by R. L. Stine
One of the two birds was on the ground. It quickly hopped from sight behind the foot of a large oak tree.
“Don’t be frightened,” I whispered in my most reassuring tone.
The bird poked its head around the corner and peeked at me. The other bird did too; they were both behind the oak tree. Such shy birds, they were.
“You must be hungry,” I said. I looked about. “And what is there to eat? I’ve seen no worms, snails, or spiders.”
All I had in my coat pocket was a half-eaten apple left over from my train journey that morning, and I placed it on the ground near the foot of the tree.
I stood back.
The birds peeked out again. They saw the apple and looked up at me. I nodded; it was for them. They hopped out from behind the tree and started pecking away at it.
“I will bring more,” I said.
The birds chirped excitedly. It had been as though they had understood my words.
I met Aunt Zelda that night at the dining table. She looked like a lighthouse. She was tall, dressed in a featureless flowing white gown with the dimensions of a cylinder, and up on top of her head sprung a tall chaos of hair the color of fire.
“It is soon your birthday,” she said, staring across the table at me with a pale face and two large blue eyes.
“Yes,” I answered. “I turn thirteen.”
“There is a birthday present for you.” She pointed at a side table, on top of which sat a square-shaped parcel wrapped in colorful striped paper.
“It was found at your house in London after your mother and father perished at sea. Chubwitt, the family lawyer, sent it on to here. There is a card with your name on it.”
I looked back at my aunt.
“My sister must have purchased and wrapped it before she and your father set sail.”
I had no knowledge of this birthday present. I looked back across the room at it, and for a moment, it was as though my mother and father were with me again . . . until my large uncle cleared his throat.
“Mrs. Fulton is getting a cold,” he grumbled to my aunt. “She’s been sniffing and sneezing all afternoon.”
My aunt nodded.
For the next five minutes they discussed Mrs. Fulton’s head cold, until I became quite bored listening and decided to change the subject.
“I saw some birds today,” I said.
I may as well have announced that I had personally declared war on Spain, for their reaction would surely have been the same.
“There’s nothing in the forest,” my aunt said.
My large uncle slammed his walking stick down on the table. “If you did,” he growled, “under no circumstances are you to feed them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“There’s nothing in the forest,” my aunt repeated, shaking her head. “You only imagined you saw something.”
My uncle didn’t answer my question, and the next twenty minutes were devoted to his and my aunt’s renewed discussion of Mrs. Fulton’s cold.
In my lap lay a handkerchief, into which I had been secreting food throughout the meal. When it came time to excuse myself from the table, I hid the little package of potato, cabbage, beans, and pork behind me as I rose. I bid my aunt and uncle good night, took a candle, and went up to my room.
I waited until the late hour, then dressed warmly and crept out from my room, down the stairs, and out through the front door and into the forest.
A half-moon in a broken sky was my only light. I dared not take a candle for fear the light would have been seen from the house.
I walked carefully along the winding pathway back to the oak tree where I had last seen the birds. At the foot of the tree, I laid out my handkerchief of food in the manner of a little picnic, and I stood back and waited.
I saw nothing. The only sound was the creak of tree branches in the night. The birds appeared to be absent. I felt sad that my offering might go unnoticed.
It was frightfully cold, and a damp fog had begun to envelop everything about me. I turned to walk back to the house. I had taken no more than ten steps when I heard the faint sound of fluttering wings.
Looking back, I could see the shadows of the birds at the foot of the oak tree. They had found the food and were eating heartily. How cruel of my uncle to not want to feed the birds in the forest. These two little things were probably near starvation in this bleak wasteland.
I returned to the house.
As I approached the front steps, I smelled pipe tobacco and realized there was a man standing there in the darkness. I feared it was my uncle.
“What are you doing out here at this hour?” It was Fulton, the groundsman, out smoking his pipe. I had not heard the man’s voice before, and it was surprising; it was as deep as a cave, and raspy.
“If you don’t tell my uncle,” I said, “I’ll tell you.”
He nodded and took a long drag on his pipe.
“I was feeding the birds.”
In the moonlight I could see him giving me a queer look with his two droopy eyes.
“There’s nothing in the forest,” he rasped. “A long time ago it was full of animals, but they’ve all gone now.”
There was a curious sound somewhere in the distance. It was like a muffled rifle shot.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Mrs. Fulton,” he said.
“Is she outside in the cold?”
He shook his head.
We walked along the front of the house, and when we got to the end, I could look down the side, to where I could see a little cottage located at the rear.
We heard Mrs. Fulton again. It was an energetic sneeze.
Evidently, the Fultons lived out in the cottage and not inside the main house.
Fulton shook his head again. “Don’t ever tell Mrs. Fulton you’ve been feeding the birds, if you really have seen any. She hates the things with every bone in her body.”
“Why is that?”
“We used to have a cat.”
I nodded, not that I really understood what he meant. “Where did all the animals in the forest go?” I asked.
“Never you mind. It’s best for young children to not ask about it.”
“I’ll soon be thirteen,” I informed him.
