Josh Malerman - Bird Box

“Nobody’s ashamed to act like this,” Shannon says, her eyes on her shoes. “That’s how weird it’s gotten.”

When they pull into Stokely’s Drugs, Shannon is holding her hand up to shield her eyes. Malorie notices, then looks across the parking lot. Others are doing the same.

“What are you worried about seeing?” she asks.

“Nobody knows that answer yet.”

Malorie has seen the drugstore’s big yellow sign a thousand times. But it has never looked so uninviting.

Let’s go buy your first pregnancy test , she thinks, getting out of the car. The sisters cross the lot.

“They’re by the medicine , I think,” Shannon whispers, opening the store’s front door, still covering her eyes.

“Shannon, stop it.”

Malorie leads the way to the family planning aisle. There is First Response, Clearblue Easy, New Choice, and six other brands.

“There’s so many of them,” Shannon says, taking one from the shelf. “Doesn’t anyone use condoms anymore?”

“Which one do I get?”

Shannon shrugs. “This one looks as good as any.”

A man farther down the aisle opens a box of bandages. He holds one up to his eye.

The sisters bring the test to the counter. Andrew, who is Shannon’s age and once asked her on a date, is working. Malorie wants this moment to be over with.

“Wow,” Andrew says, scanning the small box.

“Shut up, Andrew,” Shannon says. “It’s for our dog.”

“You guys have a dog now?”

“Yes,” Shannon says, taking the bag he’s put it in. “And she’s very popular in our neighborhood.”

The drive home is torturous for Malorie. The plastic bag between their seats suggests her life has already changed.

“Look,” Shannon says, pointing out the car window with the same hand she’s been using to hide her eyes.

The sisters come to a stop sign slowly. Outside the corner house they see a woman on a small ladder, nailing a comforter over the home’s bay window.

“When we get back I’m doing the same thing,” Shannon says.

“Shannon.”

Their street, usually crowded with the neighborhood kids, is empty. No blue, stickered tricycle. No Wiffle ball bats.

Once inside, Malorie heads to the bathroom and Shannon immediately turns on the television.

“I think all you gotta do is pee on it, Malorie!” Shannon calls.

Inside the bathroom, Malorie can hear the news.

By the time Shannon arrives at the bathroom door, Malorie is already staring at the pink strip, shaking her head.

“Oh boy,” Shannon says.

“I’ve got to call Mom and Dad,” Malorie says. A part of her is already steeling herself, knowing that, despite being single, she is going to have this baby.

“You need to call Henry Martin,” Shannon says.

Malorie looks to her sister quickly. All day she’s known Henry Martin will not play a big part in the raising of this child. In a way, she’s already accepted this. Shannon walks with her to the living room, where boxes of unpacked objects clutter the space in front of the television. On the screen is a funeral procession. CNN anchormen are discussing it. Shannon steps to the television and lowers the volume. Malorie sits on the couch and calls Henry Martin from her cell phone.

He does not answer. So she texts him.

Important stuff. Call me when you can .

Suddenly Shannon springs up from the couch and hollers.

“Did you see that, Malorie? An incident in Michigan! I think they said it was in the Upper Peninsula!”

Their parents are already on Malorie’s mind. As Shannon raises the volume again, the sisters learn that an elderly couple from Iron Mountain were found hanging from a tree in the nearby woods. The anchorman says they used their belts.

Malorie calls her mother. She picks up after two rings.

“Malorie.”

“Mom.”

“I’m sure you’re calling because of this news?”

“No. I’m pregnant, Mom.”

“Oh, goodness, Malorie.” Her mother is quiet for a moment. Malorie can hear her television in the background. “Are you serious with someone?”

“No, it was an accident.”

Shannon is standing in front of the television now. Her eyes are wide. She is pointing toward it, as though reminding Malorie how important it is. Her mother is quiet on the phone.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Well, I’m more concerned with you right now, dear.”

“Yeah. Bad timing all around.”

“How far along are you?”

“Five weeks, I think. Maybe six.”

“And you’re going to keep it? You’ve already made this decision?”

“I am. I mean, I just found out. Minutes ago. But I am. Yes.”

“Have you let the father know?”

“I wrote him. I’ll call him, too.”

Now Malorie pauses. Then continues.

“Do you feel safe up there, Mom? Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know. None of us do and we’re very scared. But right now I’m more worried about you.”

On the screen, a woman, using a diagram, explains what may have happened. She is drawing a line from a small road where the couple’s car was found abandoned. Malorie’s mother is telling her that she knows someone who knew the elderly couple. Their last name is Mikkonen, she is saying. The woman on-screen is now standing in what looks like a patch of bloodied grass.

“ God ,” Shannon says.

“Oh, I wish your father were home,” their mother is saying. “And you’re pregnant . Oh, Malorie.”

Shannon is grabbing the phone. She is asking if their mother knows any more details than the news. What are people saying up there? Is this the only incident? Are people taking precautions?

As Shannon continues to talk wildly into the phone, Malorie gets up from the couch. She steps to the front door and opens it. Looking up and down the street, she thinks to herself, How serious is this?

There are no neighbors in their yards. No faces in the windows of the other homes. A car drives by and Malorie cannot see the face of the driver. He’s hiding it with his hand.

On the grass by the front walk is this morning’s newspaper. Malorie steps to it. The front-page headline is about the growing number of incidents. It simply says: ANOTHER ONE. Shannon has probably already told her everything the paper has to say. Malorie picks it up and, turning it over, stops at something on the back page.

It’s a classified. A home in Riverbridge is opening its doors to strangers. A “safe house” it says. A refuge. A place the owners hope will act as a “sanctuary” as the grim news mounts daily.

Malorie, experiencing the first real prickling feelings of panic, looks again to the street. She sees the door to a neighbor’s home open, then close quickly. Still holding the paper, Malorie looks over her shoulder back to her house, where the sounds of the television still blare. Inside, at the far wall of the living room, Shannon is tacking a blanket over one of the room’s windows.

“Come on,” Shannon says. “Get in here. And close that door.”

It is six months before the children are born. Malorie is showing. Blankets cover every window in the house. The front door is never left unlocked and never left open. Reports of unexplainable events have been surfacing with an alarming frequency. What was once breaking news twice a week now develops every day. Government officials are interviewed on television. Stories from as far east as Maine, as far south as Florida, have both sisters now taking precautions. Shannon, who visits dozens of blogs daily, fears a mishmash of ideas, a little bit of everything she reads. Malorie doesn’t know what to believe. New stories appear hourly online. It’s the only thing anybody talks about on social media and it’s the only topic on the news pages. New websites are devoted entirely to the evolution of information on the subject. One site features only a global map, with small red faces placed upon the cities in which something occurred. Last time Malorie checked, there were more than three hundred faces. Online, they are calling it “the Problem.” There exists the widespread communal belief that whatever “the Problem” is, it definitely begins when a person sees something .