Ed Marks woke from another dream about his wife.
 
In this one she’d been standing right in front of him, wearing a white gown that rippled in a breeze he couldn’t feel. In her arms she held a baby too small and raw-looking to be alive. Ed was so grateful to see her again and in the dream he wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner. He reached for her hand until a voice stopped him. You can’t touch her.
 
For a few moments Ed lay there wiping at the corners of his eyes,hanging onto the dream and the last remnants of sleep, and praying both would return.
 
It was spring, finally warm enough to sleep with the windows open. They let in some cool night air, a bit of gray light from streetlamps and neighbors’ porches, and the sharp, piercing sound of a bird’s cry.
 
Not birdsong, or the busy chatter of robins and wrens greeting one another just before sunrise. This was more like a question. Two notes, the second higher, repeated twice, as though asking, “Who’s there? Who’s there?” Then four identical chirps and a fifth that rose again, demanding an answer. “No no no no one?”
 
A pause, then the whole thing began all over again.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there? No no no no  one?”
 
It broke through the night like a child’s cry. Ed glanced at the beside clock. 3:38.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” the bird wanted to know. “No no no no one?”
 
He turned toward the empty side of the bed trying to block out the bird and the clamor of his own damned thoughts. He got up and closed the window, but the sound leaked through the glass. A pillow over his head only made him feel as though he were suffocating.
 
The house felt empty and too big around him. He and Ellen had planned on filling it with kids, two or three, maybe more. It was situated in a quiet neighborhood that bordered on a little woods perfect for hiking and picnics; a place where the children could play when they got old enough not to worry about every moment of the day.
 
Ed tried to fall back asleep. He turned on the white noise machine he’d bought for nights just like this. He used a breathing technique he’d read about online. He even repeated the mantra a well-meaning co-worker had suggested after he returned to the office.
 
And he thought of the saying, the horribly cynical one, about how our plans make God laugh.
 
The clock crawled on to four and four-thirty. The bird continued its late-night inquiries without pause or response. At some point the sun broke over the horizon. For a moment everything grew still. Ed drifted back to sleep. Then the alarm rang.
 

# # #

 
That morning Ed saw his neighbor as they both walked to their cars. Chris was the father of three lively boys, with the perpetual look of someone both grateful for and exhausted by his good fortune.
 
They waved. Chris crossed his yard to ask how Ed was doing these days.
 
“Great,” Ed told him. “Good. You know. Okay.” He changed the subject. “Hey, did you hear that bird last night? What a racket.”
 
Chris smiled and looked around. “Yeah? Where?”
 
“In the woods, I think.” Ed gestured at the trees beyond their block. “You didn’t hear it? All night long.”
 
Chris’s face darkened and he shook his head. “Yeah, no. Sharon says I sleep like a rock. And snore like a buzz saw. She probably couldn’t hear it either.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta run. But really, come over for that beer. Okay?”
 
Ed watched him get into his car and back out of the drive. From inside the woods a flock of birds rose up as though suddenly startled by something, making a black whirlpool in the sky.
 

# # #

 
That night he turned on the bedroom TV and flipped through the channels until he found a nature documentary on one of the science channels. He set the timer for two hours and settled into his pillow, letting the narrator’s somber voice lull him to sleep. For a few moments the bed seemed to drift on a gentle wave. He closed his eyes. Then he was awake again, in the dark.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?”
 
Ed groaned and looked at the clock. 3:47. “No no no no one?” For a moment he considered getting up and closing the bedroom window, then remembered it already was.
 
The bird’s cry went on like an unanswered phone, a constant knocking at the door, a car alarm that would not stop. For a while, Ed wondered if it might not be a bird at all, but something else, some other kind of animal. Maybe something that didn’t belong here. Something lost and alone, in some type of despair or agony.
 
The longer it went on, the more things Ed heard in its cries. “Who’s there?” became “What now?” and then “Why me?” “No no no no one?” changed its shape until he heard “You you you you  too?” and finally “Now now now now what?”
 
Ed groaned and threw back the blankets. He opened the window and stared in the direction of the woods.
 
