Chirp, Chirp – A Dark Tale by Gary William Ramsey

DISCLAIMER and Reader Discretion Advisory: This fictional horror story contains mature and disturbing themes including violence, psychological breakdown, death, substance abuse, and graphic emotional distress that may be offensive or unsettling to some readers. Intended for adults only. All characters and events are fictional. The editors and publisher do not endorse the views and actions in this fictional story. The publisher assumes no liability or responsibility for the content, interpretation, or consequences arising from this work; all creative responsibility and liability remain solely with the author.

Chirp, Chirp – A Dark Tale by Gary William Ramsey

My name is Rex Dawson. I’m 61 years old, and until recently, I was the proud store manager of an exclusive department store for twenty long years. But my mind—a fragile fortress—has begun betraying me, its walls crumbling under inexplicable shadows. This slow erosion of sanity devoured my work performance, and today, I was cast aside, fired, just one miserable year before my retirement and pension could cradle me into comfort.

Drenched in despair, I drowned my grievances in bourbon at the dim-lit corner of my regular haunt. The amber liquid burned less than my pride. Eventually, staggering through the ghostly veins of the city, I found my way back to the empty shell I call home. I collapsed into bed, craving oblivion, yearning for the sweet escape of unconscious dreams.

But the darkness did not greet me with solace.

Just as sleep’s fragile tendrils began to wrap around my weary mind, I heard it—chirp… chirp… chirp—a sound slicing through the thick silence, sharp as glass. The window was shut tight, yet the noise slithered into my ears, intimate and invasive, as if it perched upon my very shoulder.

Agitated, I sat up, my pulse a drumbeat of irritation. Peering through the murky glass, I saw it—a tiny black bird, its obsidian feathers absorbing the pale moonlight, making it a silhouette of darkness itself. But its eyes… oh God, its eyes shimmered with an unnatural gleam, twin pinpricks of malevolence, staring directly into my soul.

Chirp… chirp… chirp.

The sound wasn’t just noise—it was a violation, drilling into my mind, unrelenting. My skin prickled with an invisible crawl, my heart thundering against my ribcage.

“How in the hell can you make such a garish, loud sound?” I spat, my voice cracking with frustration. “You’re so tiny.”

The bird didn’t flinch. It just stared, its unblinking gaze hollow yet heavy with something ancient, something wrong.

Chirp… chirp… chirp.

But the sound wasn’t coming from its beak anymore. It resonated from somewhere deeper—inside the walls, beneath the floorboards, within my very bones. The shadows in the room grew denser, darker, as if they leaned in, listening, waiting.

That’s when I realized—the bird wasn’t outside trying to get in. It was already inside, perched on the threshold between my reality and something far, far worse.

I banged on the window, knuckles cracking against the cold glass, but the tiny bird remained, its beady eyes glinting like pinpricks of malevolence. I pounded harder—flesh against barrier—yet it shrieked defiantly, “Chirp, chirp, chirp,” each note laced with manic glee, as if mocking my fragile sanity.

I clawed a pillow over my ears, desperate to muffle the piercing cacophony. But the sound slithered through the fabric, worming into my skull. “Chirp, chirp, chirp,” it drilled, relentless and sharp, burrowing past reason. I bolted upright, wild-eyed, fumbling with the lock, and flung the window open. Air rushed in, sharp and metallic. The bird darted to the gnarled limb of the oak outside—its silhouette grotesque against the sickly glow of the streetlight.

Slamming the window shut, I collapsed back onto the bed, my heartbeat a frantic drum. Silence teased me for a heartbeat—then, “Chirp, chirp, chirp.” Louder. Closer. Inside my very veins. I howled, “Get the hell out of here, you hellacious bird!”

A thunderous pounding rattled the door—jagged, impatient. “Why are you yelling, you stupid fool?” Margret, my from hell wife’s voice scraped through the wood, roughened by years of cigarette smoke and contempt. “Shut the hell up.”

I stumbled to the door, my fingers trembling on the knob but refusing to turn it. “There’s a damn bird chirping on the windowsill, keeping me awake. I can’t get it to leave. It’s… it’s not right.”

I could see her without opening the door: black-dyed hair twisted into monstrous curlers, her face a grotesque mask of peeling green, eyes void of empathy. A creature born from the same darkness that birthed the bird.

“There’s nothing on your windowsill. You’re insane. Shut the hell up and let me sleep.” Her footsteps receded, a fading echo swallowed by the oppressive night.

