#evil pet

She would chuck things at us constantly whenever we did something wrong. Running through the house? Incoming shoe. Arguing with my older brother? We both got a lump from wax fruit. If we sang while walking the halls she’d throw a candle at us and tell us to be quiet. Mom said it was old age or dementia. Dad said her attic light was always out. 

And holy fucking hell, there was never anything good to eat. She was a vegetarian which meant no hamburgers, no hot dogs, no steaks, no anything that was actually delicious. Just nasty vegetables and bruised bananas. Man, she was bananas. She never left the house for any reason. And since she was insufferable with us, I can only imagine how much of a shrieking banshee she was to strangers. And they never had to put up with her like we did, cause you know, family. 

Every month she got a new grocery delivery person. According to mom, she used to get a new one every year. But I guess kids nowadays know better than to put up with abusive shit. It was little wonder each and every one of them would quit after their first check cleared. The biggest thing was her parrot. 

She hated that parrot, or loved it; I could never really figure out which. If we got too close to the cage she would scream and yell at us in so high a pitch that I couldn’t understand her. I bumped the cage once and she dragged me out of the house and told me to never touch it again or I would die. But she always kept the cage covered with a thick cloth. So no one could hear it. So no one could look at it. Didn’t make sense.

If she liked it why did she hide it? 

I got a peek at it once when she fed it, grumbling while she did so. Green with a red beak. She would scold that bird for doing nothing. And then turn around and ask it to be a good bird today. Bizarre. 

Then she’d promptly yell at me to go away if I knew what was good for me. One time I was singing ‘Sweet Caroline’. I liked singing it because it’s my name. Grandma wasn’t anywhere in sight so i didn’t see the harm in it. It was then that I heard the bird sing back. It was singing the song to me. What a pretty voice, I thought. It was such a shame that grandma was constantly telling it to shut up if it tried to sing or speak. Would it be so bad to lift the cloth and look at it? We could sing together. The bird had to be bored out of it’s skull. “Where it began,” I sang quietly as I lifted the cloth to peek inside.

The bird shifted and bobbed its head, whistling at me. It was a plain looking bird. Green or a greenish yellow. A black line traveled around its neck. Its nose was a reddish pink. It bobbed again before speaking. “Hello. Hello. What’s your name?” it asked. “Caroline,” I whispered. “What’s your name?” “Hello. Hello. Caroline,” he repeated. “Asura likes you.” Just then, my grandmother screamed, making me jump out of my skin and nearly fall over. She grabbed me by my hair and pulled me into yard. I yelled for my mom who came running to help but not before my grandmother bellowed at me some more. “Don’t talk to it! Never talk to the bird! Never! Stupid girl!” she shrieked. “Get out!” That was the last time we visited my grandmother’s house while she was still alive. Dad said never again. She pulled out some of my hair that day and fractured my arm. Mom decided she would visit alone, once a month, for a year. Then once every three months. Then once a year. And then my grandmother died. Fell down the stairs. There was a funeral. Closed casket. I could count the number of attendees, not including my family, on one hand. And afterwards we went to her house to empty it so it could be sold. When I went into the parlor I could see the cage was still there, covered in it’s tell-tale cloth. She didn’t leave the bird to anyone in her will. The lawyer said we could do whatever we wanted with it. While my parents directed the movers I approached the cage. Grandma couldn’t stop me from looking at it any more. I lifted the cloth completely off and the bird inside shook its feathers, shifted its weight, then looked at me curiously. “Hello. Hello!” it squawked. “Sweet Caroline, good times never seemed so good,” it sang. I remember thinking, holy crap. It remembered me. I told it that it was a good bird, and it flapped it’s wings and happily chirped more. 

How could she cover up the poor thing?

It shuffled over to the edge of the cage near my hand. Birds liked cuddles right? Neck scratches? But the cage had a lock on it. So I poked my finger inside through the bars and its red beak nudged my finger. I smiled just before it bit the tip, drawing blood. “Ouch,” I winced, pulling it out with shock. “Sweet Caroline,” it chirped. “Hungry. More please.” It was creepy but at least it was polite, I supposed. I decided to walk around and see if I could find anything for it. Food or something. 

