First came the birds, then the man. No one could see them but me, for a full minute or two, every night before I fell asleep.
The pale man never did anything but grin from a few feet away, promising unimaginable horrors from behind the wall of wings. The birds, black as his hair, blurred as they circled him in an endless orb. The sounds of wings flapping and beaks snapping haunted my every hour.
I tried sleeping at a friend’s, in hotels, outside in broad daylight. Nothing helped. I spent thousands of dollars looking for a cure. Finally I found Maria.
“Birds. Heralds of dark things.” She shuddered and offered a cup of crushed gemstones and herbs. “This will hurt but they will be banished.”
The concoction burned like pop rocks and settled behind my sternum, sharp as glass.
That night I drifted off, waiting for the beating of wings, for beaks too close for comfort. Nothing. For the first time for as long as I could remember, peace filled the grey drowsiness between waking and sleep.
A breeze pricked my cheeks and I opened my eyes.
The pale man leaned over my bed, birds nowhere in sight. His hands floated through empty space, closing the gap between us. Before I could scream, fingers like white snakes wrapped around my neck.