No question. It was definitely coming from somewhere in there. It was spring, after all. The damned thing was probably a male, driven by instinct and the recent change of seasons, announcing himself, claiming his territory, calling for a female to join him. When one finally did they’d engage in whatever mating ritual nature called for, then build a nest and lay some eggs—two or three, maybe more. Then they’d hatch and the offspring would grow until they were big enough to leave the nest. Next spring they’d return, starting the whole thing all over again, more and more each year, until the woods rang with their cries like a city filled with sirens.
 
No. Maybe Chris and Sharon could sleep through this now, but none of them would pass a night in peace if a family—or god forbid a whole flock of the things—made the woods their home.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” the bird called out. Ed pictured him, high in his tree, puffed up and squawking at the top of his goddamn little lungs.
 
“No way. No way,” Ed shook his head at the darkness outside and the woods beyond. “No no way in hell.”
 

# # #

 
He didn’t own a real gun. Just the Daisy air rifle his father had given him as a child to take on their hunting trips. It was good for squirrels and smaller rabbits, which his father would coax into the open with sounds created by his voice and hands. Ed never quite got the knack of the calls, but he turned out to be a pretty good shot for a kid. He’d planned on giving the rifle to his own son or daughter some day.
 
It was buried deep in the basement, past boxes packed with the things a married couple collects over eight or nine years. Stuff he hadn’t planned on going through for some time yet, and wasn’t prepared to deal with now.
 
The baby things they’d bought when Ellen got pregnant were already gone. He’d gotten rid of those right away. But there was still plenty of stuff from before. Their first set of dishes, saved in old newspapers for the weekend place they promised to buy. A box of autographed books and souvenirs from one of Ellen’s jobs at a local talk show. Holiday decorations that he hadn’t even bothered to open last Christmas. And photos. So many photos. He couldn’t bear to look at them or stop himself from it. He felt like there was a hole inside him, one so large it managed to both fill him up and hollow him out.
 
The box of pellets was further back. As soon as he found it he turned around and left the mess behind him, then climbed the stairs and shut the door.
 
The rifle was smaller than he remembered, but would do the job. With luck it’d kill the damned thing. At the very least it’d give the bird a good kick in the ass and chase it off for good.
 
He loaded the rifle just before sunset, then grabbed a garbage bag full of empty beer cans and went out to the edge of the woods. After all those years the gun still worked, and after a few shots his aim sharpened right up.
 
He headed back to the house, the rifle propped against one shoulder. It occurred to him he hadn’t been back there since Ellen had left her note. “In the woods for a walk,” it said. “Love you.”
 
The walks became a regular thing after she started showing. The pregnancy made her legs ache, and walking eased the pain. On bad days she’d go in the morning and afternoon. She loved seeing the leaves change and had discovered a talent for spotting birds on their way south for the winter. She’d come home, breathless over a group of waxwings or starlings she’d seen, the occasional merlin or owl.
 
The last time was just like every other time, until the sun started going down and she still hadn’t returned or called. At first he waited, busying himself and trying not worry. Then he did worry and dialed her cell phone only to hear it ringing in the bedroom upstairs. He stood at the living room window, sure he’d see her coming up the walk, her cheeks flushed from the chill and excitement over some new species. He waited a few more minutes as the light left the autumn sky. Then he threw on a jacket and left the house.
 
None of the neighbors he passed along the way had seen her. Darkness was falling by the time he reached the woods.
 
He ran into the trees, calling out for her, sure she’d answer and he could begin feeling silly about panicking over nothing. Ha ha, there you are, let’s go home and get some dinner. But he only found dark and quiet.
 
He covered the length of her favorite trail, winded from the effort and shouting her name. Dread wrapped itself around his chest. He moved onto the smaller paths, scanning the woods for a spot of color, anything vaguely Ellen-shaped, while cursing himself for not bringing a flashlight.
 
When he finally found her she was slumped against a tree trunk, on one of the little paths near the entrance. He said her name and ran faster when she didn’t respond.
 
Even in the dark he could tell her color wasn’t right. She was pale, seeming to glow in the gloom. When he knelt down to touch her face, it was cooler than it should have been.
 
