Spring Horror Collection: “The Bluebird”
Welcome to the first story of the Spring Horror Collection for 2022, where Haunted MTL’s writers craft original tales of terror with the fresh scent of grass. Check with us all week for new stories.
For more original stories, check out Haunted MTL’s Original Creations.
A wistful note from out the sky,
“Pure, pure, pure,” in plaintive tone,
As if the wand’rer were alone,
And hardly knew to sing or cry.“The Bluebird” by John Burroughs
One of the benefits of living outside of town was when the winter thawed, and spring arrived, Johnny Francis figured, was the freedom to take his pellet gun out into the woods along the small highway that led into town.
Twelve now and full of vigor, Johnny wanted to make the most of his gun-time. He dashed off the property along the dirt road that led to the highway. He would spend his Sunday taking in some target practice. There was a war on, after all.
When Johnny arrived at his clearing, just over a small gully along the road, he looked over what he had for targets. Most of his bottles seemed to have shattered, and a particularly ugly thaw left many of his wooden targets rotted and damp.
Johnny was about to give up on the whole exercise until he heard chirping. He glanced into the trees around him and saw a nest. In the nest sat a fat bluebird.
He shrugged and took a shot. The pellet ripped the bird apart.
With little left to do, Johnny made his way home. Today had been a bust.
The next day Johnny was thankful to walk to school without his heavy boots and winter coat. Trudging through the snow was always a pain, and the reprieve of mere mud was welcome. On the way to school, Johnny was sure to give the edge of the woods by the road a large berth. Last spring, a hunter accidentally shot his friend, leaving him with a limp.
Idiot.
The sound of chirping drifted into his ears as he walked. He glanced around and noticed no sign of a bird.
A prick of guilt forced its way into his brain for a second, and he recalled the sight of the bird as it exploded from his shot.
The walk home from town was somewhat chilly today. Chillier it had been for Spring.
Johnny had been menaced by the sight of a bluebird all week. Everywhere he turned, he would catch a glimpse of it. It didn’t matter where… the school lawn… above the drug store… even outside his window.
When it wasn’t seen, it was heard. Chirping everywhere and constant.
Again, chirping now. The sound grew louder and more intense as Johnny walked, even as he picked up his pace along the side of the highway.
A blue shape dove at his face with a sudden jolt, flapping at him. Johnny threw his arms in front of him, trying to swat it away but not making contact. The chirping was frantic, and soon Johnny darted into the woods, swatting away the bird that menaced him. He crossed the treeline and found himself in his gully.
Within moments, the chirping was silenced by a loud crack in the air. Johnny fell to the ground with a searing pain tearing through his neck, leaving him unable to scream. As he rolled over in a warm puddle of mud, blood, and leaves, he made out a deer darting off as he heard the cries of a man.
The last thing he saw before his eyes seemed to go dark was a tiny bluebird flittering off into the branches.
The smaller creature lay in the clearing, not moving beyond ragged breathing. Blood boiled out from a wound in the neck. The more giant creature, with the strange grey stick, seemed to paw at the smaller one, trying to keep the blood in.
The air was thick with fear, and its scent wafted through the clearing and into the trees.
The bluebird sat on the branch, observing the situation.
When the life had finally left the lungs of the smaller creature, the bluebird felt content and vanished in a puff of air.
Like I said before, I’m really getting into the spirit of the season this year. So reconsidering The Mourners yet again, and haunting the faith a bit, I decided to share a poem that I wrote thinking about All Hallows Eve as a preview of more things to come this month of October.
On Becoming Hallowed
Holy. Holy. Holy. Light the candle. Chant the hymn.
For now the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
Fingers held to lips in silence; lies beneath their skin.
Family found, ancestral ghosts return to haunt their kin.
Skeletons in closets, grotesque yearnings trapped within.
A bleached and bony face flashes a slightly knowing grin.
It’s not the shadows but the darkness that we fear therein.
Bless this Church whose saintly bodies live and dwell herein.
Unto Death, they claim to sanctify our souls from sin.
Those familiar faces shame; this fight we cannot win.
Come what may, they betray. Pray/prey and heads will spin.
Forevermore and evermore to nevermore… Amen.
I thought this poem really captured All Hallows Eve, in some of the same sentiments as the movie High Spirits, which I loved almost as much as Beetlejuice back in the day.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
So I’ve decided to revisit some of my bereaved Gothic celebrity drawings and resurrect The Mourners, since we’re in the thick of spooky season… And I’m not talking pumpkin spice, though it is nice. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe it’s the despairing existential angst, but lately I’ve been feeling a bit haunted so I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane with you by posting a bunch of art here. So without further ado…
I wanted to focus on more of the details of the sculptures this time. The craftsmanship of these works still astounds me. When royalty commissioned such works, the artists may have devoted much of their lives to realizing these pieces to fruition. They were very time involved processes.