But the chirping remained. Not outside. No. It seeped from the walls, the floorboards, vibrating within my teeth. “Chirp, chirp, chirp”—an anthem of unraveling sanity.

          I returned to the window, my breath shallow and uneven, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. The bird was gone. The room seemed too quiet now, an unnatural stillness settling like a suffocating blanket. Shadows twisted in the dim moonlight, crawling across the walls as if they had lives of their own. I shook my head, dismissing the creeping dread slithering down my spine, and crawled back into bed.

Sleep barely brushed my weary mind when—chirp, chirp, chirp—pierced the fragile silence, sharp and mocking. My eyes flew open, blood pounding in my temples. I turned my gaze toward the window, and there it was again—the tiny black bird, its beady eyes glinting with malevolence. The bedside clock glared back at me: midnight. A sinister hour, a wicked omen.

My fingers instinctively found the cool steel of the nine-iron golf club stashed under the bed. It was meant for intruders, but dark, forbidden thoughts crept into my mind—thoughts I’d fought to bury. The image of Margret’s face flashed before me, her incessant nagging, her indifferent gaze. The craving to silence her, to feel the weight of the club connecting, surged like an electric current. I clenched my jaw, suffocating the monstrous urge.

Gripping the club tighter, I slipped from the bed, each step soundless, fueled by a singular, frenzied purpose—to obliterate that vile little creature. The house groaned as I crept through it, the walls whispering secrets in the darkness. The back door creaked, a slow, tortured sound that echoed in the suffocating night.

Outside, the cold air bit into my skin. I slithered around the corner of the house, clutching the club like a weapon forged in the fires of my unraveling sanity. My bedroom window loomed, but the ledge was barren, vacant, mocking me with its emptiness. My eyes darted, frantic, scanning the gnarled branches of the ancient oak tree, but the bird had vanished—if it had ever been real at all.

I crouched behind the house, shadows cloaking me as I waited. Minutes bled into an hour, my mind unraveling with each passing second. The only sound was the relentless rasp of crickets, their song a grating symphony, a twisted lullaby. My grip on the club tightened until my knuckles blanched, the metal an extension of the madness coiling inside me.

Finally, I exhaled a ragged, tremulous breath, trying to convince myself I had driven it away. But beneath the brittle veneer of relief, a festering truth gnawed at the edges of my sanity: the true tormentor wasn’t the bird. It had never been.

My footsteps echoed down the hallway, each creak of the floorboards a sinister whisper. Darkness clung to the walls like a living thing, breathing, watching. I slipped back into my room, the door groaning slightly as I shut it behind me.

The image of my wife sprawled grotesquely on the bed haunted me, her face contorted into that eternal, sneering mask of disdain even in the fragile embrace of sleep. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, a shallow rasp of breath escaping like a pitiful whisper against the oppressive silence. It ignited something vile within me—an acidic, seething rage that gnawed at my sanity. The darkness seemed to writhe around her, shadows slithering like tendrils eager to choke her serenity.

Oh, how I ached to unleash the bird upon her—a shrieking, malevolent specter with talons sharp enough to shred through the thin veil of her dreams. I imagined its beady, soulless eyes reflecting her terror as it dove, its relentless cries a cacophony of madness, tearing through the stillness, clawing at the fragile walls of her peace. I wanted her to feel it—the jagged echo of my torment, an inescapable nightmare stitched into the seams of her restless mind, a darkness she could never outrun.

At 1:30 a.m., I crawled beneath the thin shroud of my blanket, pulling it tight to my chin, as if it could shield me from the encroaching madness. I shut my eyes, willing the darkness to swallow me whole. But then—chirp, chirp, chirp—sharp, shrill stabs shattered the fragile silence.

I clenched my jaw, my temples throbbing with rage and exhaustion. The thought of the pointless training meeting at 8 a.m. loomed over me like a specter. I needed sleep, but the chirping drilled into my skull, a predator gnawing on the frayed edges of my sanity. Desperation clawed at me. I yanked the blanket over my head tight enough to suffocate, but the sound seeped through, burrowing into the marrow of my bones.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

My mind snapped. I shot out of bed, trembling with fury. The bathroom mirror caught my reflection—wild eyes, hollow shadows, a stranger staring back. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, cramming it deep into my ears until my eardrums screamed in protest. Back in bed, the silence was an illusion. The chirping grew louder, monstrous, as if it had crawled inside my skull, nesting between my thoughts.

I lay there, eyes wide, staring into the suffocating darkness, trapped in a waking nightmare. The chirps became voices, whispers threading through the static of my mind—taunting, jeering. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t escape. The bird was never outside. It had always been inside. Inside me.