Her hands rested in her lap, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wore one of her funny little crocheted hats and the only jacket she owned that still fit. She looked as though she’d grown tired and sat down against the tree for a nap, then slipped past it and into death.
 
He said, “Ellen, Ellen,” and “No, no, please, please, no,” and finally just animal-like cries that tore their way out of his throat and disappeared into the treetops.
 
He left her just long enough to find the nearest house with lights on and tell them to call 911, then rushed back and held her until police and the ambulance arrived.
 
The paramedics did all the things he’d seen on TV. By the time they loaded her into the ambulance a dozen or so people from the neighborhood had gathered to see what all the lights and sirens were about. They watched while Ed asked all the paramedics and every cop what had happened, how it could have happened. An officer with the last name of Campbell finally led him away and walked him home. He repeated condolences and recommendations that Ed call someone to come be with him. He promised the coroner would contact him in a day or two, as soon as he knew something more.
 

# # #

 
Ed leaned the air rifle against his front door and placed a flashlight with fresh batteries next to it. He turned on the TV but didn’t really watch it. After a few hours he shut everything down, then crawled into bed with his clothes still on.
 
Insomnia kept him company through the night, reminding him of things he and Ellen had done together, times they’d made love, unforgivable things he’d said during fights, mistakes that were past all hope of ever undoing. There were pills in the bathroom he could take, ones his doctor had promised would “dull the edge,” a phrase that always made Ed think of a knife held to his throat. They left him feeling slow and stupid the next morning, and did nothing for the sharp pain between his heart and gut.
 
He spent the dark hours listening through the open window, past his neighbors’ sleeping houses, over street lamps and asphalt roads and into the woods. He waited for the call of what he’d come to think of as the night crier.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?”
 
Ed hurried downstairs. He grabbed the rifle and flashlight and went outside.
 
The night air felt like ice water against his skin. He headed toward the woods, stopping every few yards to listen, adjusting his course each time the bird cried out. He marveled at the darkened houses around him, at the way so many others could sleep through this, their husbands and wives beside them, their children safe in the next room.
 
He crossed the street, stopping at the treeline. It was colder here. Darker, too. It smelled of moist earth and things that were alive, waiting to emerge.
 
He listened for the night crier’s call.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” he asked from the edge of the woods.
 
No answer. He tried again, pitching his voice like a man searching for a lost pet. Still nothing.
 
He snapped on the flashlight and swept it over the trees, which stood like a crowd with their backs to him.
 
Ed made his way between the trunks, his footsteps crackling over last autumn’s dead twigs and fallen leaves. He wondered if the night crier was close by, watching and knowing who he was and what he had in mind.
 
“Who’s there?” he called, scanning the black lace of branches above him. “Who’s there?”
 

# # #

 
When the coroner finally called, Ed had to ask how the term was spelled, so he could write it down and look it up.
 
The man on the phone said Ellen has passed away due to a pulmonary embolism. A blood clot—quite massive, he remarked with some clinical fascination—had formed in one of the veins in her leg. Something, it was impossible to say exactly what, had jarred it loose, sending it on its way to her lungs and cutting off her oxygen. It was rare, he said, but not unheard of in pregnant women.
 
A few seconds passed while Ed processed the information. “How?” was all he could say.
 
The coroner exhaled. “With some women, the baby...” He stopped and began again. “In certain pregnancies, the fetus. During gestation. Compresses the left iliac vein. That causes blood to back up, potentiating the clot. It can remain there, where it sometimes causes pain. It can also dislodge and move into the lungs. As it did in the case of your wife. I’m sorry.”
 
“She complained about her legs,” Ed told him. “That’s why she walked. She said it made them feel better.”
 
“Yes, well. These things can come on suddenly. Even with treatment, it’s a serious condition.” The coroner shuffled some papers, ones that Ed imagined said treatment had not been an option. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
 

# # #

 
Ed called for the night crier.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” he asked. No no no no one, apparently. Nothing. He wondered what he’d expected to find. Something with brilliant plumage? Perched at eye level like a product on a shelf? In truth, the bird was probably some dun-colored thing, tough to spot during the day, perfectly camouflaged against the grays and blacks of the woods at night.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” he called. He waited for an answer or sound. Anything he could follow. Scurrying below. Fluttering above.
 
