Chapter 3: Blood, Feathers, and Family Blame

The wardrobe door swung open. Amid Thunderbird’s piercing screech, the old, battered wardrobe finally collapsed.

The door slammed against the wall, sending the whole structure shuddering. I flinched, blinded by a sudden flash of light as the mirror finished falling to pieces. Thunderbird let out a scream that rattled the windows, an awful sound like metal scraping stone. A sharp splinter bit into my arm, but I barely felt it through the adrenaline.

I darted behind the large water jug next to the wardrobe, shivering with fear.

The jug was a leftover from Grandpa’s days—an old ceramic thing that barely saw use except in summer. I squeezed behind it, trying to make myself as small as possible, hoping the shadows would hide me.

Luckily, the water jug was in the corner, with a dead end behind me. Thunderbird slowly wandered off in another direction.

It shuffled, claws dragging across the linoleum, the lamp swinging in its talons and casting wild shadows on the faded wallpaper. My heart pounded so hard I was sure it could hear me.

But soon, a faint light flared up in the room.

Thunderbird, imitating humans, had turned on the lamp. It carried the lamp and walked toward me, stopping right in front of the water jug.

The warm yellow light flooded the room, chasing away the shadows and making everything feel even more exposed. The bird’s shadow loomed, huge and misshapen, over the chipped dresser and faded quilt.

My heart pounded in my throat. I clenched my teeth, forcing myself not to cry out.

I could feel my fingers digging into my palms, nails leaving little half-moons in my skin. I stared straight ahead, praying the thing would turn away.

The air grew eerily still.

Time stretched, every tick of the old wall clock echoing like thunder. The only movement was the bird’s chest, rising and falling, feathers glinting in the lamplight.

I looked up and locked eyes with a pair of ghostly green pupils.

For a split second, I felt frozen by those eyes, a fear so deep it felt like drowning.

Thunderbird’s long neck curled around the water jug, its cone-shaped head looming over me. When it saw the terror in my eyes, it let out a strange, rattling cry.

The sound was like a rusty gate swinging open on a stormy night. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing it would all just disappear.

As if mocking my helplessness, it lunged at me the next second.

Its beak shot forward, and I jerked backward, pressing myself against the wall, scrambling for anything I could use.

I shrieked in terror and, with all my strength, shoved the water jug over.

The jug tumbled, smashing into the floor with a bone-jarring crash. Cold water sloshed everywhere, soaking my pajamas and the Thunderbird’s feet.

Crash! Water gushed out, soaking Thunderbird. The bird shrieked, feathers puffing out as steam rose off its back, and it staggered like it’d been scalded. It screeched, thrashing wildly, flapping its wings in a frenzy to shake off the water.

The smell of wet feathers filled the air. The bird’s wings beat against the walls, knocking loose an old photograph from the dresser. I huddled in the corner, clutching a broken chair leg.

Suddenly, I realized—it was afraid of water! Elated, I grabbed a shard of broken plate, scooped up some water, and splashed it at the bird.

With each splash, the Thunderbird shrieked, stumbling backward, wings flapping so hard the curtains blew off their rod. A wild hope bloomed in my chest.

It wailed again, its hoarse cry trailing off as it bolted from the room.

Feathers scattered in its wake, the whole house shaking as it barreled down the hallway. My hands trembled with relief.

By the time Grandma returned with several uncles and cousins, I’d spent the last of my strength. Weakly, I called out, “Grandma...” and collapsed.

The world blurred at the edges. I saw boots stomping in the puddle, someone yelling my name, then everything faded out.

Poor Grandma, over seventy years old, hobbled over and hugged me. She felt my forehead and realized I was burning with fever, probably from fright.

She cradled me like she used to when I was little, rocking me back and forth, whispering prayers and promises that everything would be okay. Her hands shook as she brushed damp hair off my face.

She burst into tears, ignoring the mess, clinging to Uncle Randy’s pant leg, pleading:

“Please, Randy, my Ryan must be scared out of his wits. We have to take him to the hospital right away—please, help us get him there!”

Her voice cracked, desperation pouring out with every word. The room smelled of spilt water and fear, the cold seeping through the broken window.

The white-haired uncles and cousins, shovels and rakes on their backs, looked around. Not seeing any sign of Thunderbird, they all breathed a secret sigh of relief.

They swapped uneasy glances, the kind you see after a bad storm passes and you’re not sure if it’ll circle back.

But when Grandma mentioned traveling to town at night, no one said a word.

The hush was heavy. Someone coughed. The ticking clock marked time while the family waited for someone to be brave enough to go first.

Uncle Randy, whose pants Grandma was clutching, looked troubled. He was the wealthiest in Maple Heights and always cared about his reputation, so he didn’t refuse outright.

He shifted his weight, lips pressed tight, glancing at the other men. Even in his plaid pajamas, he looked like he was about to negotiate a deal at the feed store.

He sighed and tried to reason with Grandma:

“Aunt Carol, it’s not that we’re unwilling. It’s over twelve miles to the county hospital. We’re not young anymore. If we carry Ryan at night and Thunderbird comes after us, we won’t be able to protect ourselves.”

His voice was soft but firm, the way he talked when turning down a request for a loan. He looked at the floor, not meeting Grandma’s eyes.

As soon as he finished, the other uncles chimed in, making excuses and suggesting it would be better to wait for the morning bus.

One uncle mumbled about coyotes, another about the dangers of the backroads at night. Somebody mentioned the Greyhound that passed through at sunrise, and how much safer it’d be to wait.