The Second Chirp, Chirp

After a soul-sucking, wretched day at the unemployment office and another descent into the abyss of the bar’s stale darkness, I stumbled home. The door creaked open like it was groaning at my return. There, splayed out on the dining room table like a corpse, was a note. From Margret.

She was gone. Left me.

I laughed—a jagged, brittle sound that echoed too loud in the suffocating silence. “The only decent thing that’s happened today,” I croaked, voice raw, and staggered toward the bedroom like a marionette with its strings cut. I ripped my clothes off like they were burning me, skin crawling underneath, and collapsed into the bed’s cold maw.

But sleep? Of course not. Just as my skull hit the pillow—

Chirp. Chirp. CHIRP.

The sound wasn’t natural. It wasn’t some innocent bird’s song. It was sharp, slicing through the walls, through my mind. My scream erupted, feral and serrated, clawing at the ceiling.

I lunged under the bed, yanking out the golf club like Excalibur from the stone, adrenaline crackling through me. Barefoot, in nothing but my tattered boxer shorts, I scrambled outside. The night air felt electric, buzzing against my skin like invisible insects. A shadow hunter, I crept to the corner, eyes darting. The window ledge? Empty. The gnarled old oak—branches like skeletal fingers—stretched toward me, but nothing perched, nothing visible.

Then I saw it. The golf club’s head gleamed under the sickly yellow streetlight, smeared with a crust I hadn’t noticed before.

Dried blood.

I touched it, trembling fingers brushing the dark stain, sticky and cracked. The metallic tang seeped into my nose as I mindlessly licked and rubbed it. Where did it come from? My heart galloped, slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. But my brain—it didn’t care. Too fried, too unraveling from thirty-six sleepless hours of madness.

I sank to the ground, cradling the bloodied club like a relic, eyes wide, pupils devouring my sanity as I waited. Waited for the chirping. For the thing. My tormentor. The darkness pressed in, breathing alongside me.

Nothing came.

Eventually, I dragged myself back inside, my fingers trembling and my heart pounding in erratic, nonsensical rhythms. The walls seemed to pulse, breathing with me—or against me. I collapsed onto the bed, letting the darkness seep into my skin, swallowing me whole like it had been waiting, hungry.

Just as I closed my eyes, chirp, chirp, chirp—an explosion in my skull, reverberating like a battle cry from some other dimension. My eyes snapped open. The window stared back with its glassy, hollow eyes, mocking me with its empty gaze. Chirp, chirp, chirp. The sound drilled into my brain, a grotesque metronome of madness.

A manic laugh erupted from my throat, raw and jagged, spiraling into the stale air. I laughed until tears carved rivers down my face, then laughter dissolved into ragged sobs, hiccupping with hysteria. My sanity peeled away, slivered off by the relentless, garish chirping of that infernal little black bird. I lay there, paralyzed, a marionette with cut strings, drowning in the noise.

At 6 a.m., I rolled out of bed, my skull throbbing like it was trying to escape. Sleep deprivation gnawed at the edges of my mind, warping reality into something unrecognizable. No shower, no shave—what did it matter? I threw on jeans and a blue golf shirt, the colors blurring, fabric feeling alien against my skin. Sandals with no socks because—why not? The rules didn’t apply anymore. I stumbled out, leaving pieces of myself behind.

Sleep. I needed sleep. The Comfort Inn Motel, three miles away, whispered promises of sanctuary. Surely, the little black bird couldn’t follow me there. Could it? The thought—absurd, delicious—made me giggle, sharp and brittle, echoing in my ears.

I got into my car, the steering wheel cold and unfamiliar under my white-knuckled grip. Roads melted into ribbons of nonsense as I drove straight to the Comfort Inn. The desk clerk’s eyes latched onto me like fishhooks, filled with something between pity and fear. I walked to the desk to check in, grinning too wide, my reflection a stranger in the glass behind her.

“My house is being painted, and I can’t stand the smell,” I said and handed the young lady my credit card and driver’s license. “Probably for just one night, but we’ll see.”

I acquired the room key to room 110, stopped by the vending machine and bought a Dr. Pepper. I drank it on the way to my room on the first level. When I got inside, I was pleased that there was no window. The little pissy black bird would have a hard time to chirp me with no window. I collapsed on the bed, fully clothed and immediately went to sleep, enjoying the sweet silence.

The Unraveling of my Mind

After a restless night, haunted by vague dreams I couldn’t remember upon waking, I went home. The garage had been a graveyard of forgotten junk, its single empty space always claimed by Margret’s beloved yellow Camaro. But Margret was gone.