I went through desk drawers. No instructions or books on bird care. No fruit in the fridge, in fact the only thing in there was a container of stewed beef chucks. Raw and bloody. I grimaced at the sight and put it back inside. The freezer was stocked up with similar containers, the contents evenly divided amongst them. “Caroline!” I heard someone scream and my heart nearly stopped. 

Good god, it sounded like my grandmother! I peered around the corner at the parrot. It ruffled its feathers and stared. It looked different then. Bigger? No, something about the eyes. Larger pupils. Or maybe it was the color. I was having second thoughts about taking it home. It would be better off at a pet shop or something. 

I went into another room and heard another voice. “Don’t leave me!” it yelled, in my own voice. “Please!” Confusion spread over my face as I reentered the room. It had to be the parrot. What else could do that? It proceeded to say hello a couple of times and then whistle. I hid behind the wall and listened carefully again. Silence. The parrot began whistling Sweet Caroline. Then there were footsteps. Someone tripped, uttered an exclamation, and glass shattered. My mom moaned in pain. 

I panicked and turned the corner, to find the sounds were true this time. My mom was on the ground bleeding and crying. Worried, I asked what happened. “I was just trying to take the bird to the pet shop,” she cried. Blood was pooling under her body. “Since no one wants to keep it…” She began to cough up blood, spraying it all over my skirt. I tried to lift her but sharp pieces of glass stabbed from her into me. My mom sputtered and cried and eventually grew slack in my arms. I didn’t understand. 

How could this happen? “What are you doing?” someone asked and I looked up. 

My mom. I looked around at the ground, confused and frightened. My arms were empty. No blood. No glass. No dying mother. The bird squawked in the other room and flapped its wings. 

I stood up, shaken but said nothing since I had no clue what happened. “Now what to do with that thing…” my mom sighed, looking at the cage. “Your grandfather bought it when he visited India for Gram. So she’d have a companion when he left for trips.” I remembered the story. He died a few month afterwards on one of his trips. Accident. My mom was just a baby then. The bird began singing Sweet Caroline again. “Maybe I should take it to the nearest pet shop?” she mused. “No!” I yelled, a little too loud and a little too quickly. “Don’t touch it. I’ll take it.” “Okay…” Mom quirked her brow. “I’ve got more boxes to get.” I watched her walk away, past the antique mirror and down the hall. My breath caught in my throat as the bird proceeded to laugh the most terrifying, sinister laugh I’ve heard in my life. It chilled my entire body down to my toes. The hair on my neck stood up, something I thought only happened in movies. Turning to face the creature did little to reassure me. It stopped laughing but now there was definitely a strange, eerie gleam in its eyes. I approached it quickly and recovered it with the dark cloth. It made some more noises under the fabric but they were hardly understandable. 

What was I supposed to do with it? I thought maybe I could take it to a pet shop. But then it might make something bad happen to me, since it seemed to know what people were going to do before they did. And it seemed able to cause misfortune to those who possessed it. Even if I could get rid of it...would I be able to live with myself, giving that THING to someone else to torment? I mean, look what it did to my grandmother. I wouldn’t be surprised if it somehow tricked her into falling down the stairs. If she could have killed it she probably would have, which means...

It can’t be killed. Only given away. Or passed down.

For however long it lived... “Sweet Caroline,” it sang underneath the cloth. I shivered just thinking about what other frightening revelations were in for me. It flapped again and I swear on everything I know, it sounded huge. Like it was far bigger than the pigeon sized creature I saw earlier that day. Smoke leaked out from the bottom as it hissed and laughed again. A deep and throaty laugh, reminiscent of an old demonic god. When I blinked my eyes the cage was normal again and my mother was telling me it was time to go. “Hungry, hungry,” the bird peeped under the cloth. “Warm it up, please.” “Better feed it before we leave, it’s a long drive,” Mom sighed. “Where do you think she kept the bird’s food?” I think I already knew, looking at my bloodied finger. And if it needed to be warmed up...I swallowed nervously, eyeing the fridge and remembering what I found inside.