pain rises up through my hand, I shriek in pain. My hand has been gashed open by the birdsā claws. Was it not dead? I was mistaken. I was very gravely mistaken. The silence was not peaceful. How did I mistake such sinister quiet as comforting? The moonlight was not heavenly. The moon was crying. Yes, it was crying in agony. And the cold dead bird was not warm, it was scorching hot. How did I not notice my fingertips burning? I cried out in pain. Blood was dripping on the grass and the grass seemed to suck it all up. An angel? The dead bird was staring at me with its blood red eyes. The horror settled in immediately. There is no way that thing is an angel. Was it snickering at me? The dim moonlight seemed to slowly get harsher and brighter by the second. I could hear voices within the mist around me. What were they saying? The pain was getting unbearable. I clenched my hand and squeezed it. An angel? The bird looked amused. Nothing of divinity can be this awfully sinister. My ears started ringing, the voices were getting louder. What were they saying? Why were they crying? Iām not making out of here alive. The bird spread its wings. Itās coming for me. I stared into its eyes. Its pupils, hidden between the reds of its eyes did not seem to end. Was it all worth it in the end? Losing hold of your soul and sanity to find the answer? They stared back at me inquisitively. I blinked, my eyes becoming unfocused and dazed. The bird sneered, satisfied by the answer. It flew towards me. A loud, blood-curling shriek. Static. Then, nothing.
When I woke up, I was in my bed, my hand still bleeding slowly. A pitch-black feather laid there, resting quietly on my chest.
I know Iām not safe, the woods keep coming closer and closer to my window each night. Iāve barricaded my door and blocked my windows, too scared to step out, too scared to let anyone step in. Itās been four days, food is running out. Itās only a matter of time before it comes for me. A fallen what? I finally had my answer, but was it worth losing my sanity over? Thatās a question Iāll never know the answer to. Will I even live long enough to care? Only God can now protect me from what has fallen from above. Can such a thing even fall from above? Or did it fall from below? I imagine itās not long before I finally know the answer to that as well. I suppose the last thing I can do is finish the poem as I await my definite demise.
"Where the moon but cries,
Where the grass but bleeds,
In the midst of the forest,
Where the mist calls a chorus,
A fallen ā¦"
I rest the tip of my pen on the piece of paper that almost feels like a piece of me at this point and let out a sigh; a sigh of despair, a sigh of content.
"ā¦ Devil."