I decided to reclaim the space. As I stepped outside, the morning felt too still, the air thick with an invisible weight. I cranked my Camry’s engine, its growl unsettling in the silence, and pressed the garage door opener.

The door groaned upward, revealing Margret’s yellow Camaro precisely where she always left it, gleaming defiantly. My breath caught. “How in the hell did she leave without taking her car?” I whispered, my voice foreign to my own ears. I slammed the garage door shut, the echo lingering like a threat.

Back inside, the house felt unfamiliar, shadows stretching too long in the corners. I moved towards Margret’s bedroom, compelled more by dread than curiosity. I hadn’t dared enter in weeks. The bed was flawlessly made, every wrinkle smoothed, the pillows perfectly aligned. An oppressive neatness blanketed the room.

I opened her closet. Her clothes hung with eerie precision, each garment spaced exactly two fingers apart. I checked the dresser drawers—undisturbed, every item in rigid formation. My heartbeat quickened. Why would she leave without taking anything? No sign of hurried departure, no chaos—just sterile order.

The coat closet was my last hope. I flung it open. Luggage sat untouched, gathering dust as if mocking my confusion. It didn’t make sense. It felt wrong, like the house itself was holding its breath.

Margret hadn’t left.

She had vanished.

Maybe her Camaro held some clues, so I returned to the garage. I opened the driver’s door and sat in the driver’s seat. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I got the same results when checking the glove compartment. As I was getting out of the car, I noticed some stains on the garage floor, just outside the driver’s door. It appeared to be some sort of spill that had been cleaned up. The faint smell of bleach still lingered on the cement. I looked under the edge of the car and spotted a red stain. I licked my fingers and rubbed the stain. It looked like dried blood. The mystery deepened, but I had other important things to accomplish this day and night. If I’m to survive and remain rational, I must rid myself of that tiny black bird who is chirping me to death.

I poured a water glass half full of bourbon and gulped it down. The amber liquid felt hot going down my throat. I knew it would solidify by courage to go to bed again. It calmed me, so I repeated the ritual with another glass of the amber liquid. I staggered to my bed. I will defy that little black bird tonight.

Chirp, Chirp Again

Chirp. Chirp. CHIRP. Piercing, relentless—each note carved into the fragile tissue of my sanity. Louder than yesterday, louder than ever. My skull throbbed with every cursed sound. I screamed, a raw, jagged rip through the stale air, and flung myself from the bed, barefoot on the cold, indifferent floor.

The kitchen was a tomb, its silence shattered only by the faint echo of my breath. I yanked open the fridge, the bulb flickering like a dying heartbeat. Milk. Thick, lukewarm, metallic on my tongue—but I drank, desperate to drown the noise echoing from inside my head.

And then I saw it—the shotgun, a silent sentinel by the back door. My fingers closed around the cold steel. Click-clack. One shell loaded, ready. I burst outside, darkness swallowing me whole. Around the corner, beneath the window ledge—nothing. Just shadows, mocking me. I sprinted to the oak, the ancient beast looming, gnarled branches clawing at the sky. I flicked on the spotlights—harsh beams slicing through the night.

But no bird. No black speck of feathers. Just emptiness.

I left the lights burning, their beams peeling back the darkness like rotten skin. Back inside, the bourbon waited, amber and indifferent. I cradled the glass, its warmth a poor substitute for clarity.

Then—headlights. Blazing, invading. My stomach clenched, a pit of rot. The car stopped. Silence swallowed the light. A pounding at the door, fierce, insistent. I didn’t move. The door rattled under angry fists.

“Rex! I know you’re in there! Open this door!” Hilda’s voice—sharp, grating, like rusted metal scraping bone.

I stood, the bourbon sloshing in my trembling grip. The door yawned open, darkness spilling inside, and there she was.

But something in her eyes wasn’t right.

“What in the hell do you want Hilda?”

She brushed by me into the house. “I want to talk to Margret. We haven’t talked in days, and I know something’s wrong. Is she here? What have you done to her?” she screeched.

“I told you that she left a couple of days ago. She didn’t tell me anything. Margret just left a note.”

“Show me the note,” she sneered.

“It’s where she left it on the kitchen table,” I said, knowing that my words were slurred.

“You drunken bastard, show me.”

I led her to the kitchen table. The note was where I left it, held down by the salt shaker.

She noticed the bright lights emanating from the spotlights from the kitchen window. “What are those lights for?”

