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Rated: E · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #2170968
The bird saw it all
Cuckoo for Clocks


"Cuckoo, I see you," the feathered yellow bird bellowed from the hall

Alex turned his head towards the clock on the wall. He was instantly filled with the same hatred for the ornate box on the wall as the day they had purchased it. He had told Betty the clock was an eyesore. He had argued that it wouldn't take long before she called it a dust catcher, but the woman had insisted. Ten years later, the price tag that swiveled in the wind created by the vents in hall still mocked him. Like Minnie Pearl and her hat, Betty had left the tag on for all to see. It was her way of trying to impress her guests, with their house left looking more like a department store than a home.

"Cuckoo, I see what you did!"

Alex ran down the hall with the mallet conveniently still in his hand. He meant to savagely attack the mouthy canary but it retreated to its haven of wood. He stood waiting for it to return, staring defiantly at the clock. The clock fell silent with the bird remaining safely behind the wooden doors. His malice was only for the bird, the bird that taunted him. He could easily smash the whole clock but it was the bird that had witnessed his deeds, one downy yellow fuzz buzzard that could give his secrets away.

Alex whistled to lure the bird from his perch. The acorn weights fell striking him on the foot but the bird remained quiet. With his anger growing he cursed at the clock and retreated down the hall to retrieve a screw driver. His thought was to pry the bird from behind the doors and strangle the chick as it chirped. He tripped on the large piece of rolled carpet in the hall. Quickly rising in his panic, he raced to grab the tool he needed. He could hear the echo of the bird's cry as he ran.

"Peek-a-boo, the cuckoo sees you."

Alex returned to the clock with his tools to pry open the door, his mind raging with thoughts of killing the bird. There could be no witnesses to his crime. He could hear the bird's voice in his head. It echoed and chirped just like the clock, Betty had so loved.

As he approached the clock, the cuckoo flew out from behind the doors. "I'm not the cuckoo, Alex!" the little feathered hen sang. He retreated to his perch of safety.

Alex now enraged, clawed at the little wooden doors. He stabbed the screwdriver into the wood with all of his might. They did not budge under the weight. The bird tweeted endlessly in his head. It was the song of a whippoorwill, cheery and happy, like a child with a secret to tell. He grabbed his mallet pounding on the shingled roof. The little house withstood the storm.

Alex screamed a psychotic scream of disbelief. He tried desperately to convince himself that the voice of the bird wasn't real.

"Birds don't talk, Birds don't talk. He didn't see anything. He couldn't know," Alex repeated over and over.

In the middle of Alex's tormented rant, the bird popped out of his house.

"She's in the rug, safe as a bug," he chirped

"Aargh" the man wailed at the yellow tormentor as he pounded the clock with his fists repeatedly.

"Alex is not an Eagle scout. Betty's blood is leaking out."
Alex turned his head to see the traces of dark liquid oozing from the edges of the rolled carpet. The rug's price tag swung in a circular motion. His attention was now divided between the bird and the carpet.

"No trace left behind! No witnesses!" the man cried with the heart wrenching sobs of mental breakdown.

Alex wilted down next to the carpet that held his wife's remains. He hugged the tapestry encasing the bloody corpse, like a Raggedy Ann doll that offered comfort.

He whimpered at the rug apologizing for his temper. "Betty, I'm so sorry. I love the new rug. It wasn't too much to spend. I should have been nicer about it," he bawled wet tears in his remorse.

The bird popped out in random fashion to remind the man of his hysteria. "Cuckoo," it sang.

© Copyright 2018 L.A. Grawitch (lgrawitch at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2170968