Grandma knew everyone was afraid. She’d told me before that folks had been disappearing in recent years, probably taken by Thunderbird.

Her mouth set in a hard line. Her gaze swept the room, daring anyone to argue. The family’s long history with loss hung over us like fog.

Suddenly, she squatted down, hoisted me onto her back, and staggered toward the door.

Her determination was fierce. She grabbed the old denim jacket from the hook by the door and flung it over her shoulders, bracing herself for the cold.

The uncles and cousins rushed to stop her, shocked.

They called her name, trying to reason with her, but Grandma just shook them off. She clung to me like a life preserver in a flood.

Grandma gritted her teeth, furious. “Get out of my way! He’s my own grandson. If you folks won’t help, I’ll haul him to town myself, even if it kills me.”

Her voice echoed off the walls, trembling with emotion. I could hear the pain and fear mixed with love—like a mother bear ready to fight off anything for her cub.

Uncle Randy quickly took me off her back.

He did it gently, arms steady, making sure not to hurt me. His face was pale, but his voice was calm.

“Aunt Carol, how about this—let’s take Ryan to my house. I got fever medicine, and there’s a pond behind my place. Thunderbird won’t dare come near. When it’s light, we’ll take the bus to town, all right?”

He tried to sound reassuring, but I could see the worry lines deepening around his mouth. The pond out back was big enough to keep the worst things away—or so everyone hoped.

Grandma had barely taken a few steps before she was out of breath. Now she could only purse her lips and nod.

She looked defeated, her shoulders slumped. But she never let go of my hand.

But as soon as we entered Uncle Randy’s house, we were startled by his wife.

The living room was dark except for the TV, blue light flickering over the worn recliners. The smell of burnt popcorn hung in the air, and Aunt Marsha stood blocking the hallway, arms crossed, hair wild from sleep.

Aunt Marsha flatly refused to let us in. She stood with her hands on her hips, pointing at Grandma. “You drew Thunderbird’s attention, and now you bring him to my house? You’re crazier than a coon on a trampoline if you think I’m letting that thing into my house!”

Her voice was sharp as a whip, echoing through the house. I shrank behind Grandma, wishing I could disappear into the wallpaper.

Uncle Randy hurried to explain, “It’s because Thunderbird holds grudges. Ryan splashed it with water, so it’ll come for him. We can’t just abandon Ryan—he’s our nephew.”

He tried to sound reasonable, but even he was glancing at the windows, as if expecting the bird to peer inside at any second.

But Aunt Marsha wouldn’t budge, blocking the door.

She planted her feet, daring anyone to try her patience. Her jaw set in that way that meant she wouldn’t be swayed by logic or tears.

Grandma touched my burning forehead, panicked, and knelt before Aunt Marsha.

She dropped to her knees, hands clasped, her pride forgotten. I’d never seen Grandma beg before—not even when Grandpa got sick.

“Marsha, please. Please. I know you’re hurting. But he’s just a kid—let him in.”

Her voice was so soft it was almost lost beneath the hum of the fridge, but it hit harder than any shout.

Grandma pleaded as she knelt to the floor.

Her knees creaked, the linoleum cold and hard. I reached out for her, but she just shook her head and pressed on.

I felt miserable, my eyes reddening as I began to cry.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve, embarrassed, but the tears kept coming. The whole room felt too small, too crowded with old grief.

The uncles and cousins were shocked, all scolding Aunt Marsha for being heartless.

Voices rose, overlapping in the cramped entryway. Even the cousins, who never spoke up, muttered angry words.

Uncle Randy finally lost patience. He shoved Aunt Marsha aside and pulled Grandma inside.

He did it with a single, rough motion, his voice shaking with frustration. The rest of the family shuffled in behind us, filling the tiny foyer with the smell of wet boots and nervous sweat.

Aunt Marsha scrambled up to block the uncle holding me, but Uncle Randy glared and grabbed a broom.

He waved it like he meant business, daring her to make a move. It was the first time I’d ever seen him stand up to her like that.

“Marsha, don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”

His voice was low, dangerous. Aunt Marsha stared at him, eyes wide with hurt and anger.

Aunt Marsha’s face turned crimson. She slammed the door with a bang, making me flinch.

The walls rattled, and a picture of their wedding toppled off its nail, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. No one moved to pick it up.

After a night of chaos, Grandma finally got me to take fever medicine. I was so feverish that I was half-delirious.

The cherry medicine burned my throat, but Grandma’s cool hand on my forehead was the only thing keeping me tethered. I drifted in and out, voices fading in and out like a broken radio.

Vaguely, I heard her say I had to get better soon, and that at dawn she’d take me to town on the bus.

She tucked me in on the pull-out couch, whispering stories about the bus rides she took as a girl, promising everything would be fine once we made it to town.

Half-conscious, I felt myself being carried on someone’s back again.

The motion was gentle but unfamiliar. I blinked in the darkness, trying to make sense of where I was.

I mumbled, “Grandma, is it dawn yet?”

My voice was scratchy, tongue thick. I felt the cool night air against my cheek.

But it was Aunt Marsha’s voice ahead: “If you wait for dawn, it’ll be too late.”

Her words sent a jolt through me, waking me up fast. The night felt darker, more dangerous.

I opened my eyes in shock, suddenly wide awake.

Above me, the stars wheeled in the sky, and the tall grass rustled all around. I realized we were far from the house, deep in the fields.

I saw Aunt Marsha carrying me, hurrying through the wild fields.

Her hair was wild, her face pinched with fear or anger. I clung to her shoulders, torn between relief and terror.