“Hilda, this horrible little black bird has been keeping me awake at night with its chirping. I’m trying to shoot it so I can sleep.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. Her angry eyes twisted to fear when she spotted the shotgun by the door.

“What do you plan to do with that?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Blow that little black bird to hell,” I answered.

She took a deep breath. I noticed that her hands were shaking. “Is this the note?” she asked, pointing to the paper under the salt shaker.

“Yes Hilda, it is.”

She picked it up and read it. She regarded at me with terror filled eyes and looked at the note again.

“This is not Margret’s handwriting. You wrote this note. I would recognize your scrawling anywhere. What have you done to Margret?”

“Come on Hilda, Margret left me that note.” I was confused. I snatched the note from her hands and inspected it. A cold chill ran down my spine. It was my handwriting.

“What have I done?” I screamed. I hurled the note on the table.

Hilda walked toward the front door. “I’m calling the police. You need to be locked up.”

Something snapped in my mind. I can’t deal with the police right now. I’ve got a little black bird to kill.

I followed her out the front door. She stopped and held her hands in front of her face and screamed. I wondered why she was so scared. I looked down, and surprisingly the shotgun was in my hands. I don’t even remember picking it up. I don’t know how it got there.

The shotgun blast recoiled my arms. Hilda’s body was propelled backward as the pellets from the shell penetrated her body. What happened? I didn’t pull the trigger. I threw down the shotgun and ran to Hilda’s body. I checked her pulse. Hilda was stone cold dead.

My brain was doing summersaults into all the dark areas of my subconscious mind. I didn’t intend to kill her. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. I staggered back inside to the kitchen table and sat down.

After calming down a little, I made a pot of coffee and sat there drinking the hot black caffeine filled liquid. It spilled as I tried to drink it. My hands were trembling.

After three cups of coffee, my mind began to clear. Hilda is lying dead in my driveway. Because of the little black bird’s chirping, I had accidently killed her.     Hilda lived alone in an apartment in the South Park area of Charlotte. Odds are that no one knew that she was coming to my home looking for Margret. Hilda and Margret’s relatives live in Florence, SC, about a hundred miles away. So, if I clean up the blood on my driveway and get rid of the body, I can get past this. I kept telling myself, I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident.

My mind was finally clear. The shock of the situation, and the black coffee sobered me up. I had to devise a plan to get rid of her body.

Margret was paranoid about her Camaro. When the house was being remodeled, her beloved car had to be parked outside on the driveway. She purchased a car cover to protect it from the elements.

 I went to the garage and located the cover stored in the trunk of her car. I took it to Hilda’s body and spread it on the driveway. I picked up Hilda’s bloody cold body and laid it on the cover. I tucked the side under her and rolled up her body in the cover.

I looked outside to find something to weigh down the body. There was a small boulder in the front flower bed. I put it inside the cover next to her body and secured the cover around her with duct tape and a nylon cord. Hilda’s purse was on the passenger seat. I opened the trunk and placed her body inside. I pocketed her car keys.

My home was located about ten miles from Lake Wylie. A friend of mine and I had on occasion fished the lake. We always used a remote public boat ramp to launch his boat. I thought that would be a good place to dispose of the body.

I want back inside the house and took a hot shower to wash away the blood from my hands and arms. Dressing in fresh clothes, jeans and a sweatshirt, I put my blood-soaked clothes in a black plastic trash bag, later to be burned. I jammed some tools in a bag and donned a pair of latex gloves. I put on a sweatshirt with a hood.

I had another cup of coffee and then left my residence. The radio in Hilda’s BMW was turned to an oldies station. I can’t stop wanting you, it’s useless to say. So, I’ll just live my life in dreams of yesterday. Elvis’ melodic voice brought forth memories. Tears filled my eyes. That was Margret’s favorite song when we were dating. At that time, we were madly in love. Somehow that glorious love turned to malicious hate over the years.

I drove down Interstate 77 and turned on highway 160. I turned off at the Buster Boyd boat ramp. At this time of night, it was totally deserted. I backed up to the boat ramp and hauled Hilda’s body out of the trunk. I dragged the body to the end of the pier, which was beside the boat ramp. Then I unceremoniously shoved it off the end of the pier and watched it sink into the dark murky water. The boulder should hold her body down until the car cover begins to deteriorate. Then the crabs, and other creepy crawler things will pick the bones.

“Bye, bye Hilda,” I whispered as I walked back to her BMW and drove away.

Now I had to get rid of her car.

