When I bought this house, eight years ago this month, I discovered after moving in that it had -- I swear I'm not making this up -- a ghost. A gentle, inoffensive ghost, but still -- not what I'd expected in a boxy raised ranch on a hill, thrown together in the early '70's. It occurred to me recently that this year there's been no sign of the house's spectral inhabitant. Nothing, not a peep, not even the teeniest sound.
So as I sat at the dining room table yesterday afternoon, it surprised me to hear what sounded like someone else in the house -- the quiet noise you hear from another person moving around. Soft at first, so faint that I wasn't sure I'd actually heard it. Until it came again, the clear, definite sound of movement. I couldn't tell exactly where it came from, looked around trying to figure out if some individual had gotten into the house, some ballsy daytime out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere intruder. No one had come in the kitchen door, all other entryways were locked. More noise, loud enough that I could hear that it was coming from downstairs, unmistakeable enough to get the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
Got quietly to my feet, grabbed one of the house's laughable excuses for an offensive weapon (baseball bat, kept near the kitchen door), moved slowly toward the stairs, headed down to the ground level. More noises as I descended -- either coming from a very ballsy intruder or from something non-human. At the bottom of the stairs, in the space that's the junction of four different doors (bedroom, closet, stove room, hallway to laundry/half-bath/garage), I paused, heard more noises -- rustlings, clear as could be -- coming from the stove room. Looked in there, saw nothing, no thief or home invader. And then a bird flew into view.
Somehow -- I have no idea how, have found no point of access -- a young starling found its way inside. Dark gray feathers, slender beak, throwing itself against the windows and sliding to the floor as it beat its wings against the glass, then collecting itself, flying to different window, trying to get out again. I stepped into the rain, it saw me, grew even more alarmed, its attempts to get out became more fevered. I watched until it tired itself out and ended up among boxes of kindling, watching me, beak slightly open, small chest heaving with breath.
I stepped out of the room, closing the door to ensure bird stayed where it was. Went out to the garage, grabbed a pair of thick gloves (an anti-finger-pecking precaution), pulled them on. Grabbed a box large enough to hold the critter without hurting it, returned to the room, closed the door behind me.
For a few minutes, I followed the critter around the space as it flew to different windows, hurling itself against them, sliding to the ground, growing more fatigued with each attempt. Until finally, it came to rest among the boxes of kindling again, watching me as I positioned my empty box near it with the top open. I began talking to it gently, it watched, doing nothing. And after a minute, when it seemed like it might have calmed down enough, I took hold of a piece of kindling, part of a branch, sturdy enough to hold the bird. I extended it to the litle creature, laying it in front of its feet, talking softly the whole time, moving the branch so those feet could move easily and take hold of it. And it did, moving from the edge of a box to the wood, allowing me to lift it slowly and lower carefully it into the box. All the way to the bottom, its feet still grasping the stick. Then quickly shut the flaps, put the box under my arm, went outside -- through the laundry room, through the garage, out the side door onto the lawn. I could hear the critter moving as I went -- not panicked movements, just shifting its weight as the box moved during the trip.
I held the box out in front of me, opened the flaps, the bird exploded out of it into the air, up then flying in a straight line toward the line of big pine trees at the end of the house. Directly to cover, where it disappeared amid dense greenery.
This life of ours -- there's never any knowing what's coming around the corner.
Two of those four doors
España, te echo de menos.
rws 5:55 PM [+]
Comments:
Check the inside of the stove for a feather or two. That's how they usually get in here. Damn fool birds.
Yes, that would be a logical entry point. But already checked it. Found nothing, and no opening to get from stove into house.
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