Josh Malerman - Bird Box

Aside from a few cars parked in front of a house on the right, the street is empty. The neighborhood is ordinary, suburban. Most of the houses look the same. The lawns are overgrown. Every window is draped. In her eagerness, Malorie looks to the house where the cars are parked and knows it is the one she’s looking for.

She closes her eyes and slams on the brakes.

Stopped and breathing hard, the faint image of the house remains in her mind.

The garage is to the right. The garage door, beige, is closed. A brown shingled roof rests on white siding and bricks. The front door is a darker brown. The windows are covered. There’s an attic.

Steeling herself, eyes still closed, Malorie turns and grips the handle of the suitcase. The house is maybe fifty feet from where she stopped. She knows she is not close to the curb. She does not care. Attempting to calm herself, she breathes deeply, slowly. The suitcase is beside her in the passenger seat. Eyes closed, she listens. Hearing nothing outside the car, she opens the driver’s-side door and steps out, reaching for her things.

The baby kicks.

Malorie gasps, fumbling with her luggage. She almost opens her eyes to look down at her belly. Instead, she brings her hands there and rubs.

“We’re here,” she whispers.

She takes hold of the suitcase and, blindly, carefully, walks to the front lawn. Once she feels the grass beneath her shoes, she moves quicker, walking fast into a low bush. The needles prick her wrists and hip. She steps back, listening, and feels concrete beneath her shoes, stepping cautiously to where she thinks the front door is.

She is right. Clattering her suitcase on the porch, she feels along the brick, finding a doorbell. She rings it.

At first, there is no response. There is a sinking feeling that she has reached her end. Has she driven this far, braved this world, for nothing? She rings the bell again. Then again. Again. There is no response. She knocks, frantically beating the door.

Nobody calls to her.

Then… she hears muffled voices from within.

Oh my God! Someone’s here! Someone’s home!

“Hello?” she calls quietly. The sound of her own voice on the empty street scares her. “Hello! I read the ad in the paper!”

Silence. Malorie waits, listening. Then, someone calls to her.

“Who are you?” a man says. “Where are you from?”

Malorie feels relief, hope. She feels like crying.

“My name is Malorie! I’ve driven from Westcourt!”

There is a pause. Then, “Are your eyes closed?”

It’s a different man’s voice.

“Yes! My eyes are closed.”

“Have they been closed for a long time?”

Just let me in! she thinks. LET ME IN!

“No,” she answers. “Or yes. I’ve driven from Westcourt. I closed them as much as I could.”

She hears low voices. Some are angry. The people are debating whether or not to let her in.

“I haven’t seen anything!” she calls. “I swear. I’m safe. My eyes are closed. Please. I read the ad in the paper.”

“Keep them closed,” a man finally says. “We’re opening the door. When we do, come inside as quickly as you can. Okay?”

“Okay. Yes. Okay.”

She waits. The air is still, calm. Nothing happens. Then she hears the click of the door. She steps forward quickly. Hands reach out and pull her in. The door slams shut behind her.

“Now wait,” a woman says. “We need to feel around. We need to know you’ve come in alone.”

Malorie stands with her eyes closed and listens. It sounds like they are feeling along the walls with broomsticks. More than one pair of hands touch her shoulders, her neck, her legs. Someone is behind her now. She hears fingers upon the closed door.

“All right,” a man says. “We’re okay.”

When Malorie opens her eyes, she sees five people standing in a line before her. Shoulder to shoulder, they fill the foyer. She stares at them. They stare at her. One of them wears a helmet of some kind. His arms are covered in what looks like cotton balls and tape. Pens, pencils, and more sharp objects project from the tape like a child’s version of medieval weaponry. Two of them hold broomsticks.

“Hello,” this man says. “My name is Tom. You understand of course why we answer the door like this. Anything could slip in with you.”

Despite the helmet, Malorie sees Tom has blondish brown hair. His features are strong. His blue eyes flare with intelligence. He’s not much taller than Malorie. Unshaven, his stubble is almost red.

“I understand,” Malorie says.

“Westcourt,” Tom says, stepping toward her. “That’s a real drive. What you did was extremely brave. Why don’t you sit down, so we can talk about what you saw along the way?”

Malorie nods but she does not move. She is clutching her suitcase so tight that her knuckles are white and hurt. A taller, bigger man approaches her.

“Here,” he says, “let me take that for you.”

“Thank you.”

“My name is Jules. I’ve been here for two months. Most of us have. Tom and Don arrived a little earlier.”

Jules’s short dark hair looks dirty. Like he’s been working outside. He appears kind.

Malorie looks at the housemates from face to face. There is one woman and four men.

“I’m Don,” Don says. He, too, has dark hair. A little longer. He wears black pants, a purple button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows. He looks older than Malorie, twenty-seven, twenty-eight. “You scared the hell out of us. Nobody’s knocked on that door for weeks now.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no worry,” the fourth man says. “We all did what you did. I’m Felix.”

Felix looks tired. Malorie thinks he looks young. Twenty-one, twenty-two. His long nose and bushy brown hair make him look almost cartoonish. He is tall, like Jules, but thinner.

“And I’m Cheryl,” the woman says, extending her hand. Malorie shakes it.

Cheryl’s expression is less welcoming than Tom’s and Felix’s. Her brown hair hides some of her face. She is wearing a tank top. She, too, looks like she’s been working.

“Jules, will you help me get this thing off?” Tom says. He is trying to remove his helmet, but the makeshift body armor is getting in the way. Jules helps him.

With the helmet off, Malorie gets a better look at him. His sandy blond hair is messy above his fair face. The suggestion of freckles gives him color. His beard is barely more than stubble, but his mustache is more pronounced. His plaid button-down shirt and brown slacks remind Malorie of a teacher she once had.

Seeing him for the first time, she hardly realizes he is looking at her belly.

“I don’t mean any offense, but are you pregnant?”

“Yes,” she says weakly, frightened that this will be a burden.

“Oh fuck,” Cheryl says. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Cheryl,” Tom says, “you’re gonna scare her.”

“Look, Malorie, was it?” Cheryl says. “I’m not trying to come off as mean when I say this, but bringing a pregnant woman into this house is a real responsibility.”

Malorie is quiet. She looks from face to face, noting the expressions they make. They seem to be studying her. Deciding whether or not they are up to the task of housing someone who will eventually give birth. It suddenly strikes Malorie that she hadn’t thought of it in these terms. On the drive over, she didn’t think that this was where she might deliver her baby.

The tears are coming.

Cheryl shakes her head and, relenting, steps to her.

“My God,” she says. “Come here.”

“I wasn’t always alone,” Malorie says. “My sister, Shannon, was with me. She’s dead now. I left her.”

She is crying now. Through her blurred vision she sees the four men are watching her. They look compassionate. Instantly, Malorie recognizes they’re all grieving in their own ways.