The grocery store, three miles from my suffocating little home, loomed under flickering lights like a stage set for madness. The lot was skeletal, shadows stretching like long, accusatory fingers. I parked at the back, the darkness swallowing me whole. My bag of tools waited, silent and complicit. The screwdriver felt cold, eager, as I pried the license plate from Hilda’s car, each twist and turn whispering secrets only the metal could hear.

I gutted the glove compartment, its contents spilling like entrails into her purse. Empty console. Hollow like her absent gaze. My eyes darted, hunting. A red Chevy pickup sat nearby, oblivious, breathing softly under the dim glow. I slithered behind it, my heart drumming an unhinged rhythm. Off came its tag, replaced with the pristine BMW plate. The Chevy’s tag, like a mismatched puzzle piece, clung awkwardly to Hilda’s car.

I left the keys dangling in the BMW’s ignition, door ajar—a blatant invitation scrawled in silence. A gift for any vulture circling the night. A ghost car, waiting to be stolen, claimed by shadows, dismembered in alleys far from Hilda’s name.

Her purse nestled inside my tool bag, like a relic from a life I no longer recognized.

The three-mile walk home felt like a descent into the marrow of the earth. Hood pulled tight, I skulked along the road, adrenaline clawing at my veins, painting the night with paranoia. Every rustle, every whisper of wind was a phantom breathing down my neck.

Home. Safe? No.

The shovel welcomed me like an old friend. Under the indifferent gaze of the old oak tree outside my bedroom window, I dug—a grave for memories stitched into leather and fabric. As I carved the earth, I noticed disturbed soil nearby, a scar on the land’s skin, but I ignored it. Ignored the pulse beneath the ground.

Lights off. Shadows my sanctuary. Inside, walls closed in, whispering, screaming. But I was alone.

Wasn’t I?

The shot of adrenalin ran out, and I collapsed, exhausted on the couch. After laying there for about an hour, I got up and went back to the kitchen. Something Hilda said was haunting me. I picked up the note from the kitchen table and studied the handwriting again. Unquestionably, I wrote the note. Why can’t I remember writing it? Why did I write it? What happened to Margret? Did she just leave without saying anything?

These thoughts rambled around in my mind as I read the note over and over again. “I don’t remember grabbing the shotgun. I don’t remember deciding to shoot Hilda,” I whispered aloud. “Am I losing my mind?” I beat on the table with my fists and sobbed.

The Other Man

Suddenly, an eerie stillness crept over me, like an invisible force slithering into my skin, wearing me like a mask. My veins felt hollow, filled with ice instead of blood. I decided to numb the creeping dread with bourbon, its burn doing little to chase away the shiver nesting deep inside.

After a scalding shower that felt like it was peeling away layers of sanity, I collapsed into bed. The room pulsed with shadows, but I whispered, “This is just a bump in the road,” though it tasted like a lie rolling off my tongue. My eyelids fluttered shut, desperate for escape.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. CHIRP.

The sound wasn’t natural anymore—it was jagged, like shards of glass scraping against my eardrums. My eyes snapped open. My heart clenched. Perched on my windowsill, not one but two little black demons disguised as birds, their beady glass eyes drilling holes into my soul. Their chirping—no, screaming—vibrated through the glass, through my skull.

I lunged, fists pounding the window, but they didn’t flinch. They only stared, their expressions mocking, their heads tilting in unnatural, twitching jerks.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

The sound felt like it was inside my head now, echoing in endless loops. My trembling hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles white, breath ragged. Their eyes—voids of endless, merciless black—never blinked, never wavered.

I wasn’t sure if I was trying to scare them away—or if they were already inside, watching me from behind my own reflection.

          I jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen and grabbed the shotgun. I pumped a shell into the chamber, sprinted out the door and around the corner. I blasted the window ledge with two shots. Wood splintered and glass shattered. I ran to the ledge screaming, “I got you this time, you devils.” I searched the area carefully but found no sign of feathers or parts of little black bird bodies. In my crazed mind, I figured that I had blasted them to hell without any trace. The laugh that came from my mouth sounded more like a cackle from a maniac.

I briefly thought, “who is this other man in my body?” I went back inside and to my bedroom to assess the damage. The bedroom window was completely destroyed. Shattered glass and splintered wood covered my bed. There would be no sleeping in that bed tonight.

          I laid the shotgun on the bed. I quickly decided what I was going to do. I packed a suitcase with shaving and personal items, clean underwear, sleeping pills and a switch blade knife. That other person in my body packed the knife, not me.

