Year's Best Weird Fiction, Volume 5

by Robert Shearman

  BP: Duly noted. Mr. H_____ leads the children into the woods behind an old, abandoned school house—

  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 am.

  Ben lives alone in a small, one-bedroom apartment in the basement of a rundown 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 was more natural light. There were days, particularly in the winter, when he’d stand 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, child-like 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 break in, 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 the 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 fawned 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 Taylor’s, perched on top of his refrigerator, and on the windowsill framed by the black bars. He settled with 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.

  Ben says, “Oh, right. The picture of the bird head. Jeeze, I’m sorry. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to, I mean, I didn’t realize—”

  Marnie: “We understand your enthusiasm for Mr. Wheatley and his work, but you didn’t honestly give a second thought to sharing publicly a picture of an admission ticket to a private gathering, one hosted by someone who clearly values his privacy?”

  “No, I guess I didn’t. I never mentioned anything about the party, I swear, but now I feel stupid and awful.” He is telling the truth; he does feel stupid and awful, but mostly because he understands that Marnie is here to ask him to take down his most popular Facebook post. “I’m so sorry for that.”

  “Do you always react this way when someone shares an invitation to a private party? When they share such a personal gift?”

  “No. God, no. It wasn’t like that. I posted it to, you know, drum up some pre-interest, um, buzz, for the interview that I’m going to publish tomorrow. A teaser, right? That’s all. I don’t think Mr. Wheatley realizes how much people in the horror community love ‘Something About Birds’ and how much they want to know about him, and, hear from him.”

  “Are there going to be further problems?”

  “Problems?”

  “Issues.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No. No problems or issues. I promise.” Ben backs away unconsciously and bumps into the small island in his kitchen. He drops the pipe and it clatters to the floor.

  “You will not post any more pictures on social media nor will you include the picture or any mention of the invitation and the gathering itself when you publish the interview.”

  “I won’t. I swear.”

  “We’d like you to take down the photo, please.”

  Everything in him screams no, and wants to argue that they don’t understand how much the picture will help bring eyeballs and readers to the interview, how it will help everyone involved. Instead, Ben says,

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Now, please. Take it down, and I’d like to watch you take it down.”

  “Yeah, okay.” He pulls his phone from out of his pocket and walks toward Marnie. She watches his finger and thumb strokes as he deletes the post.

  Marnie says, “Thank you. I am sorry to have disrupted your evening, Benjamin.” She walks to the front door. She pauses, turns, and

  says, “Are you sure about accepting the invitation, Benjamin?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can gi
ve back the admission ticket to me if you don’t think you can handle the responsibility. Mr. Wheatley would understand.”

  The thought of giving her the bird head never once crosses his mind as a possibility. “No, that’s okay. I’m keeping it. I’d like to like to keep it, please, I mean. I understand why he’s upset and I won’t betray his trust again. I promise.”

  Marnie starts to talk and much of the rest of the strangely personal conversation passes like a dream.

  *

  WW: I’m well aware of the role of birds within pagan lore and that they are linked with the concept of freedom, of the ability to transcend the mundane, to leave it behind.

  BP: Sounds like an apt description of weird fiction to me, Mr. Wheatley. I want you talk a little about the odd character names of the children. Sometimes I’m of the mind that the children are filling the roles of familiars to Mr. H_____. They are his companions, of course, and are assisting him in some task … a healing, perhaps, as Mr. H——– is described as having a painful limp in the beginning of the story, a limp that doesn’t seem to be there when later he follows the children into the woods.

  WW: (laughs) I do love hearing all the different theories about the story.

  BP: Are you laughing because I’m way off?

  WW: No, not at all. I tried to build in as many interpretations as possible, and in doing so, I’ve been pleased to find many more interpretations that I didn’t realize were there. Or I didn’t consciously realize, if that makes sense. In the spirit of fair play, I will admit, for the first time, publicly, Benjamin, from where I got the children’s names. They are named after songs from my friend, Liz’s, obscure little punk band. I hope that’s not a disappointment.

  BP: Not at all. I think it’s amazingly cool.

  WW: An inside joke, yes, but the seemingly random names have taken on meaning, too. At least they have for me.

  BP: Let me hit you with one more allegorical reading: I’ve read a fellow critic who argues there’s a classical story going on among all the weirdness. She argues The Admiral, The Crow, and Kittypants specifically are playing out a syncretic version of the Horus, Osiris, and Set myth of Egypt with Mr. H_____ representing Huitzilopochtli, the bird-headed Mexican god of war. Is she onto something?

  WW: The references to those cultural myths involving gods with human bodies and bird heads were not conscious on my part. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there. I grew up reading those stories of ancient gods and mythologies and they are a part of me as they are a part of us all, even if we don’t realize it. That’s the true power of story. That it can find the secrets both the writer and reader didn’t know they had within themselves.