“Who’s there? Who’s there?” he asked again, no longer expecting a reply.
 
Breeze stirred the branches overhead. Then the night went silent. Ed cast the flashlight’s beam around the empty woods.
 
“You, you, you and me.”
 
Something in him coiled. It was not a bird’s call this time, but a voice. Coming from above and behind him.
 
Ed spun, aiming the rifle with one hand and the flashlight with the other. The beam danced across the treetops.
 
“Who’s there?” Now he sounded like a man with an intruder in his home. His finger curled around the trigger.
 
Something rustled above him. Ed swung the rifle and flashlight toward it.
 
“You, you, you and me.” A woman’s voice. Soft, but resonant, like a violin note that stirs something deep within the chest.
 
At first he saw only branches that had not yet burst into leaves. Then a face dipped into view. A woman’s face.
 
He forgot the rifle, letting out a breath of fascination that plumed in the cool air like a mushroom.
 
“You you you and me,” she said. Her mouth was open but still. Instead her throat worked up and down as she spoke. Her head turned, regarding him with one curious eye and then the other. “You you you you and me,” she repeated, and seemed to smile.
 
He blinked, once, twice, willing himself to wake up, sure he must be dreaming again. He stepped back, hoping the tangle of a blanket and sheet around his legs would rouse him from sleep. Instead his heel caught a fallen branch and he fell backward.
 
The flashlight went wild. The rifle clattered away. Before he could right himself the night crier had descended from the trees, landing at his feet. She shook and stretched herself, and performed a series of dainty steps, first to the left and then the right.
 
She was unlike anything he’d ever seen or could have dreamed of, something both more and less than human. A covering of light down sprouted from the tops of her feet and continued up to her shoulders. Her arms hovered behind her, thrusting her chest forward so that it presented two small but perfectly formed breasts. Neat rows of pin feathers layered the space between her legs. Ed could not take his eyes away, and felt himself stiffen at the sight of her.
 
“You and me,” she cooed, tilting her head, appraising him. “You you you and me.”
 
He scrambled blindly for the rifle’s stock. He crab-walked away, hoping to gain enough space to stand and fight, or turn and run. But her movements were quick, and too closely matched to his.
 
 His hand slipped on the muddy ground and landed him flat on his back. The night crier drew closer, dropping her head toward his. Then her lips parted. She opened her mouth and something inside Ed, some long-unmet animal need, demanded that he do the same.
 
In the flashlight’s glow Ed saw a tongue too pointed to be human, and rows of tiny thorn-like teeth around it, made for grasping things and holding them.
 
Her jaws stretched, opening wider. They did not bite, but latched over his mouth and nose like a mask. Her tongue emerged, probing more deeply than he would have thought possible, finding and following the contours of his throat. She seemed to be filling him up and emptying him out at the same time. The breath in his lungs rushed out of him and flowed into her.
 
As the stars above began to fade, Ed realized his mistake.
 
It hadn’t been a mating call he’d heard these past few nights and followed into the woods.
 
Not mating at all, but hunting.
 
As a boy he’d watched in wonder as his father lured animals from their hiding places. Not just squirrels and rabbits, but fox and raccoon, too. Waterfowl of all kinds. Great elk and deer. “Lonely males,” his father said, shaking his head after the kill, “are always looking for a mate.”
 
He struggled the way all doomed things do. Darkness descended around him, like the mouth of a black bag closing over his head. The last thing he saw were the night crier’s eyes, looking into his own with a predator’s cool gaze and an angel’s warm embrace.
 
Ed let himself go, and be taken.
 
Where, he didn’t know. But he hoped that when he arrived he would no longer be alone.
 
At some point the sun broke over the horizon and for a moment everything grew still.
 
When he was finally gone, the night crier was, too.
 
 
© C. Michael Cook 2017
 
This story was originally published in The Horror Library, Volume 6, 2017.