          I opened my dresser drawer where I kept my underwear. Under the underwear was an envelope. Inside was $4,000. It took me over a year to accumulate that mad money without Margret knowing. I crammed the envelop in my pocket and left the house. I drove my Camry back to the same motel where I stayed two nights ago.

          The lobby was empty and completely silent when I entered at 3:30 am. I rang to bell on the front desk. I waited but got no reply. I rang the bell again and yelled, “is anyone here?”

          A sleepy eyed older black-haired lady came from the back. She was rubbing her eyes as she approached the desk. “I’m very sorry Sir, we don’t usually get customers at this time of the morning.”

          “No problem,” I said. “Sorry to bother you but I had a water pipe break in my house, and I have an early business appointment. I just need a room for the night.” The other man in my body smartly came up with that excuse. I handed her my driver’s license and a credit card. She checked me in and give me a room card for room 230. I took my bag and walked up the stairs to the room. Once inside, I carefully undressed making sure I didn’t wrinkle my clothing and hung them up. I got into the warm bed and immediately went to sleep.

          I opened my eyes the next day and looked at the clock by the bed. It read 1 p.m. I had soundly slept for about nine hours. I felt like a new man. I showered, shaved, dressed and looked in the mirror. I let the other man in my body take over since he was so self-assured. I decided to go back home to recapture my domicile.

          The clerk looked quizzically at me as I was leaving. “Are you alright sir?” she asked. The other man grabbed the switch blade from his pocket and stabbed her in the throat. Blood spurted as she fell dead to the floor. Another customer who was standing nearby screamed and ran. The other man cackled. I was shocked at his manic behavior.

          The other man thought that the only appropriate thing to do was to go home and bury the murder weapons, the shotgun, the golf club and the knife. When we arrived at my home, we grabbed the weapons and a shovel and went back to the old oak tree outside of my bedroom window. We began digging a hole.

The Body

About one foot down, the shovel hit something. I took control of my body from the other man and threw the shovel aside, dropped my hands and knees and began throwing dirt aside with my hands. The first thing I uncovered was Margret’s decaying face. I shrieked at the top of my lungs as her devil dead eyes stared at me through plastic wrap. They were the eyes of the little black bird that I had seen many times.

The memories of the incident flooded my mine. I remember about a week ago. I was soundly sleeping when I heard noise coming from another room in the house. My mind was still a little groggy from too much bourbon the night before. The first thing that entered my mind was that an intruder was in the house. I grabbed my nine iron from under the bed and ventured out. I quietly walked to the noise. In the dark kitchen, I saw the shadow of a figure standing in front of the fridge. The intruder had something in his hand. I sneaked up behind him and swung the nine iron at his head. It connected with a sickening thud. The person fell to the floor. I ran over and turned on the light.

I stared in horror at Margret’s body, lying there with a piece of chicken in her lifeless hand. Apparently, my monster wife had come to the kitchen for a late-night snack.

I panicked and for a moment picked up the phone to call 911. Then I guess for the first time the other man in my head took over. He wrapped plastic wrap around her head to keep anymore blood from soiling the floor. The other man carried her body to the outside and dumped her beside the bedroom window. He grabbed the shovel from the garage and buried Margret beside the window in front of the old oak tree. He cleaned the kitchen floor with bleach, burned the bleach and blood-soaked towels outside in a metal garbage barrel. After cleaning up, he went back to bed. The other man hid the memory of that night fromme until now.

During the next couple of days after Margret’s death, I heard her voice nagging me. I guess the voices were just echoes in my deteriorating mind.

The other man was in total control now. The sight of Margret’s dead body drove me away from my failing mind. He threw the knife and the golf club on top of her body and shoveled the dirt back into her shallow grave. He kept the shotgun in his dirty hands.

The whaling sounds of sirens filled the air. The police were called when the clerk’s dead body was found, and the witness identified the killer.

The other man knew that the police would soon arrive. He moved the kitchen table and chairs to the back door. That should do for a makeshift barricade. He moved the living room couch to barricade the front door. The final act of the other man was to grab the shotgun, break out a windowpane in the living room and wait for the police to arrive. He planned to kill as many of them as possible.

Suddenly, without any warning, the other man left me. I was there alone to suffer the consequences of his maniac actions and murders.

“Come back,” I shouted. “Don’t leave me here alone. I don’t know what to do.” He remained absent. I raised my cowardly hands when confronted by the police. They handcuffed me and searched the house. Outside I heard a policeman yell, “There’s a body here in a shallow grave.”

Within days a judge declared me insane. and they put me in a padded cell. My first day there was serene, and I was happy to be in a quiet place.