“Is that so?” he said. “I’m sixty-five. I’ve lived your whole lifetime of thirteen years exactly five times over, so that gives me every right to tell you not to concern yourself.”
Who was I to argue with an elderly mathematician with a pipe?
“What do you do up in the tower each day?” I asked my large uncle one morning.
He didn’t like this question.
Aunt Zelda let out a short burst of laughter.
My uncle stared at me from the end of the breakfast table with such inflamed intensity I feared he would melt the butter.
“He’s going to make us rich,” Aunt Zelda snorted. “He’s been promising that for years.”
There was always an undertone to everything Aunt Zelda said, as though she was secretly angry with everybody and everything. My mother had been delightful; her sister was a word I’m not old enough to use yet.
And neither my uncle nor my aunt answered my question.
I had lived at the house now for more than two weeks. Every morning after breakfast, my uncle would head off up the stairs to the top of the tower, and I wouldn’t see him again until we assembled at the dinner table that evening.
I had grown accustomed to the empty house and being alone. Fulton was always outside with a garden tool or tending to the horses in the stables. Mrs. Fulton was always fussing about cooking and cleaning, and I did my best to not be underfoot. My aunt spent most of her days in the drawing room learning to play Bach’s Minuet in G major on the harpsichord—every day, the same piece; every day, the same mistakes. I’m sure the harpsichord would have liked to have thrown itself into the fire.
I overcame my boredom by reading. I had discovered a library in the east wing of the house with more books in it than I had ever seen in my li
fe, and plump leather chairs that swallowed you up in their comfort.
And I had continued my secret mission to feed the birds. Each day I left out a little picnic on a handkerchief in the morning after breakfast, and again at night after everyone had gone to bed. I never saw them anymore, so shy they were, but they were certainly eating what I left out. Not a crumb was ever left behind.
“Saturday is your birthday,” my aunt announced. “We shall have a party for you.”
“I would like that very much,” I said. My attention returned to the birthday present waiting patiently for me on the side table.
My uncle’s attention turned back to Mrs. Fulton and a renewed discussion with my aunt about the old woman’s cold: No, it hadn’t gotten any better. Yes, she was still taking her medication.
After breakfast I went outside. And as I walked away from the house, I had that odd sensation. I call it odd because I don’t know any other way to describe it. I knew that if I looked, I would surely find someone looking back at me.
I did so.
And there was.
My uncle was staring at me. He was at the window up at the top of the tower.
What does he do behind that red door? I wondered. Did he write books, paint landscapes, play with puppets, or do nothing at all? Maybe the room at the top of the tower was empty, and all he did up there each day was sit on a cushion on the floor and think about cake.
He disappeared from the window.
I headed to the oak tree. I retrieved the handkerchief I had left out the previous evening, and I laid out a new one with that morning’s feast. I heard the birds twittering. They sounded a lot happier and louder. They were full of life.
As I went back I encountered Mrs. Fulton. It was rare that I saw her outside. I wished her a good morning as we passed. She regarded me with suspicion and said nothing.
I went on to the house.
Sure enough, the next time I saw my large uncle was that night at the dinner table. And partway through the meal, he placed my handkerchief on the table. He unfolded it to reveal the food I had left out that morning.
“Who are you feeding?” he asked, staring at me as though I had driven a nail through his foot.
My aunt was also staring.
I didn’t answer. I continued chewing the large piece of potato I had just shoveled into my mouth. By the rules of good table manners, I should not speak with my mouth full. My uncle knew this and was obliged to wait.
Clearly, Mrs. Fulton had brought my handkerchief and its contents to his attention. It occurred to me that I was sending a couple of handkerchiefs each day into her laundry basket, and many would have been dirtied with bark and soil from the forest floor. Had Mrs. Fulton become suspicious?
I pondered this matter.
After seven minutes of my continued chewing, my uncle slammed his walking stick down on the table in frustration. “Will you for goodness’ sake finally swallow that mouthful and speak!”
I swallowed.
“I’m leaving food out for the birds,” I said.
My aunt gasped.
“There’s nothing else for them to eat.”
My uncle’s face glowed red with anger. “Do you know why there are no animals in the forest?” he roared.
I shook my head.
“Because the birds ate them all up!”
My aunt nodded in agreement.
Harsh words were spoken by adults, and I was sent to my room. The handkerchief of food I had been quietly assembling on my lap was confiscated.
Night winds swirled about the house, and my bedside candle flickered. I pulled the blankets up to my chin and stared up at the dancing shadows on the ceiling above my bed.
How could birds have eaten all the animals? It was too fanciful to imagine. It was ridiculous. Was my large uncle insane? My aunt too?
The candle died, and everything became a shadow. There was no moon outside or even stars; all was hidden under a thick blanket of cloud.
There came a rustle and a tapping. I couldn’t see anything in the dark, but I knew the birds were outside at my window. They hadn’t been fed that day and were surely hungry. I knew how I felt if I went a day without food.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I will feed you.”
I waited until I heard the grandfather clock downstairs in the entrance hall chime for midnight, and dressed warmly once again, I crept out of my room.