  *

  Ben doesn’t wake until after 1 pm. His dreams were replays of his protracted late-night conversation with Marnie. They stood in the living area. Neither sat or made themselves more comfortable. He remembers part of their conversation going like this:

  “When did you first read ‘Something About Birds?’” “Five years ago, I think.” “When did you move to the city?” “Three years ago, I think?” “You think?” “I’m sorry, it was two years ago, last September. It seems like I’ve been here longer. I don’t know why I was confused by that question.” “As an adult, have you always lived alone?” “Yes.” “How many miles away do you currently live from your mother?” “I’m not sure of the exact mileage but she’s in another timezone from me.” “Tell me why you hate your job at the restaurant.” “It’s having to fake pleasantness that makes me feel both worthless and lonely.” “Have you had many lovers?” “Only two. Both relationships lasted less than two months. And it’s been a while, unfortunately.” “What has been a while?” “Since I’ve had a lover, as you put it.” “Have you ever held a live bird cupped in your hands and felt its fragility or had a large one perch on your arm or shoulder and felt its barely contained strength?” “No. Neither.” “Would you prefer talons or beak?” “I would prefer wings.” “You can’t choose wings, Benjamin. Talons or beak?” “Neither? Both?” And so on.

  Ben does not go into work and he doesn’t call in. His phone vibrates with the agitated where-are-yous and are-you-coming-ins. He hopes that asshole Shea is being called in to cover for him. He says at his ringing phone, “The New Dark Review will be my job.” He decides severing his already fraying economic safety line is the motive necessary to truly make a go at the career he now wants. He says, “Sink or swim,” then playfully chides himself for not having a proper bird analogy instead. Isn’t there a bird species that lays eggs on cliffs in or near Ireland, and the mothers push the hatchlings out of the nest and as they tumble down the side of the craggy rock they learn to fly or perish? Ben resolves to turn his own zine devoted to essays about obscure and contemporary horror and weird fiction into a career. He’s not so clueless as to believe the zine will ever be able to sustain him financially, but perhaps it could elevate his name and stature within the field and parlay that into something more. He could pitch/sell ad space to publishers and research paying ebook subscription-based models. Despite himself, he fantasizes The New Dark Review winning publishing industry awards. With its success he could then helm an anthology of stories dedicated to Wheatley, a cycle of stories by other famous writers centered around “Something About Birds.” If only he wasn’t told to take down the bird head photo from his various social media platforms. He fears a real opportunity has been lost and the messages and emails asking why he took down the photo aren’t helping.

  Instead of following up on his revenue generating and promotional ideas for The New Dark Review, Ben Googles the Irish-cliff-birds and finds the guillemot chicks. They aren’t kicked out of the nest. They are encouraged by calls from their father below the cliffs. And they don’t fly. The chicks plummet and bounce off the rocks and if they manage to survive, they swim out to sea with their parents.

  Ben transcribes the rest of the interview and publishes it. He shares the link over various platforms but the interview does not engender the same enthusiastic response the bird head photo received. He resolves to crafting a long-term campaign to promote the interview, give it a long life, one with a tail (a publishing/marketing term, of course). He’ll follow up the interview with a long-form critical essay of Wheatley’s work. He reads “Something About Birds” eight more times. He tacks a poster board to a wall in the living area. He creates timelines and a psychical map of the story’s setting, stages the characters and creates dossiers, uses lengths of string and thread to make connections. He tacks notecards with quotes from Wheatley. He draws bird heads too.

  That night there is a repeat of the knocking on his front door. Only Ben isn’t sure if the knocking is real or if he’s only dreaming. The knocking is lighter this time; a tapping more than a knock. He might’ve welcomed another visit from Marnie earlier while he was working on his new essay, but now he pulls the bed covers over his head. The tapping stops eventually.

  Later there is a great wind outside, and rain, and his apartment sings with all manner of noises not unlike the beating of hundreds of wings.

  *

  WW: Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? It’s the question the title of the story all but asks. I’ve always been fascinated by birds and prior to writing the story, I’d never been able to fully articulate why. Yes the story is strange, playful, perhaps macabre, and yet it really is about my love, for lack of a better term, of birds. I’m flailing around for an answer, I’m sorry. Let me try again: Our fascination with birds is more than a some dimestore, new-age, spiritual longing, more than the worst of us believing these magnificent animals serve as an avatar for our black-hearted, near-sighted souls, if we’ve ever had such a thing as a soul. There’s this otherness about birds, isn’t there? Thank goodness for that. It’s as though they’re in possession of knowledge totally alien to us. I don’t think I’m explaining this very well, and that’s why I wrote the story. The story gets at what I’m trying to say about birds better than I can now. I’ve always felt, as a
humble observer, that the proper emotion within a bird’s presence is awe. Awe is as fearsome and terrible as it is ecstatic.

  *

  Ben wakes up to his phone vibrating with more calls from the restaurant. His bedroom is dark. As far as he can tell from his cave-like confines, it is dark outside as well. Ben fumbles to turn on his nightstand lamp and the light makes everything worse. Across from the foot of his bed is his dresser. It’s his dresser from childhood and the wood is scarred with careless gouges and pocked with white, tattered remnants of what were once Pokémon stickers. On top of the dresser is a bird head, and it’s as large as his own head. Bigger, actually. Its coloring is the same as the Red-Headed Barbet. The red feathers, at this size, are shockingly red, as though red never existed before this grotesquely beautiful plumage. He understands the color is communication. It’s a warning. A threat. So too the brown-yellow beak, which is as thick and prominent as a rhino’s horn, stabbing out menacingly into his bedroom. The bird’s eyes are bigger than his fists, and the black irises are ringed in more red.