The Insane Asylum

The next day two burly men came into my padded cell. They brought a plate of food with them. I was allowed to eat meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans and apple pie. Twice a day for the next two days, I was allowed to eat. I remained within myself, and the men became more comfortable. The little black birds and the other man didn’t bother me, and I slept like a baby. I was beginning to feel normal again. Maybe my ordeal was over.

          I lost account of what day it was but the next day, I think was Wednesday, I was strapped to a wheelchair and wheeled to a van. I was strapped to the seat, and the wheelchair was loaded in the back of the van. We drove for a couple of hours. Although I asked several times where are we going, the driver and the second man in the van remained silent and refused to answer me.

          There was a window beside my seat. Soon we made a turn. I clearly saw a sign that read Cherry Hill Hospital. Having lived in North Carolina most of my life, I was aware of Cherry Hill Hospital. This hospital housed the Criminally Insane. Apparently, a judge had ruled that I was too crazy to be tried for murder. At least the other man hadn’t put me on death row.

           Maybe this was a good thing. I could sleep well, get three meals a day and maybe get psychiatric help. Who knows, I may be released one day. The other man hadn’t come out in days, and I didn’t feel him inside me. A feeling of euphoria came over me. This was the first calm feeling I had experienced since Margret’s accidental killing. A smile came over my face. I actually laughed.

          We drove to an entrance. The men strapped me in the wheelchair and pushed me inside. I remained on my best behavior. Smiling and speaking to everyone who passed me.

          The two men filled out some paperwork and left. A man and woman dressed in white clothing approached me. They pushed me down a long isle and onto an elevator. We went down a few floors, and they pushed me out into an empty hall. Several doors lined the long hall. The lady nurse unlocked the second door, and they pushed me inside.

          “Be calm,” the man said as he unstrapped my hands and feet. They took the wheelchair and left. I heard the click of a lock when they closed the door. There was a small door at the top of the entrance.

          “Mr. Blanchard,” the lady said. “As long as you stay calm everything will be okay. You are in solitary confinement until we can assess that it’s safe to have you in the general population. You will be fed three times a day. The food will be slid inside the panel at the bottom of the door. You can place your empty tray in the same location when you’re finished.”

          Then there was silence. I looked around the room. There was a padded toilet in the right corner. A padded cot was connected to the wall. Several books were lying beside the cot. I looked at four white padded walls. At the top of the far wall, about fifteen feet above the floor, was a small, barred window. At lease I could get some sunlight during the day. I felt safe for the first time in days.

          I walked over, sat on the cot and picked up a book. It was a paperback version of the great novel, The Spirit Survives by Gary William Ramsey. I smiled again.

          I searched deep inside myself. I knew that other man had vanished forever.

“I will get better and get out of here,’ I said aloud. “I’ll be a model patient and be trouble to no one.” I was satisfied that I could accomplish that.

          At about 6 pm, I think, a plastic tray was slid in the slot at the bottom of the door. A ham and cheese sandwich, cup of pinto beans, biscuit, a banana, and chips were on the tray. A plastic spoon was the only utensil provided. A carton of milk was my beverage.

          I was very happy with my meal and promised myself I would never complain about anything. After dinner, I followed instructions and placed the empty tray and items by the slot. I laid down on the cot and began reading.

The Last Chirps

After an hour, shadows bled through the small window, staining the walls with a sinister hue. My bones ached with exhaustion, but sleep felt like an intruder I barely welcomed. Today was supposed to be the dawn of my recovery, a fragile whisper of a new life. I inhaled sharply, the air thick and metallic, and forced my eyes shut.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

My eyes snapped open, pupils dilated against the encroaching blackness. Perched like ominous sentinels on the ledge were three little black birds, their beady eyes glinting with unnatural intelligence.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

A scream erupted from my throat, raw and jagged, shredding the silence into ribbons. My fists found my temples, pounding rhythmically, desperate to drown out the cacophony inside my skull.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Sanity slipped through my fingers like wet glass, slicing me with shards of forgotten horrors. The birds remained, their soulless gaze piercing through the fragile veil of my mind.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

They weren’t just birds. No. They were vessels—cursed messengers carrying the echoes of the damned. Each chirp was a dagger, each note a scream from the abyss.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Blood mixed with tears as I laughed, a sound grotesquely twined with sobs, spiraling into a madness from which there was no return. The walls pulsed, breathing with me, mocking me.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Gary William Ramsey 2026

Image Source: Angin Harutyunyan from Unsplash.com