Here are some more details of hands and clothing that I found interesting. Remember that these sculptures are less than 12 inches tall for the whole of the human form. So they are very intricate for their size.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
The gorse bush seemed taken aback. It bristled and exclaimed, “A bush!”
“I am so very sorry, my Lord, I can explain,” the goblin cleric bowed in reverence, eyes glued to the ground. Everything about his body language was submissive and nervous.
“Of all the useless… How is it that I got reincarnated as a bush?!” The shrubbery prickled, growing more and more agitated. “I should have come back as a great King, or an Angel, or a Demon, or a dragon, or something even grander… Hell, I’d have settled for returning as the undead Lich King Tyrant Boss-Man you all came to know and love and revere. But no, that wasn’t in the dice. And now here I am, A Bush!” The spiky leaves trembled and rustled as they spoke, both emphasizing and decrying their verdant stature.
“Well, we were in a rush to revive you, after that run in with the goody-two-shoes 20th level adventurers and the awkward retreat,” the goblin knelt before the bramble-vine. “All of our best clerics, necromancers, and acolytes were tapped for spells or had perished in the great battle. Those of us who got out of the caves were lucky to escape with our lives and make it to this little clearing on the mountainside. And we desperately needed your guidance. We still do…”
“That doesn’t explain why I’m a bush now,” the gorse stretched to its full height, about two-and-a-half feet of thorny rage. “And a Gorse Bush at that! Before too long I’ll have a stand of satyrs piping along with a centaur drum circle, all strumming up some fertility ritual at my feet… er, roots…”
“Well, I’m multi-disciplinary you know.” The goblin spell-caster muttered and meekly shifted to his other foot, bracing for the inevitable, “Sometimes I get the cleric and druid magics confused a little.”
“Confused a little?” the bush growled, “Confused A Little?!” The bush’s rage turned to magic as it burst into flames. “I’m A BUSH!!! That’s not just some modest little cleric-druid spell translation issue!”
The goblin shrunk from the blaze, “But my Lord, you are a mighty bush. The greatest bush, really terrific… The gorsiest, bushiest bush in all of shrub-dom… Other bushes? Losers! We all agree, your Lordship.” The trembling goblin horde in the scrubland shadows at the edge of the small clearing nodded emphatically in response, fearing their bushy leader’s wrath. And rightfully so…
A tongue of flame erupted like a lightning bolt from the gorse and zapped the goblin cleric-druid where he stood, leaving nothing but a smattering of ashes drifting towards the ground. The flame erupted through the goblin horde in a huge explosion that engulfed everything in its wake, leaving a circle of scorched earth covered in a fine layer of sooty ash, smelling a bit like cordite.
The bush sighed and took note of its surroundings, sulking. It waited for some would-be adventurer to wander up the mountainside to find it there, where they could revel in its awkward awesomeness. Seasons came and went, and time seemed to stand still for nigh eternity as the gorse bush seethed beneath its crown of thorny brambles. Perhaps it should have convinced the goblin cleric to transplant it to a more trafficked location first.
If you enjoyed that bit of snarky fantasy, check out Ppppffffttt my previous Poised Potion Poison Potential story.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
Jennifer Weigel
March 20, 2022 at 2:05 pm
Love the imagery. Conjures up images of Iris from last spring… When I was growing up, maybe in middle school, we read a short story about a boy growing up in Africa who would shoot a rifle into the open air every morning just because he could. One day, off in the distance, he could make out the form of a deer twisted and writhing in pain as it was devoured by ants, wondering why it didn’t bound away until he realized that one of its legs had been shattered by a stray shot from a rifle (probably his own). That story has stuck with me to this day. This has that same kind of presence.
J.M. Faulkner
March 20, 2022 at 5:45 pm
Jesus… no wonder it stuck with you!
David Davis
March 21, 2022 at 11:42 pm
That’s a very sad story, but very good. Do you recall the title?
J.M. Faulkner
March 20, 2022 at 4:19 pm
Nice. Maybe I’m reading into it too much, but is there an anti-war message in there? It made me think of Metallica’s One and Johnny Got his Gun–not that I’ve read anything other than the Wikipedia page for the book!
David Davis
March 22, 2022 at 12:26 am
I imagined this set in the 1950s or so, so I saw the Korean War in my head.
Nicole
March 21, 2022 at 9:58 am
I swear I could smell the air in this. Had a slight copper scent.
David Davis
March 22, 2022 at 12:26 am
I appreciate that.