I snuck downstairs through the dark and quiet of the house to the kitchen. By the light of a candle, I found some bread and a few scraps of meat left over from that night’s dinner, and I bound it up in a fresh handkerchief.
I went out through the front door and into the night.
The air had a cold bite to it, and there was a thick fog. Quick slivers of moonlight breaking through the clouds were my only moments of vision, and I navigated my way back to the oak tree more from memory than anything.
I left the food on the ground, and I put the handkerchief in my pocket; I’m sure the birds didn’t mind if their dinner was served up on a tablecloth or not. Less than a minute later, I heard the eager fluttering of their wings.
“I will feed you,” I said into the darkness. “I will always feed you. You have my promise on that.”
I became aware of a light behind me, and I heard a jagged cough.
“Your uncle will hear of this,” Mrs. Fulton croaked angrily.
I turned to see Mrs. Fulton holding a lantern and walking toward me with frail steps. She was as white as a bedsheet, and by her lantern’s light, I could see a film of sweat on her brow. She coughed again, her eyes rolled upward in a faint, and she collapsed to the ground.
She regained consciousness within a moment, and I helped her back onto her feet and picked up her lantern. With her arm about my shoulders, and bearing her weight, I walked her back toward the house.
I called out loudly as we approached.
My uncle’s bedroom window opened, and he stuck out his head.
When we got to the front steps, Fulton, no doubt having heard my cries, came around from the side. Together we helped Mrs. Fulton, coughing and sneezing, up the steps and into the house. There was an armchair inside the entrance hall beside the grandfather clock, and we navigated her to it. She collapsed into it. I set her lantern on the floor at her feet.
“What is going on here?” my uncle thundered in his nightclothes, the tip of his walking stick slamming down into each wooden step on the staircase as he descended. My aunt hurriedly followed behind, holding a candelabrum crowded with candles.
“Mrs. Fulton is dangerously ill,” I reported.
Fulton spoke up, “I don’t think the medicine she’s been given is helping in any way.”
“Well, give her more of it,” my uncle barked, coming to a standstill in front of us.
“Look at the woman,” Aunt Zelda said, poking my uncle’s side with a rigid finger. “The medicine is clearly not working.”
“It’ll be the death of my wife, if something isn’t done,” Fulton pleaded.
“She should be taken into Hertley,” I said. “There must surely be a doctor in the village.”
Only Fulton was in agreement.
“No,” my uncle said. “Potion 53 will cure her.”
“You are not a doctor,” my aunt said to him, her rigid finger repeatedly stabbing his side. “Mrs. Fulton is clearly not long for this world. I will not have her death on my conscience.”
“Potion 53 will cure her,” he insisted. “She just has to keep taking it.”
“I could take her into Hertley,” Fulton said.
“I won’t allow it,” my uncle barked again. “It’s far too dangerous in the dark for the horses.”
Something occurred to him.
“And what the dickens were you all doing outside at this time of night?”
“She followed me,” I reported.
Mrs. Fulton summoned up the energy to point her finger at me. “Birds!” she cried out. “Was feeding the birds!”
; If my large uncle had previously resembled a hill, he now resembled a volcano.
“WHAT?” he roared.
He swung his walking stick at me and knocked me to the floor.
“You deliberately went against my word,” he thundered, towering above me, ready to strike a second blow. “Mrs. Fulton should never have gone outside. So help me, child, I will whip you!”
My aunt stepped in front of him. “It’s your fault the old woman is feeling poorly. Potion 53 is clearly another failure, just like all the others.”
For a brief moment the volcano hesitated, his eyes locked onto my aunt’s. And in that moment, I seized my chance. I sprang back to my feet, and darting between them, I snatched the rusty key from around my uncle’s neck, snapping the string as I yanked it away. I grabbed the lantern that stood on the floor, and I headed for the tower.
They followed.
As I ran up the spiral staircase, I heard my uncle’s bellowing voice and the staccato beat of his walking stick on the stone steps behind me.
As I had guessed, the key unlocked the red door at the top of the tower, and I opened it. By the lantern’s light, I found a room full of equipment: test tubes, burners, racks of liquids and powders, racks of empty animal cages, medical apparatus, and a microscope.
My uncle and aunt burst into the room behind me, flushed and panting from their rapid climb of the stairs.
“What is this place?” I asked.
“Your uncle is a scientist,” my aunt laughed. “He thinks he’s going to find a cure for the common cold.”
“I will!” he barked.
“When? You’ve been coming up to this room every day for more than twenty years, and not one good result has ever come from it.”
“I just need more time!”
“Do you want to know what happened to all the animals in the forest?” my aunt asked me. “Potion 21 killed them. Your uncle tested it on a bird, and it became ill. Not with a cold, but with something else; something that made it hungry for flesh, for anything that moved. And then its strange illness spread to the other birds in the forest, and together, they ate up all the other animals. And when there weren’t any other animals left, they began to eat up one another, until there wasn’t a single bird left and the forest was completely empty.”