Chapter 2: Hide and Seek with Shadows

I scrambled away in a panic, half crawling, half running, and crashed into Grandma’s room. The door creaked loudly, splitting the silence of the night.

My knees hit the faded linoleum, palms scraping against the doorway. I barely noticed the moth-eaten afghan tossed on the floor or the old needlepoint cardinal above Grandma’s bed—I was too busy gasping for air, glancing over my shoulder for that monstrous bird.

“Grandma... the rooster... it’s as tall as you...” I gestured wildly, words tumbling out of my mouth.

For a split second, Grandma’s eyes widened, her mouth parting like she might scold me for telling tall tales. But then she saw my face, and all the skepticism vanished. She dropped her well-worn Bible and sat up, eyes sharp as a hawk.

She pulled me into her arms, hugging me tight, her face turning grim. Her arms were warm and strong, smelling of lavender and wood smoke. She pressed my head to her shoulder, voice dropping low and urgent, like she was telling a secret meant only for me.

“Oh no, that’s a Thunderbird spirit. It can imitate people and loves the flesh of children. It’s probably got its eye on you now.”

She said it with the certainty of someone who’d lived through every backwoods legend—and believed most of them. Her words sent a cold shiver down my spine. This wasn’t just a backyard animal; it was something out of our worst family stories.

Sensing me trembling, Grandma quickly switched off the lamp, stuffed me under the comforter, and whispered, “Thunderbird can’t see well at night, but its hearing’s sharp. Hide on the bed and don’t make a sound. I’ll go out and lure it away.”

She moved fast—lights out, comforter over my head, tucking me in tight, as if she could hold the world back with just her hands. I could barely make out her outline as she slipped on her house slippers and snatched her flashlight from the dresser.

She slipped out quietly. I curled up under the thick quilt, hugging myself, eyes squeezed shut, barely daring to breathe.

Every sound felt magnified—the creak of a floorboard, the whir of the box fan rattling in the window, blowing stale, humid air that couldn’t quite mask the earthy tang of fear. The world outside felt enormous and wild.

That Thunderbird—the eerie glow of its feathers, those emerald green eyes, the long, sharp beak, and the way it spoke—kept replaying in my mind.

Even with the quilt pressed tight over my head, I could see those green eyes in the dark, hear the numbers in its gravelly voice, feel its presence just beyond the thin walls. I wanted to call for Grandma, but all I could do was clutch the scratchy pillow and pray.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. My legs went numb and the silence pressed in close. Finally, I wanted to poke my head out for some air.

It felt like hours. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and the room seemed to shrink around me. I finally worked up the courage to peek out, letting in the cool moonlit air, hoping—just hoping—it had all been a nightmare.

By the moonlight, I saw a massive, cone-shaped shadow pressed against the windowpane. My breath caught in my throat. Then, footsteps thudded closer outside the door.

The glass rattled as something heavy leaned against it, and I froze, not even blinking. Every horror movie I’d ever sneaked at a sleepover flashed through my mind.

There was a knock—thump, thump—and goosebumps prickled across my skin.

The knocks were heavy, deliberate, like the sheriff’s knock when there was bad news. My stomach churned as the sound echoed through the room.

The next moment, I heard Grandma’s anxious voice: “Ryan, open the door, quickly!”

Her voice was breathless, desperate, just like when the tornado sirens went off last summer.

Tears streamed down my face. I threw off the quilt, jumped off the bed, and rushed over.

My feet hit the cold floor, and I nearly slipped in my haste. All I could think was: Grandma’s here, I’m safe. I flung myself toward the door, sobbing out her name.

Grandma was back.

Her shadow filled the crack beneath the door, and I reached for the handle, my hands trembling.

But I stopped in my tracks.

A chill swept over me. Something in the pit of my stomach told me to wait—to be sure. The way she knocked, the urgency... it just didn’t feel right.

If it was really Grandma, wouldn’t she just come in herself?

I hesitated, remembering how Grandma always sang my name when she called me, never just shouted it. This voice was off, stretched too thin, like a tape played at the wrong speed.

Remembering that Thunderbird could mimic human voices, I stood frozen in the pitch-dark room, fear rooting me to the spot.

Every scary story Grandma ever told me came rushing back, all the warnings about never opening the door to strangers—or anything that might not really be who it said it was.

The knocking grew more urgent. With a bang, the door was pushed open. Moonlight spilled in, and the cone-shaped shadow stretched across the threshold. A long neck snaked into the room, probing, as a hoarse voice rasped:

“Ryan...”

The voice was scratchy, stretched too thin to be real. My knees buckled. I clung to the side of the bed, heart thundering in my chest.

I held my breath, not daring to move. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping if I didn’t move, it wouldn’t see me—like playing possum on the highway when headlights come barreling down.

By the faint light from the window, I saw Thunderbird’s neck swaying side to side, its two claws groping forward, almost like a person feeling their way.

It moved with an eerie grace, like it had all the time in the world. The claws scraped the hardwood, and I shrank back, wishing I could disappear.

It knocked over a chair, then came closer. If it got past the table, it would soon reach me.

The chair crashed to the floor, the sound making my ears ring. The bird’s head whipped around, beak snapping at empty air.

In a panic, I yanked off a sock and hurled it out the door. Thud—the sock landed in the muddy yard.

My hands shook so badly I barely managed to fling the sock, praying it would be enough to distract the thing.

Thunderbird paused, flapped its wings, and hurried outside.

Feathers brushed against the peeling paint, and I watched as its hulking shape disappeared, chasing after the sock like a dog after a thrown ball.

Seizing the chance, I dashed to the wardrobe. It was an old-fashioned piece, with a mirror on the upper left door, a big red heart sticker pasted on it, and the right door reaching all the way to the floor. Not very big, but just enough for me to squeeze in.

The wardrobe always smelled faintly of cedar and mothballs. I wedged myself behind the coats and pressed my cheek to the cool wood, praying I’d vanish into the shadows.

Thunderbird soon returned, clearly realizing it had been tricked.

It stomped around the room, feathers ruffling with rage. Every crash and bang made my teeth chatter.

It snorted, then began rampaging around the room.

The walls shook as it threw its weight into everything. The bird was massive—every time it hit something, dust drifted down from the ceiling.

Wherever it went, I heard things crashing and breaking—Grandma’s water pitcher, the potted geranium she’d grown by the window.

The crash of ceramic, the flutter of soil spilling across the floor, filled the silence with dread. I pictured Grandma’s favorite red geranium petals scattered like blood drops on the linoleum.

Soon, it came to the wardrobe and pounded on it. Crack—the mirror shattered instantly.

Splinters rained down, glinting in the moonlight. I covered my head, praying none would cut through to me.

Discovering there was space behind the mirror, it stomped excitedly.

Its heavy feet shook the wardrobe. I bit my lip, tasting blood, terrified it would break through.

I held my breath, chest heaving, cold sweat trickling down my neck.

The world outside the wardrobe shrank to muffled crashes and the faint, sickly scent of feathers. I tried to count my heartbeats to keep from passing out.

Soon, a claw reached for the right wardrobe door.

The handle rattled. The darkness inside the wardrobe seemed to pulse with every second, waiting for the worst.